TableofContentsTitlePageCopyrightPageAcknowledgementsDedicationEpigraph

Chapter1-THELONGESTJOURNEY...Chapter2-LABYRINTHSChapter3-...ASINGLE

SITChapter4-PROMISED

LANDChapter5-CHANGES

ANDGUARDSChapter6-MANEUVERSChapter7-THECITYOF

GODChapter8-THE

PANDORAPROCESSChapter9-RESOLVEChapter10-LAST

STANDSChapter11-

ROBOSOLDIERSChapter12-TINSMITHS

Chapter13-PROCESSChapter14-

REVELATIONChapter15-

DEVELOPMENTChapter16-FUELING

THEFIREChapter17-

PROCESSINGChapter18-PROGRESSChapter19-

DEVELOPMENTChapter20-

COMPETITION

Chapter21-CONNECTIVITYChapter22-

REPERCUSSIONSChapter23-OPINIONSChapter24-

REVELATIONChapter25-

RESOLUTIONChapter26-

INTEGRATIONChapter27-DATA

FUSIONChapter28-

CONTRACTUALOBLIGATIONSChapter29-

CROSSROADSChapter30-EASTROOMChapter31-DANCERSChapter32-CLOSUREChapter33-PASSAGESChapter34-

PLACEMENTChapter35-THREE

SHAKESChapter36-WEAPONS

EFFECTS

Chapter37-HUMANEFFECTSChapter38-FIRST

CONTACTSChapter39-ECHOESChapter40-COLLISIONSChapter41-THEFIELD

OFCAMLANChapter42-ASPAND

SWORDChapter43-THE

REVENGEOFMOEDREDChapter44-THE

BREEZEOFEVENING

Afterword

“Awhiz-bangpage-turner!”

—TheNewYorkTimesBookReview

“TheSumofAllFearsdelivers!”—People

TheGulfWarisover.AnIsraelinuclearweaponismissing.Thebalanceof

powerintheMideast—andthe

world—isabouttochangeforever...

THESUMOFALLFEARS

Only Tom Clancy couldcreate an internationalscenario so real, sodramatic,so brilliantly intense as theepic crisis portrayed in The

Sum of All Fears. CIADeputy Director Jack Ryanreturns in this breathtakingtour de force of militaryaction, cutting-edgetechnology, and rawemotionalpower.

“Explosive.”—DetroitFreePress

“TomClancyathisbest

...Thisisabooknottobe

missed.”—TheDallasMorning

News

NovelsbyTomClancy

THEHUNTFORREDOCTOBER

REDSTORMRISINGPATRIOTGAMES

THECARDINALOFTHEKREMLIN

CLEARANDPRESENTDANGER

THESUMOFALLFEARSWITHOUTREMORSE

DEBTOFHONOREXECUTIVEORDERS

RAINBOWSIXTHEBEARANDTHE

DRAGONREDRABBIT

THETEETHOFTHETIGER

SSN:STRATEGIESOFSUBMARINEWARFARE

Nonfiction

SUBMARINE:AGUIDEDTOURINSIDEANUCLEARWARSHIPARMOREDCAV:A

GUIDEDTOUROFANARMOREDCAVALRY

REGIMENTFIGHTERWING:A

GUIDEDTOUROFANAIRFORCECOMBATWINGMARINE:AGUIDEDTOUROFAMARINE

EXPEDITIONARYUNIT

AIRBORNE:AGUIDEDTOUROFANAIRBORNE

TASKFORCECARRIER:AGUIDED

TOUROFANAIRCRAFTCARRIER

SPECIALFORCES:AGUIDEDTOUROFU.S.ARMYSPECIALFORCES

INTOTHESTORM:ASTUDYINCOMMAND(writtenwithGeneralFredFranks,Jr.,Ret.,andTony

Koltz)EVERYMANATIGER

(writtenwithGeneralCharlesHorner,Ret.,andTonyKoltz)SHADOWWARRIORS:INSIDETHESPECIAL

FORCES(writtenwithGeneralCarlStiner,Ret.,andTonyKoltz)

BATTLEREADY(writtenwithGeneralTonyZinni,Ret.,andTonyKoltz)CreatedbyTomClancy

TOMCLANCY’SSPLINTERCELLTOMCLANCY’SSPLINTERCELL:OPERATIONBARRACUDATOMCLANCY’SSPLINTERCELL:CHECKMATE

CreatedbyTomClancyandStevePieczenik

TOMCLANCY’SOP-CENTER

TOMCLANCY’SOP-CENTER:MIRRORIMAGE

TOMCLANCY’SOP-CENTER:GAMESOF

STATETOMCLANCY’SOP-

CENTER:ACTSOFWARTOMCLANCY’SOP-

CENTER:BALANCEOFPOWER

TOMCLANCY’SOP-CENTER:STATEOF

SIEGETOMCLANCY’SOP-CENTER:DIVIDEAND

CONQUERTOMCLANCY’SOP-CENTER:LINEOF

CONTROLTOMCLANCY’SOP-CENTER:MISSIONOF

HONORTOMCLANCY’SOP-

CENTER:SEAOFFIRETOMCLANCY’SOP-CENTER:CALLTO

TREASONTOMCLANCY’SOP-CENTER:WAROF

EAGLES

TOMCLANCY’SNETFORCE

TOMCLANCY’SNETFORCE:HIDDEN

AGENDASTOMCLANCY’SNET

FORCE:NIGHTMOVESTOMCLANCY’SNETFORCE:BREAKING

POINTTOMCLANCY’SNETFORCE:POINTOF

IMPACTTOMCLANCY’SNET

FORCE:CYBERNATIONTOMCLANCY’SNET

FORCE:STATEOFWARTOMCLANCY’SNETFORCE:CHANGINGOF

THEGUARDTOMCLANCY’SNET

FORCE:SPRINGBOARDTOMCLANCY’SNET

FORCE:THEARCHIMEDESEFFECT

CreatedbyTomClancyandMartinGreenberg

TOMCLANCY’SPOWERPLAYS:POLITIKATOMCLANCY’SPOWERPLAYS:RUTHLESS.COMTOMCLANCY’SPOWERPLAYS:SHADOWWATCHTOMCLANCY’SPOWERPLAYS:BIO-STRIKE

TOMCLANCY’SPOWERPLAYS:COLDWAR

TOMCLANCY’SPOWERPLAYS:CUTTINGEDGETOMCLANCY’SPOWERPLAYS:ZEROHOUR

TOMCLANCY’SPOWERPLAYS:WILDCARD

Thisisaworkoffiction.Names,characters,places,andincidentseither

aretheproductoftheauthor’simaginationorareusedfictitiously,andanyresemblancetoactualpersons,

livingordead,businessestablishments,events,orlocalesis

entirelycoincidental.

THESUMOFALLFEARS

ABerkleyBook/publishedbyarrangementwith

JackRyanEnterprises,Ltd.

Copyright©1991JackRyanLimitedEnterprises,Ltd.

Allrightsreserved.Thisbook,orpartsthereof,maynot

bereproducedinanyformwithoutpermission.The

scanning,uploading,anddistributionofthisbookviatheInternet

orviaanyothermeanswithoutthepermissionofthepublisherisillegal

andpunishablebylaw.Pleasepurchaseonlyauthorizedelectroniceditions,anddonotparticipateinorencourageelectronicpiracyof

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PublishingGroup,adivisionofPenguinGroup(USA)

Inc.,375HudsonStreet,NewYork,New

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eISBN:978-1-101-00237-7

BERKLEY®BerkleyBooksarepublishedbyThe

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http://us.penguingroup.com

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Asisalwaysthecase,therearepeopletothank.

