The room was a twelve-foot square, with three walls lined with individual vaults, most about the size of a large shoe box.

"Your vault number?" he asked. "L2270."

"Correct."

Van Thiessen stepped to his right, bent slightly to face L2270. On the vault's small keypad he punched some numbers, then straightened himself and said, "If you wish."

Under Van Thiessen's watchful eyes, Joel stepped to his vault and entered the code. As he did so, he softly whispered the numbers, forever seared in his memory: "Eighty-one, fifty-five, ninety-four, ninety— three, twenty-three." A small green light began blinking on the keypad. Van Thiessen smiled and said, "I'll be waiting at the front. Just ring when you're finished."

When he was alone, Joel removed the steel box from his vault and pulled open the top. He picked up the padded mailing envelope and opened it. There were the four two-gigabyte Jaz disks that had once been worth $1 billion.

He allowed himself a moment, but no more than sixty seconds. He was, after all, very safe at that time, and if he wanted to reflect, what was the harm?

He thought of Safi Mirza, Fazal Sharif, and Farooq Khan, the brilliant boys who'd discovered Neptune, then wrote reams of software to manipulate the system. They were all dead now, killed by their naive greed and their choice of lawyer. He thought of Jacy Hubbard, the brash, gregarious, infinitely charismatic crook who had snowed the voters for an entire career and finally gotten much too greedy. He thought of Carl Pratt and Kim Boiling and dozens of other partners he'd brought into their prosperous firm, and the lives that had been wrecked by what he was now holding in his hand. He thought of Neal and the humiliation he'd caused his son when the scandal engulfed Washington and prison became not only a certainty but a sanctuary.

And he thought of himself, not in selfish terms, not in pity, not passing the blame to anyone else. What a miserable mess of a life he'd lived, so far anyway. As much as he'd like to go back and do it differently, he had no time to waste on such thoughts. You've only got a few years left, Joel, or Marco, or Giovanni, or whatever the hell your name is. For the first time in your rotten life, why don't you do what's right, as opposed to what's profitable?

He put the disks in the envelope, the envelope in his briefcase, then replaced the steel box in the vault. He rang for Van Thiessen.

Back in the power office, Van Thiessen handed him a file with one sheet of paper in it. "This is a summary of your account," he was saying. "It's very straightforward. As you know, there's been no activ ity."

"You guys are paying one percent interest," Joel said. "You were aware of our rates when you opened the account, Mr. Backman."

"Yes, I was."

"We protect your money in other ways."

"Of course." Joel closed the file and handed it back. "I don't want to keep this. Do you have the cash?"

"Yes, it's on the way up."

"Good. I need a few things."

Van Thiessen pulled over his writing pad and stood ready with his fountain pen. "Yes," he said.

"I want to wire a hundred thousand to a bank in Washington, D.C. Can you recommend one?"

"Certainly. We work closely with Maryland Trust."

"Good, wire the money there, and with the wire open a generic savings account. I will not be writing checks, just making withdrawals."

"In what name?"

"Joel Backman and Neal Backman." He was getting used to his name again, not ducking when he said it. Not cowering in fear, waiting for gunfire. He liked it.

"Very well," Van Thiessen said. Anything was possible.

"I need some help in getting back to the US. Could your girl check the Lufthansa flights to Philadelphia and New York?"

"Of course. When, and from where?"

"Today, as soon as possible. I'd like to avoid the airport here. How far away is Munich by car?"

"By car, three to four hours."

"Can you provide a car?"

"I'm sure we can arrange that."

"I prefer to leave from the basement here, in a car driven by someone not dressed like a chauffeur. Not a black car either, something that will not attract attention."

Van Thiessen stopped writing and shot a puzzled look. "Are you in danger, Mr. Backman?"

"Perhaps. I'm not sure, and I'm not taking chances."

Van Thiessen pondered this for a few seconds, then said, "Would you like for us to make the airline reservations?"

"Yes."

"Then I need to see your passport."

Joel pulled out Giovanni's borrowed passport. Van Thiessen studied it for a long time, his stoic banker's face betraying him. He was confused and worried. He finally managed, "Mr. Backman, you will be traveling with someone else's passport."

"That's correct."

"And this is a valid passport?"

It IS.

"I assume you do not have one of your own."

"They took it a long time ago."

"This bank cannot take part in the commission of a crime. If this is stolen, then-"

"I assure you it's not stolen."

"Then how did-"

"Let's just say it's borrowed, okay?"

"But using someone else's passport is a violation of the law."

"Let's not get hung up on US. immigration policy, Mr. Van Thiessen. Just get the schedules. I'll pick the nights. Your girl makes the reservations using the bank's account. Deduct it from my balance. Get me a car and a driver. Deduct that from my balance, if you wish. It's all very simple."

It was just a passport. Hell, other clients had three or four of them. Van Thiessen handed it back to Joel and said, "Very well. Anything else?"

"Yes, I need to go online. I'm sure your computers are secure."

"Absolutely."

His e-mail to Neal read:

Grinch-With a bit of luck, I should arrive in US. tonight. Get a new cellphone today. Don't let it out of your sight. Tomorrow morning call the Hilton, Marriott, and Sheraton, in downtown Washington. Ask for Giovanni Ferro. Thats me. Call Carl Pratt first thing this morning, on the new phone. Push hard to get Senator Clayburn in D. C. We will cover his expenses. Tell him it's urgent. A favor to an old friend. Don't take no for an answer. No more e-mails until I get home. Marco After a quick sandwich and a cola in Van Thiessen's office, Joel Backman left the bank building riding shotgun in a shiny green BMW four-door sedan. For good measure, he kept a Swiss newspaper in front of his face until they were on the autobahn. The driver was Franz. Franz fancied himself a Formula One hopeful, and when Joel let it be known that he was in somewhat of a hurry, Franz slipped into the left lane and hit 150 kilometers per hour.

At 1:55 p.m., Joel Backman was sitting in a lavishly large seat in the first-class section of a Lufthansa 747 as it began its push back from the gate at the Munich airport. Only when it started to move did he dare pick up the glass of champagne he'd been staring at for ten minutes. The glass was empty by the time the plane stopped at the end of the runway for its final check. When the wheels lifted off the pavement, Joel closed his eyes and allowed himself the luxury of a few hours of relief.

His son, on the other hand, and at exactly the same moment, 7:55 Eastern Standard time, was stressed to the point of throwing things. How the hell was he supposed to go buy a new cell phone immediately, then call Carl Pratt again and solicit old favors that did not exist, and somehow cajole a retired and cantankerous old senator from Ocracoke, North Carolina, to drop what he was doing and return immediately to a city he evidently disliked immensely? Not to mention the obvious: he, Neal Backman, had a rather full day at the office. Nothing as pressing as rescuing his wayward father, but still a pretty full docket with clients and other important matters.

He left Jerry's Java, but instead of going to the office he went home. Lisa was bathing their daughter and was surprised to see him. "What's wrong?" she said.