Russ,forhisexcruciatinglypatient education in physics(the mistakes are mine, nothis);

Barry,forhisinsights;

Steve,forthemind-set;

Ralph,forhisanalysis;

John,forthelaw;

Fred,fortheaccess;

Gerry,forhisfriendship;

Quite a few others whoentertained my endlessquestions and ideas—eventhedumbones;

And all the men ofgoodwill who hope, as I do,thatthecornermayfinallybeturned, and were willing totalkaboutit.

ForMikeandPeggyRodgers,asailorandhislady

—andallthemenandwomenoftheU.S.ArmedForces,

becausethenoblestofideashavealwaysbeenprotectedby

warriors

Why,youmay take themostgallant sailor, the most intrepidairman or the most audacioussoldier, put them at a tabletogether—what do you get?Thesumoftheirfears.

—WINSTONCHURCHILL

[T]he two contenders met,withall their troops,onthefieldofCamlan to negotiate. Both sideswerefullyarmedanddesperatelysuspiciousthattheothersidewasgoing to try some ruse orstratagem.The negotiations were goingalongsmoothlyuntiloneofthe

knightswasstungbyanaspanddrewhisswordtokillthereptile.The others saw the sword beingdrawnandimmediatelyfelluponeach other. A tremendousslaughter ensued. The chronicle...isquitespecificaboutthepointthattheslaughterwasexcessivechiefly because the battle tookplacewithoutpreparationsandpremeditation.—HERMANKAHN,On

ThermonuclearWar

PROLOGUEBROKEN

ARROW“Like the wolf on the

fold.” In recounting theSyrian attack on the Israeli-held Golan Heights at 1400local time on Saturday, the6th of October, 1973, mostcommentators automaticallyrecalledLordByron’sfamousline.Thereisalsolittledoubtthatthatispreciselywhatthe

moreliterarilyinclinedSyriancommanders had in mindwhen they placed the finaltouches on the operationsplans that would hurl moretanksandgunsat the Israelisthan any of Hitler’s vauntedpanzer generals had everdreamedofhaving.However, the sheep found

bytheSyrianArmythatgrimOctober day were more likebig-horned rams in autumnrut than themoredocilekind

found in pastoral verse.Outnumberedbyroughlynineto one, the two Israelibrigades on the Golan werecrack units. The 7th Brigadeheld the northern Golan andscarcelybudged,itsdefensivenetworkadelicatebalanceofrigidity and flexibility.Individual strongpoints heldstubbornly, channeling theSyrianpenetrationsintorockydefiles where they could bepinched off and smashed by

rovingbandsof Israeliarmorwhich lay inwait behind thePurple Line. By the timereinforcementsbeganarrivingon the second day, thesituation was still in hand—butbarely.By theendof thefourth day, the Syrian tankarmythathadfallenuponthe7thlayasmokingruinbeforeit.TheBarak(“Thunderbolt”)

Brigade held the southernheights and was less

fortunate. Here the terrainwas less well suited to thedefense, and here also theSyrians appear to have beenmore ably led. Within hoursthe Barak had been brokeninto several fragments.Though each piece wouldlaterprovetobeasdangerousasanestofvipers,theSyrianspearheads were quick toexploit the gaps and racetoward their strategicobjective, the Sea ofGalilee.

The situation that developedover thenext thirty-sixhourswouldprovetobethegravesttest of Israeli arms since1948.Reinforcements began

arriving on the second day.These had to be thrown intothe battle area piecemeal—plugging holes, blockingroads,evenrallyingunitsthathad broken under thedesperate strain of combatand, for the first time in

Israeli history, fled the fieldbefore the advancing Arabs.Only on the third day werethe Israelis able to assembletheir armored fist, firstenveloping, then smashingthe three deep Syrianpenetrations. The changeoverto offensive operationsfollowed without pause. TheSyrians were hurled backtowardtheirowncapitalbyawrathful counterattack, andsurrendered a field littered

with burned-out tanks andshatteredmen.At the end ofthis day the troopers of theBarakand the7thheardovertheir unit radio nets amessagefromIsraeliDefenseForcesHighCommand:YOU HAVE SAVED THE

PEOPLEOFISRAEL.And so they had. Yet

outside Israel, except forschools in which men learnthe profession of arms, thisepic battle is strangely

unremembered.As in theSixDay War of 1967, the morefreewheeling operations inthe Sinai were the ones thatattracted the excitement andadmiration of the world:bridging the Suez, the Battleof the “Chinese” Farm, theencirclement of the Egyptian3rd Army—this despite thefearful implications of theGolanfighting,whichwasfarcloser to home. Still, thesurvivors of those two

brigadesknewwhat theyhaddone,andtheirofficerscouldrevel in the knowledge thatamong professional soldierswho know the measure ofskill and courage that such astand entails, their Battle forthe Heights would beremembered withThermopylae, Bastogne, andGloucesterHill.Each war knows many

ironies, however, and theOctober War was no

exception.As is trueofmostgloriousdefensivestands,thisonewas largely unnecessary.The Israelis had misreadintelligence reports which,had they been acted on aslittle as twelve hours earlier,would have enabled them toexecute pre-set plans andpour reserves onto theHeights hours before theonslaught commenced. Hadthey done so, there wouldhave been no heroic stand.

There would have been noneed for their tankers andinfantrymen to die innumbers so great that itwould be weeks before thetrue casualty figures werereleased to a proud butgrievously wounded nation.Had the information beenactedupon,theSyrianswouldhave been massacred beforethe Purple Line for all theirlavishcollectionoftanksandguns—andthereislittleglory

in massacres. This failure ofintelligence has never beenadequatelyexplained.DidthefabledMossad fail so utterlyto discern the Arabs’ plans?OrdidIsraelipoliticalleadersfailtorecognizethewarningsthey received? Thesequestionsreceived immediateattention in the world press,ofcourse,mostparticularlyinregard to Egypt’s assault-crossing of the Suez, whichbreachedthevauntedBar-Lev

Line.Equally serious but less

well appreciated was a morefundamentalerrormadeyearsearlier by the usuallyprescientIsraeligeneralstaff.For all its firepower, theIsraeliArmywasnotheavilyoutfitted with tube artillery,particularly by Sovietstandards. Instead of heavyconcentrationsofmobilefieldguns, the Israelis chose todepend heavily on large

numbers of short-rangemortars, and attack aircraft.This left Israeli gunners onthe Heights outnumberedtwelve to one, subject tocrushing counter-battery fire,and unable to provideadequate support to thebeleaguered defenders. Thaterrorcostmanylives.As is the case with most

gravemistakes, this one wasmade by intelligent men, fortheverybestof reasons.The

same attack-fighter thatstruck the Golan could rainsteelanddeathontheSuezaslittle as an hour later. TheIAFwas the firstmodern airforce to pay systematicattention to “turn-aroundtime.” Its ground crewmenweretrainedtoactmuchlikea racing car’s pit crew, andtheir speed and skilleffectively doubled eachplane’s striking power,makingtheIAFaprofoundly

flexible and weightedinstrument. And making aPhantom or a Skyhawkappear to be more valuablethan a dozen mobile fieldguns.What the Israeli planning

officers had failed to takefullyintoaccountwasthefactthattheSovietsweretheonesarming the Arabs, and, indoing so, would inculcatetheir clients with their owntactical philosophies.

Intended to dealwithNATOair power always deemedbetter than their own, Sovietsurface-to-air missile (SAM)designers had always beenamong the world’s best.Russian planners saw thecoming October War as asplendid chance to test theirnewest tactical weapons anddoctrine. They did not spurnit. The Soviets gave theirArab clients a SAM networksuchastheNorthVietnamese

orWarsawPact forcesof thetimedarednotdreamabout,anearly solid phalanx ofinterlocking missile batteriesand radar systems deployedin depth, along with newmobile SAMs that couldadvance with the armoredspearheads, extending the“bubble” of counter-airprotection under whichground action could continuewithout interference. Theofficersandmenwhowereto

operate those systems hadbeen painstakingly trained,manywithintheSovietUnionwith the full benefit ofeverything the Soviets andVietnamese had learned ofAmerican tactics andtechnology,whichtheIsraeliswere correctly expected toimitate. Of all the Arabsoldiers in the October War,only these men wouldachieve their pre-warobjectives.Fortwodaysthey

effectively neutralized theIAF. Had ground operationsgone according to plan, thatwouldhavebeenenough.Anditisherethatthestory

has itsproperbeginning.Thesituation on the GolanHeights was immediatelyevaluated as serious. Thescarce and confusedinformation coming in fromthetwostunnedbrigadestaffsledIsraeliHighCommand tobelievethattacticalcontrolof

the action had been lost. Itseemed that their greatestnightmare had finallyoccurred: they had beencaught fatally unready; theirnorthern kibbutzim werevulnerable; their civilians,theirchildren lay in the pathofaSyrianarmoredforcethatby all rights could roll downfrom the Heights with thebarest warning. The initialreaction of the staffoperations officers was

somethingclosetopanic.Butpanicissomethingthat

good operations officers alsoplan for. In the case of anation whose enemies’avowed objective wasnothing short of physicalannihilation, there was nodefensivemeasure that couldbecalledextreme.Asearlyas1968, the Israelis, like theirAmerican and NATOcounterparts, had based theirultimate plan on the nuclear

option.At 03:55 hours, localtime, on October 7th, justfourteenhoursaftertheactualfighting began, the alertorders for OPERATIONJOSHUAwere telexed to theIAFbaseoutsideBeersheba.Israel did not have many

nuclear weapons at the time—and denies having any tothis date. Not that manywouldbeneeded,ifitcametothat.AtBeersheba, inoneofthe countless underground

bomb-storage bunkers, weretwelvequiteordinary-lookingobjects, indistinguishablefrom the many other itemsdesigned to be attached totacticalaircraftexceptforthesilver-red striped labels ontheir sides. No fins wereattached, and there wasnothing unusual in thestreamlined shape of theburnished-brown aluminumskin, with barely visibleseams and a few shackle

points.Therewasareasonforthat. To an unschooled orcursory observer, they mighteasilyhavebeenmistakenforfuel tanks or napalmcanisters, and such objectshardly merit a second look.But each was a plutoniumfission bombwith a nominalyield of 60 kilotons, quiteenoughtocarvetheheartoutof a large city, or to killthousands of troops in thefield,or,with theadditionof

cobalt jackets—storedseparately but readilyattachabletotheexternalskin—topoisonalandscapetoallkinds of life for years tocome.Onthismorning,activityat

Beersheba was frantic.Reserve personnel were stillstreaming into the base fromthe previous day’s devotionsand family-visiting all overthesmallcountry.Thosemenon duty had been so for too

longa timefor the tricky jobof arming aircraftwith lethalordnance. Even the newlyarriving men had hadprecious little sleep. Oneteam of ordnancemen, forsecurity reasons not told thenature of their task, wasarming a flight of A-4Skyhawk strike-fighters withnuclear weapons under theeyes of two officers, knownas “watchers,” for that wastheirjob,tokeepvisualtrack

of everything that had to dowith nuclear weapons. Thebombs were wheeled underthe centerline hardpoint ofeachofthefouraircraft,liftedcarefullybythehoistingarm,thenshackled intoplace.Theleastexhaustedofthegroundcrewmighthavenoticed thatthe arming devices and tailfinshadnotyetbeenattachedto the bombs. If so, theydoubtless concluded that theofficer assigned to that task

was running late—as wasnearly everything this coldandfatefulmorning.Thenoseof each weapon was filledwith electronics gear. Theactual exploder mechanismand capsule of nuclearmaterial—collectively knownas “the physics package”—werealreadyinthebombs,ofcourse. The Israeli weapons,unlike American ones, werenotdesigned tobecarriedbyalert aircraft during time of

peace, and they lacked theelaborate safeguards installedin American weapons by thetechnicians at the Pantexassembly plant, outsideAmarillo, Texas. The fusingsystems comprised twopackages, one for attachmentto the nose, and one integralwiththetailfins.Thesewerestored separately from thebombs themselves.All inall,the weapons were veryunsophisticated by American

or Soviet standards, in thesamesensethatapistolisfarless sophisticated than amachine gun, but, at closerange,equallylethal.Once the nose and fin

packages were installed andactivated, the only remainingactivation procedure was theinstallation of a specialarming panel within thecockpit of each fighter, andthe attachment of the powerplug from the aircraft to the

bomb.Atthatpointthebombwould be “released to localcontrol,” placed in the handsof a young, aggressive pilot,whose jobwas then to loft itin a maneuver called TheIdiot’s Loop, which tossedthe bomb on a ballistic paththatwould—probably—allowhimandhisaircrafttoescapewithoutharmwhenthebombdetonated.Depending on the

exigenciesofthemomentand

the authorization of the“watchers,” Beersheba’ssenior ordnance officer hadthe option to attach thearming packages.Fortunately, this officer wasnot at all excited about theidea of having half-live“nukes” sitting about on aflight line that some luckyArab might attack at anymoment.Areligiousman,forall the dangers that faced hiscountryonthatcolddawn,he

breathed a silent prayer ofthanks when cooler headsprevailed in Tel Aviv, andgave the order to standJOSHUA down. The seniorpilotswhowouldhaveflownthestrikemissionreturned totheir squadron ready-roomsand forgot what they hadbeenbriefedtodo.Theseniorordnanceofficer immediatelyordered the bombs removedandreturned to theirplaceofsafekeeping.

The bone-tired groundcrew began removing theweapons just as other teamsarrivedontheirowncartsforthe task of rearming theSkyhawks with Zuni rocketclusters.The strikeorderhadbeen put up: TheGolan. Hitthe Syrian armored columnsadvancing on the Barak’ssector of Purple Line fromKafr Shams. Theordnancemen jostled underthe aircraft, two teams each

trying to do their jobs, oneteamtryingtoremovebombsthat they didn’t know to bebombs at all,while the otherhungZunisonthewings.Thereweremorethanfour

strikeaircraftcyclingthroughBeersheba, of course. Thedawn’s firstmissionover theSuez was just returning—what was left of it. The RF-4C Phantom reconnaissanceaircrafthadbeen lost, and itsF-4E fighterescort limped in

trailing fuel from perforatedwingtanksandwithoneofitstwo engines disabled. Thepilot had already radioed hiswarning in: there was somenew kind of surface-to-airmissile,maybe that newSA-6; its radar-tracking systemshad not registered on thePhantom’sthreat-receiver;therecce bird had had nowarning at all, and only luckhadenabledhimtoevadethefour targeted on his aircraft.

That factwas flashed to IAFhigh command even beforethe aircraft touched downgingerly on the runway. Theplane was directed to taxidown to the far end of theramp, close to where theSkyhawks stood. ThePhantom’s pilot followed thejeep to the waitingfirefighting vehicles, but justas it stopped, the left maintire blew out. The damagedstrut collapsed as well, and

45,000 pounds of fighterdropped to thepavement likedishesfromacollapsedtable.Leaking fuel ignited, and asmall but deadly fireenveloped the aircraft. Aninstant later, 20mmammunition from thefighter’s gun pod startedcooking off, and one of thetwo crewmenwas screamingwithin the mass of flames.Firefighters moved in withwater-fog.Thetwo“watcher”

officerswere theclosest, andraced toward the flames todrag thepilotclear.All threewere peppered by fragmentsfrom the explodingammunition,while a firemancoollymadehisway throughthe flames to the secondcrewmanandcarriedhimout,singed but alive. Otherfiremen collected thewatchers and the pilot andloaded their bleeding bodiesintoanambulance.

The nearby fire distractedthe ordnancemen under theSkyhawks. One bomb, theoneonaircraftnumber three,dropped amoment too soon,crushing the teamsupervisor’slegsonthehoist.In the shrieking confusion ofthe moment, the team losttrackofwhatwasbeingdone.The injured man was rushedtothebasehospitalwhile thethree dismounted nuclearweaponswere carted back to

the storage bunker—in thechaos of an airbase on thefirst full day of a shootingwar, theemptycradleononeof the carts somehow wentunnoticed. The aircraft linechiefsarrivedamomentlaterto begin abbreviated pre-flight checks as the jeeparrivedfromthereadyshack.Four pilots jumped off it,each with a helmet in onehandandatacticalmapintheother,eachfuriouslyeager to

lash out at his country’senemies.“What the hell’s that?”

snapped eighteen-year-oldLieutenant Mordecai Zadin.Called Motti by his friends,he had the ganglingawkwardnessofhisage.“Fuel tank, looks like,”

repliedthelinechief.Hewasa reservist who owned agarage in Haifa, a kindly,competentmanoffiftyyears.“Shit,” the pilot replied,

almost quivering withexcitement. “I don’t needextra fuel to go to theGolanandback!”“I can take it off, but I’ll

need a few minutes.” Motticonsideredthatforamoment.A sabra from a northernkibbutz,apilotforbarelyfivemonths,hesawtherestofhiscomrades strapping into theiraircraft. Syrians wereattackingtowardthehomeofhis parents, and he had a

sudden horror of being leftbehind on his first combatmission.“Fuck it! You can strip it

off when I get back.” Zadinwentuptheladderlikeashot.Thechieffollowed,strappingthe pilot in place andcheckingtheinstrumentsoverthepilot’sshoulder.“She’s ready, Motti! Be

careful.” “Have some tea forme when I get back.” Theyoungstergrinnedwithallthe

ferocity such a child couldmanage. The line chiefslappedhimonthehelmet.“You just bring my

airplane back to me,menchkin.Mazeltov.”Thechiefdroppeddownto

theconcreteandremovedtheladder. He next gave theaircraft a last visual scan foranything amiss, asMotti gothis engine turning. Zadinworkedtheflightcontrolsandeased the throttle to full idle,

checking fuel and engine-temperature gauges.Everything was where itshouldbe.He lookedover tothe flight leader and wavedhis readiness. Motti pulleddown the manual canopy,took a last look at the linechief, and fired off hisfarewellsalute.Ateighteen,Zadinwasnot

a particularly young pilot byIAF standards. Selected forhisquickboy’s reactionsand

aggressiveness, he’d beenidentifiedasalikelyprospectfour years earlier, and hadfought hard for his place inthe world’s finest air force.Motti loved to fly, hadwanted to fly ever since as atoddler he’d seen a Bf-109trainingaircraftthatanironicfate had given Israel to startitsairforce.AndhelovedhisSkyhawk. It was a pilot’saircraft.NotanelectronicizedmonsterlikethePhantom,the

A-4 was a small, responsivebirdofpreythatleapedatthetwitch of his hand on thestick. Now he would flycombat. He was totallyunafraid. Itneveroccurred tohim to fear for his life—likeany teenager he was certainof his own immortality, andcombatflyersareselectedfortheir lack of human frailty.Yethemarkedtheday.Neverhad he seen so fine a dawn.He felt supernaturally alert,

aware of everything: the richwake-up coffee; the dustysmell of the morning air atBeersheba; now the manlyscentsofoilandleatherinthecockpit; the idle staticonhisradio circuits; and the tingleof his hands on the controlstick. He had never knownsuch a day and it neveroccurred to Motti Zadin thatfate would not give himanother.The four-plane formation

taxied in perfect order to theend of runway zero-one. Itseemed a good omen, takingoff due north, toward anenemy only fifteen minutesaway. On command of theflight leader—himselfameretwenty-one-all four pilotspushed their throttles to thestops, tripped their brakes,and dashed forward into thecool, calm morning air. Insecondsallwereairborneandclimbing to five thousand

feet, careful to avoid thecivilian air traffic of Ben-Gurion International Airport,which in the mad scheme oflife in the Middle East wasstillfullyactive.TheCaptaingavehisusual

seriesoftersecommands,justlike a training flight: tuck itin, check engine, ordnance,electrical systems. Heads upfor MiGs and friendlies.Make sure your IFF issquawkinggreen.The fifteen

minutes it took to fly fromBeersheba to the Golanpassed rapidly. Zadin’s eyesstrained to see the volcanicescarpment for which hisolder brother had died whiletaking it from the Syriansonly six years before. TheSyrianswouldnotgetitback,Mottitoldhimself.“Flight: turn right to

heading zero-four-three.Targetsaretankcolumnsfourkilometers east of the line.

Heads up. Watch for SAMsandgroundfire.”“Lead, four: I have tanks

on thegroundat one,”Zadinreported coolly. “Look likeourCenturions.”“Good eye, Four,” the

Captain replied. “They’refriendly.”“I got a beeper, I got

launch warning!” someonecalled. Eyes scanned the airfordanger.“Shit!” called an excited

voice. “SAMs low at twelvecomingup!”“Iseethem.Flight,leftand

right, break NOW!” theCaptaincommanded.The four Skyhawks

scattered by elements. Therewere a dozen SA-2 missilesseveral kilometers off, likeflying telephone poles,coming toward them atMach-3. The SAMs split leftand right too, but clumsily,andtwoexplodedinamidair

collision. Motti rolled rightand hauled his stick into hisbelly, diving for the groundand cursing the extra wingweight. Good, the missileswere not able to track themdown.Hepulled level abarehundredfeetabovetherocks,still heading toward theSyriansatfourhundredknots,shaking the sky as he roaredover the cheering,beleaguered troopers of theBarak.

Themissionwasawashoutas a coherent strike, Mottialready knew. It didn’tmatter.He’dgetsomeSyriantanks.Hedidn’thavetoknowexactly whose, so long asthey were Syrian. He sawanother A-4 and formed upjustas itbegan its firingrun.He looked forward and sawthem, the dome shapes ofSyrian T-62s. Zadin toggledhis arming switches withoutlooking. The reflector

gunsightappeared in frontofhiseyes.“Uh-oh, more SAMs,

coming in on the deck.” Itwas theCaptain’s voice, stillcool.Motti’s heart skipped a

beat: a swarm of missiles,smaller ones—are these theSA-6s they toldusabout?hewondered quickly—wastracingovertherockstowardhim. He checked his ESMgear; it had not sensed the

attackingmissiles.Therewasno warning beyond what hiseyes told him. InstinctivelyMotti clawed for altitude inwhich to maneuver. Fourmissiles followed him up.Three kilometers away. Hesnap-rolled right, thenspiraleddownand left again.Thatfooledthreeofthem,butthe fourth followed himdown. An instant later itexplodedabare thirtymetersfromhisaircraft.

The Skyhawk felt asthough it had been kickedaside ten meters or more.Motti struggled with thecontrols, getting back leveljust over the rocks. A quicklook chilled him. Wholesectionsofhisportwingwereshredded.Warningbeepersinhis headset and flightinstruments reportedmultipledisaster: hydraulics zeroingout, radio out, generator out.Buthestillhadmanualflight

controls, and his weaponscould fire from backupbatterypower.At that instanthe saw his tormentors: abatteryofSA-6missiles,fourlauncher vehicles, a StraightFlush radarvan, andaheavytruck full of reloads, all fourkilometers away.His hawk’seyes could even see theSyrians struggling with themissiles, loading one onto alauncherrail.They saw him, too, and

thenbeganaduelnolessepicforitsbrevity.Mottieasedasfardownas

he dared with his buffetingcontrols and carefullycentered the target in hisreflector sight.He had forty-eightZunirockets.Theyfiredin salvos of four. At twokilometersheopenedfireintothe target area. The Syrianmissileerssomehowmanagedto launch another SAM.There should have been no

escape, but the SA-6 had aradar-proximity fuse, and thepassing Zunis triggered it,exploding the SAMharmlessly half a kilometeraway.Mottigrinnedsavagelybeneath hismask as he firedrockets and now 20-millimeter cannon fire intothemassofmenandvehicles.The third salvo hit, then

four more as Zadin kickedrudder todrophis rocketsallover the target area. The

missile battery wastransformedintoaninfernoofdieselfuel,missilepropellant,and exploding warheads. Ahuge fireball loomed in hispath, and Motti tore throughit with a feral shout of glee,his enemies obliterated, hiscomradesavenged.Zadinhadbutamomentof

triumph. Great sheets of thealuminumwhichmadeuphisaircraft’sleftwingwerebeingripped away by the four-

hundred-knot slipstream. TheA-4beganshudderingwildly.When Motti turned left forhome, the wing collapsedentirely. The Skyhawkdisintegrated in midair. Ittook only a few secondsbefore the teenaged warriorwas smashed on the basalticrocks of the Golan Heights,neitherthefirstnorthelasttodie there. No other of hisflightoffoursurvived.OftheSAMbatteryalmost

nothing was left. All sixvehicles had been blasted tofragments.Oftheninetymenwho had manned them, thelargest piece recovered wasthe headless torso of thebattery commander. Both heand Zadin had served theircountries well, but as is toooftenthecase,conductwhichinanothertimeorplacemighthaveinspiredtheheroicverseof a Virgil or a Tennysonwent unseen and unknown.

Three days later Zadin’smother received the news bytelegram, learning again thatall Israel shared her grief, asif such a thingwere possiblefor a woman who had losttwosons.But the lingering footnote

to this bit of unreportedhistorywas that the unarmedbomb broke loose from thedisintegrating fighter andproceeded yet farthereastward, fallingfar fromthe

fighter-bomber’swreckage tobury itself fifty meters fromthe home of a Druse farmer.It was not until three dayslater that the Israelisdiscovered that their bombwasmissing,andnotuntiltheday after the October Warended that they were able toreconstruct the details of itsloss.ThislefttheIsraeliswitha problem insoluble even totheirimaginations.Thebombwas somewhere behind

Syrian lines—but where?Whichofthefouraircrafthadcarriedit?Wherehaditgonedown?Theycouldhardlyaskthe Syrians to search for it.And could they tell theAmericans, from whom the“specialnuclearmaterial”hadbeen adroitly and deniablyobtained?And so the bomb lay

unknown,excepttotheDrusefarmer,whosimplycovereditover with two meters of dirt

and continued to farm hisrockypatch.

1THELONGESTJOURNEY...

Arnold van Dammsprawled back in hisexecutive swivel chair withall the eleganceof a ragdolltossedintoacorner.Jackhadnever seen him wear a coatexcept in the presence of thePresident, and not alwaysthen. At formal affairs thatrequired black tie, Ryan

wondered if Arnie needed aSecretServiceagentstandingby with a gun. The tie wasloose in the unbuttonedcollar, and he wondered if ithadeverbeentightlyknotted.The sleeves onArnie’sL.L.Bean blue-striped shirt wererolled up, and grimy at theelbows because he usuallyread documents with hisforearms planted on thechronically cluttered desk.But not when speaking to

someone. For importantconversations,themanleanedback, resting his feet on adeskdrawer.Barelyfifty,vanDammhadthinninggrayhairand a face as lined andcareworn as an oldmap, buthis pale blue eyes werealways alert, and his mindkeenly aware of everythingthatwentonwithinorbeyondhissight.Itwasaqualitythatwent along with being thePresident’sChiefofStaff.

He poured his Diet Cokeintoanoversizedcoffeemugthat featured an emblem oftheWhiteHouseononesideand “Arnie” engraved on theother, and regarded theDeputy Director of CentralIntelligencewithamixtureofwariness and affection.“Thirsty?”“IcanhandlearealCokeif

you have one down there,”Jack observed with a grin.Van Damm’s left hand

dropped below sight, and ared aluminum can appearedonaballisticpath thatwouldhaveterminatedinRyan’slaphadhenotcaughtit.Openingthe can under thecircumstances was a trickyexercise, but Jackostentatiously aimed the canat van Damm when hepoppedthetop.Likethemanornot,Ryan toldhimself, hehad style.Hewas unaffectedby his job except when he

hadtobe.Thiswasnotsuchatime. Arnold van Dammacted important only foroutsiders.Insidersdidn’tneedanact.“The Boss wants to know

whatthehellisgoingonoverthere,” the Chief of Staffopened.“So do I.” Charles Alden,

the President’s NationalSecurityAdvisor, entered theroom. “Sorry I’m late,Arnie.”

“So do we, gentlemen,”Jack replied. “That hasn’tchangedinacoupleofyears.Youwantthebeststuffwe’vegot?”“Sure,”Aldensaid.“Next time you fly to

Moscow,lookoutfora largewhite rabbit with waistcoatandpocketwatch.Ifheoffersyouatripdownarabbithole,takeitandletmeknowwhatyou find down there,” Ryansaid with mock gravity.

“Look, I’m not one of thoseright-wing idiots who moansfora return to theColdWar,butthen,atleast,theRussianswere predictable. The poorbastards are starting to actlike we do now. They’reunpredictable as hell. Thefunny part is, now I canunderstandwhatapainintheass we always were to theKGB. The political dynamicover there is changing on adaily basis. Narmonov is the

sharpest political infighter intheworld, but every time hegoes to work, it’s anothercrisis.”“What sort of cat is he?”

van Damm asked. “You’vemettheman.”AldenhadmetNarmonov, but van Dammhadnot.“Only once,” Ryan

cautioned.Alden settled down in an

armchair.“Look,Jack,we’veseen your file. So has the

Boss. Hell, I’ve almost gothim to respect you. TwoIntelligence Stars, thesubmarine business, and,Jesus, the thing withGerasimov.I’veheardofstillwaters running deep, fella,but never this deep. Nowonder Al Trent thinksyou’re so damned smart.”The Intelligence Star wasCIA’s highest decoration forperformanceinthefield.Jackactually had three. But the

citation for the third waslocked away in a very safeplace, and was something sosecret that even the newPresident didn’t and wouldnever know. “So prove it.Talktous.”“He’s one of those rare

ones. He thrives on chaos.I’vemetdocslikethat.Thereare some, a rare few, whokeep working in emergencyrooms,doingtraumaandlikethat, after everybody else

burns out. Some people justgroovetopressureandstress,Arnie. He’s one of them. Idon’t think he really likes it,but he’s good at it. Hemusthavethephysicalconstitutionofahorse—”“Most politicians do,” van

Dammobserved.“Lucky them. Anyway,

does Narmonov really knowwhere’s he’s going? I thinktheanswerisbothyesandno.He has some sort of idea

where he’s moving hiscountry to, but how he getsthere,andexactlywherehe’sgoing to bewhen he arrives,that he doesn’t know. That’sthe kind of balls the manhas.”“So, you like the guy.” It

wasnotaquestion.“Hecouldhavesnuffedmy

life out as easy as poppingopenthiscanofCoke,andhedidn’t.Yeah,”Ryanadmittedwith a smile, “that does

compelmetolikehimalittle.You’dhavetobeafoolnottoadmire the man. Even if wewere still enemies, he’d stillcommandrespect.”“So we’re not enemies?”

Aldenaskedwithawrygrin.“How can we be?” Jack

asked in feigned surprise.“The President says that’s athingofthepast.”TheChiefofStaffgrunted.

“Politicians talk a lot. That’swhat they’re paid for. Will

Narmonovmakeit?”Ryan looked out the

window indisgust,mainly athis own inability to answerthe question. “Look at it thisway:AndreyIl‘ychhasgottobe the most adroit politicaloperator they’ve ever had.But he’s doing a high-wireact. Sure, he’s the bestaround, but remember whenKarl Wallenda was the besthigh-wire guy around? Heended up as a red smear on

the sidewalk because he hadone bad day in a businesswhereyouonlygetonegoof.Andrey Il’ych is in the samekind of racket.Will hemakeit? People have been askingthatforeightyears!Wethinkso—I think so—but... but,hell, this is virgin ground,Arnie.We’veneverbeenherebefore.Neitherhashe.Evenagoddamned weatherforecaster has a data base tohelp him out. The two best

Russian historians we haveare Jake Kantrowitz atPrincetonandDerekAndrewsat Berkeley, and they’re ahundred-eighty degrees apartat the moment. We just hadthem both into Langley twoweeks ago. Personally I leantowards Jake’s assessment,butourseniorRussiananalystthinksAndrews is right.Youpays your money and youtakes your choice. That’s thebest we got. You want

pontification, check thenewspapers.”Van Damm grunted and

wenton.“Nexthotspot?”“The nationalities question

is the big killer,” Jack said.“You don’t need me to tellyouthat.HowwilltheSovietUnion break up—whatrepublics will leave—whenand how, peacefully orviolently? Narmonov isdealing with that on a dailybasis.Thatproblemishereto

stay.”“That’s what I’ve been

sayingforaboutayear.Howlongtoletthingsshakeout?”Aldenwantedtoknow.“Hey, I’m the guy who

said East Germany wouldtakeat leastayear tochangeover—I was the mostoptimisticguy in townat thetime, and I was wrong byelevenmonths.AnythingIoranyone else tells you is awild-assguess.”

“Other trouble spots?” vanDammaskednext.“There’s always the

MiddleEast—”Ryansawtheman’seyeslightup.“Wewant tomoveon that

soon.”“Then I wish you luck.

We’ve been working on thatsince Nixon and Kissingerback during the ‘73semifinals. It’s chilled outquite a bit, but thefundamental problems are

stillthere,andsoonerorlaterit’s going to be thawed. IsupposethegoodnewsisthatNarmonov doesn’t want anypart of it. He may have tosupport his old friends, andsellingthemweaponsisabigmoney-maker for him, but ifthings blow up, he won’tpush like they did in the olddays. We learned that withIraq. He might continue topumpweaponsin—Ithinkhewon’t, but it’s a close call—

but he will do nothing morethan that to support an Arabattack on Israel. He won’tmovehisships,andhewon’talert troops. I doubt he’swilling even to back them iftheyrattletheirsabersalittle.Andrey Il’ych says thoseweaponsare fordefense, andI think he means it, despitethe word we’re getting fromtheIsraelis.”“That’s solid?” Alden

asked.“Statesaysdifferent.”

“State’s wrong,” Ryanrepliedflatly.“So does your boss,” van

Dammpointedout.“In that case, sir, I must

respectfullydisagreewith theDCI’sassessment.”Alden nodded. “Now I

know why Trent likes you.You don’t talk like abureaucrat. How have youlasted so long, saying whatyoureallythink?”“Maybe I’m the token.”

Ryan laughed, then turnedserious.“Thinkaboutit.Withall the ethnic crap he’sdealingwith,takinganactiverolebearsasmanydangersasadvantages. No, he sellsweapons for hard currencyand only when the coast isclear. That’s business, andthat’sasfarasitgoes.”“Soifwecanfindawayto

settlethingsdown...?”Aldenmused.“He might even help. At

worst, he’ll stand by thesidelines and bitch that he’snot in thegame.But tellme,how do you plan to settlethingsdown?”“Put a little pressure on

Israel,” van Damm repliedsimply.“That’s dumb for two

reasons. It’s wrong topressure Israel until theirsecurity concerns arealleviated, and their securityconcerns will not be

alleviated until some of thefundamentalissuesaresettledfirst.”“Like...?”“Like what is this conflict

allabout.”Theonethingthateveryoneoverlooks.“It’s religious, but the

damned fools believe in thesame things!” van Dammgrowled. “Hell, I read theKoranlastmonth,andit’sthesame as what I learned inSundayschool.”

“That’strue,”Ryanagreed,“but so what? Catholics andProtestants both believe thatChrist is the sonofGod, butthat hasn’t stopped NorthernIreland from blowing up.Safest place in the world tobe Jewish. The friggin’Christiansaresobusykillingone another off that theydon’t have time to be anti-Semitic. Look, Arnie,however slight the religiousdifferences in either place

may appear to us, to themtheyappearbigenoughtokillover. That’s as big as theyneedtobe,pal.”“True, I guess,” the Chief

of Staff agreed reluctantly.He thought for a moment.“Jerusalem,youmean?”“Bingo.”Ryanfinishedoff

hisCokeandcrushedthecanbefore flipping it into vanDamm’s trash can for two.“The city is sacred to threereligions—think of them as

threetribes—butitphysicallybelongs to only one of them.Thatoneisatwarwithoneoftheothers.Thevolatilenatureoftheregionmilitatestowardputtingsomearmedtroopsinthe place, but whose?Remember, some Islamiccrazies shot up Mecca notthatlongago.Now,ifyouputan Arab security force inJerusalem, you create asecurity threat to Israel. Ifthings stay as they are, with

only an Israeli force, youoffend the Arabs. Oh, andforget the UN. Israel won’tlike it because the Jewshaven’tmadeoutallthatwellintheplace.TheArabswon’tlike it because there’s toomany Christians. And wewon’t like it because theUNdoesn’t likeusall thatmuch.The only availableinternational body isdistrusted by everyone.Impasse.”

“ThePresidentreallywantstomoveonthis,”theChiefofStaffpointedout.Wehavetodosomething tomake it looklike we’re DOINGSOMETHING.“Well, next time he sees

the Pope, maybe he can askfor high-level intercession.”Jack’s irreverent grin frozemomentarily. Van Dammthought he was cautioninghimself against speakingbadlyofthePresident,whom

he disliked. But then Ryan’sfacewentblank.Arniedidn’tknow Jack well enough torecognize the look. “Wait aminute...”The Chief of Staff

chuckled.Itwouldn’thurtforthePresidenttoseethePope.It always looked good withthe voters, and after that thePresidentwouldhaveawell-covered dinner with B‘naiB’rith to show that he likedall religions. In fact, as van

Damm knew, the Presidentwenttochurchonlyforshownow that his children weregrown.Thatwasoneamusingaspect of life. The SovietUnion was turning back toreligion in its search forsocietal values, but theAmerican political left hadturnedawaylongagoandhadno inclination to turn back,lest it should find the samevaluesthattheRussiansweresearchingfor.VanDammhad

started off as a left-wingbeliever, but twenty-fiveyears of hands-on experienceingovernmenthadcuredhimof that. Now he distrustedideologues of both wingswithequalfervor.Hewasthesort to look for solutionswhose only attraction wasthattheymightactuallywork.His reverie on politics tookhimawayfromthediscussionofthemoment.“You thinking about

something, Jack?” Aldenasked.“You know, we’re all

‘people of the book,’ aren’twe?”Ryan asked, seeing theoutline of a new thought inthefog.“So?”“And theVatican is a real

country,with real diplomaticstatus,butnoarmedforces...they’re Swiss ... andSwitzerland is neutral, noteven a member of the UN.

The Arabs do their bankingand carousing there ... gee, Iwonderifhe’dgoforit ...?”Ryan’sfacewentblankagain,and van Damm saw Jack’seyes center as the light bulbflashed on. It was alwaysexciting to watch an ideabeing born, but less sowhenyoudidn’tknowwhatitwas.“Go forwhat?Who go for

what?” the Chief of Staffasked with some annoyance.Aldenjustwaited.

Ryantoldthem.“Imean,alargepartofthis

wholemess is over theHolyPlaces,isn’tit?Icouldtalktosome of my people atLangley. We have a reallygood—”VanDammleanedback in

his chair. “What sort ofcontacts do you have? YoumeantalkingtotheNuncio?”Ryanshookhishead.“The

Nuncio is a good old guy,Cardinal Giancatti, but he’s

just here for show. You’vebeen here long enough toknow that, Arnie. You wantto talk to folks who knowstuff, you go to Father RileyatGeorgetown.HetaughtmewhenIgotmydoctorateatG-Town. We’re pretty tight.He’s got a pipeline into theGeneral.”“Who’sthat?”“TheFatherGeneralofthe

Society of Jesus. The headJesuit,Spanishguy,hisname

is FranciscoAlcalde.He andFatherTimtaughttogetheratSt. Robert BellarmineUniversity in Rome. They’reboth historians, and FatherTim’s his unofficial rep overhere. You’ve never metFatherTim?”“No.Isheworthit?”“Oh,yeah.Oneof thebest

teachers I ever had. KnowsD.C. inside and out. Goodcontacts back at the homeoffice.”Ryangrinned,butthe

jokewaslostonvanDamm.“Can you set up a quiet

lunch?” Alden asked. “Nothere,someplaceelse.”“The Cosmos Club up in

Georgetown. Father Timbelongs.TheUniversityClubiscloser,but—”“Right. Can he keep a

secret?”“A Jesuit keep a secret?”

Ryan laughed. “You’re notCatholic,areyou?”“Howsooncouldyousetit

up?”“Tomorrowordayafterall

right?”“What about his loyalty?”

van Damm asked out of aclearsky.“Father Tim is an

American citizen, and he’snot a security risk. But he’salsoapriest,andhehastakenvows to what he naturallyconsiders an authority higherthan the Constitution. Youcantrustthemantohonorall

his obligations, but don’tforget what all thoseobligations are,” Ryancautioned. “You can’t orderhimaround,either.”“Set up the lunch. Sounds

likeIoughttomeettheguyinanycase.Tellhim it’s aget-acquainted thing,” Aldensaid.“Make it soon. I’mfreefor lunch tomorrow and thenextday.”“Yes,sir.”Ryanstood.The Cosmos Club in

Washington is located at thecorner of Massachusetts andFlorida avenues. The formermanor house of SumnerWelles, Ryan thought itlooked naked without aboutfour hundred acres of rollingground, a stable ofthoroughbred horses, andperhapsaresidentfoxthattheowner would hunt, but nottoo hard. These weresurroundings the place hadnever possessed, and Ryan

wondered why it had beenbuiltinthisplaceinthisstyle,soobviouslyatoddswiththerealities of Washington, butbuilt by a man who hadunderstood the workings ofthe city so consummatelywell. Chartered as a club ofthe intelligentsia—membership was based on“achievement” rather thanmoney—it was known inWashington as a place oferudite conversation and the

worst food in a town ofundistinguished restaurants.Ryan led Alden into a smallprivateroomupstairs.FatherTimothyRiley,S.J.,

waswaiting for them,abriarpipe clamped in his teeth ashe paged through themorning’sPost.Aglasssatathis right hand, a skim ofsherry at the bottom of it.Father Tim was wearing arumpled shirt and a jacketthat needed pressing, not the

formal priest’s uniform thathe saved for importantmeetingsandhadbeenhand-tailored by one of the nicershops onWisconsinAvenue.But the white Roman collarwasstiffandbright,andJackhad the sudden thought thatdespite all his years ofCatholic education he didn’tknow what the things weremade of. Starched cotton?Celluloid like the detachablecollars of his grandfather’s

age?Ineithercase,itsevidentrigidity must have been areminder to its wearer of hisplace in this world, and thenext.“Hello,Jack!”“Hi,Father.ThisisCharles

Alden, Father Tim Riley.”Handshakes were exchangedand places at the tableselected. A waiter came inandtookdrinkorders,closingthedoorasheleft.“How’s the new job,

Jack?”Rileyasked.“The horizons keep

broadening,” Ryan admitted.He left it at that. The priestwould already know theproblems Jackwas having atLangley.“We’vehadthisideaabout

the Middle East, and Jacksuggested that you’d be agoodmantodiscussitwith,”Alden said, getting everyoneback to business. He had tostopwhenthewaiterreturned

with drinks and menus. Hisdiscourse on the idea tookseveralminutes.“That’s interesting,” Riley

said when it was all on thetable.“What’s your read on the

concept?” the NationalSecurity Advisor wanted toknow.“Interesting ...” The priest

was quiet for a moment.“Will the Pope ... ?” RyanstoppedAldenwithawaveof

thehand.Rileywasnotamanto be hurried when he wasthinking.Hewas,afterall,anhistorian, and they didn’thave the urgency of medicaldoctors.“It certainly is elegant,”

Riley observed after thirtyseconds.“TheGreekswillbeamajorproblem,though.”“The Greeks? How so?”

Ryanaskedinsurprise.“The really contentious

people right now are the

GreekOrthodox.Weandtheyareateachother’sthroatshalfthe timeover themost trivialadministrative issues. Youknow, the rabbis and theimams are actually morecordial at the moment thanthe Christian priests are.That’s the funny thing aboutreligious people, it’s hard topredict how they will react.Anyway, the problemsbetween the Greeks andRomans are mainly

administrative—who getscustody overwhich site, thatsortofthing.Therewasabiggo-roundoverBethlehemlastyear, who got to do themidnightmass in theChurchof the Nativity. It is awfullydisappointing,isn’tit?”“You’re saying it won’t

work because two Catholicchurchescan’t—”“I said there could be a

problem,Dr.Alden.Ididnotsay that it wouldn’t work.”

Rileylapsedbackintosilencefor a moment. “You’ll haveto adjust the troika ... butgiven the nature of theoperation, I thinkwe can gettherightkindofcooperation.Co-opting the GreekOrthodoxissomethingyou’llhave todo inanycase.Theyand the Muslims get alongverywell,youknow.”“Howso?”Aldenasked.“Back when Mohammed

was chased out ofMecca by

the pre-Muslim pagans, hewas granted asylum at theMonasteryofSt.Catherineinthe Sinai—it’s a GreekOrthodox shrine. They tookcareofhimwhenheneededafriend. Mohammed was anhonorable man; thatmonastery has enjoyed theprotection of the Muslimsever since. Over a thousandyears, and that place hasnever been troubled despiteall the nasty things that have

happenedinthearea.Thereismuch to admire about Islam,you know. We in the Westoften overlook that becauseof the crazies who callthemselves Muslims—asthough we don’t have thesameprobleminChristianity.There ismuchnobility there,and they have a tradition ofscholarship that commandsrespect. Except that nobodyover here knowsmuch aboutit,”Rileyconcluded.

“Any other conceptualproblems?”Jackasked.Father Tim laughed. “The

Council of Vienna! How didyouforgetthat,Jack?”“What?” Alden sputtered

inannoyance.“Eighteen-fifteen.

Everybody knows that!Afterthe final settlement of theNapoleonic Wars, the Swisshad to promise never toexport mercenaries. I’m surewe can finesse that. Excuse

me, Dr. Alden. The Pope’sguard detachment iscomposed of Swissmercenaries. So was theFrench king’s once—they allgot killed defending KingLouis and Marie Antoinette.Same thing nearly happenedtothePope’stroopsonce,buttheyheld theenemyoff longenough for a smalldetachment to evacuate theHoly Father to a securelocation, Castel Gandolfo, as

I recall. Mercenaries used tobethemainSwissexport,andthey were feared wherevertheywent.TheSwissGuardsof theVaticanaremostly forshow now, of course, butonceuponatimetheneedforthem was quite real. In anycase, Swiss mercenaries hadsuch a ferocious reputationthatafootnoteoftheCouncilof Vienna, which settled theNapoleonic Wars, compelledthe Swiss to promise not to

allow their people to fightanywherebutathomeandtheVatican. But, as I just said,that is a trivial problem.TheSwiss would be delighted tobe seen helping solve thisproblem. It could onlyincrease their prestige in aregionwhere there isa lotofmoney.”“Sure,” Jack observed.

“Especially if we providetheir equipment. M-1 tanks,Bradley fighting vehicles,

cellularcommunications....”“Come on, Jack,” Riley

said.“No, Father, the nature of

the mission will demandsome heavy weapons—forpsychological impact ifnothing else. You have todemonstrate that you’reserious. Once you do that,then the restof the forcecanwear the Michelangelo jumpsuits and carry their halberdsandsmile into thecameras—

but you still need a Smith&Wesson to beat four aces,especiallyoverthere.”Riley conceded the point.

“I like the elegance of theconcept, gentlemen. Itappeals to the noble.Everyone involved claims tobelieve in God by one nameor another. By appealing tothem in His name ... hmm,that’s the key, isn’t it? TheCity of God. When do youneedananswer?”

“It’s not all that high-priority,” Alden answered.Rileygotthemessage.Itwasa matter of official WhiteHouse interest, but was notsomething to be fast-tracked.Neither was it something tobe buried on the bottom ofsomeone’s desk pile. It was,rather,aback-channelinquiryto be handled expeditiouslyandveryquietly.“Well,ithastogothrough

thebureaucracy.TheVatican

has the oldest continuously-operating bureaucracy in theworld,remember.”“That’s why we’re talking

to you,” Ryan pointed out.“TheGeneralcancutthroughallthecrap.”“That’s no way to talk

about the princes of thechurch, Jack!” Riley nearlyexplodedwithlaughter.“I’m a Catholic,

remember?Iunderstand.”“I’ll drop them a line,”

Riley promised. Today, hiseyessaid.“Quietly,” Alden

emphasized.“Quietly,”Rileyagreed.Ten minutes later Father

Timothy Riley was back inhis car for the short driveback to his office atGeorgetown. Already hismindwas atwork.Ryan hadguessed right about FatherTim’s connections and theirimportance. Riley was

composing his message inAttic Greek, the language ofphilosophersneverspokenbymore than fifty thousandpeople, but the language inwhichhe’d studiedPlatoandAristotle at WoodstockSeminary in Maryland allthoseyearsbefore.Once in his office, he

instructed his secretary toholdallcalls,closedthedoor,and activated his personalcomputer. First he inserted a

disk that allowed the use ofGreek characters. Riley wasnot a skilled typist—havingboth a secretary and acomputer rapidly erodes thatskill—andittookhimanhourto produce the document heneeded.Itwasprintedupasadouble-spaced nine-pageletter. Riley next opened adeskdraweranddialedinhiscode for a small but secureofficesafethatwasconcealedinwhat appeared to be a file

drawer. Here, as Ryan hadlong suspected, was a cipherbook, laboriously hand-printed by a young priest ontheFatherGeneral’spersonalstaff. Riley had to laugh. Itjust wasn’t the sort of thingone associated with thepriesthood. In 1944, whenAdmiral Chester Nimitz hadsuggestedtoFrancisCardinalSpellman, Catholic VicarGeneralfortheU.S.military,that perhaps the Marianas

Islandsneededanewbishop,theCardinalhadproducedhiscipher book and used thecommunications network oftheU.S.Navy tohaveanewbishop appointed. As withany other organization, theCatholicChurchoccasionallyneeded a securecommunicationslink,andtheVatican cipher service hadbeen around for centuries. Inthis case, the cipher key forthis day was a lengthy

passage from Aristotle’sdiscourse on Being quaBeing, with seven wordsremovedandfourgrotesquelymisspelled. A commercialencryption program handledtherest.Thenhehadtoprintout a new copy and set itaside. His computer wasagainswitchedoff,erasingallrecord of the communique.Riley next faxed the letter tothe Vatican and shredded allthe hard copies. The entire

exercise took three laborioushours,andwhenhe informedhis secretary that he wasreadytogetbacktobusiness,he knew that he’d have towork far into the night.Unlike an ordinarybusinessman, Riley didn’tswear.

“I don’t like this,” Learysaid quietly behind hisbinoculars.“Neither do I,” Paulson

agreed.Hisviewofthescenethrough the ten-powertelescopic sight was lesspanoramic and far morefocused. Nothing about thesituation was pleasing. Thesubject was one the FBI hadbeen chasing for more thanten years. Implicated in thedeaths of two special agentsof the Bureau and a UnitedStates Marshal, John Russell(a/k/a Matt Murphy, a/k/aRichard Burton, a/k/a/ Red

Bear) had disappeared intothe warm embrace ofsomething called theWarriorSociety of the Sioux Nation.Therewaslittleofthewarriorabout John Russell. Born inMinnesotafarfromtheSiouxreservation,he’dbeenapettyfelon whose one majorconvictionhad landedhimina prison. Itwas there that hehad discovered his ethnicityand begun thinking like hisperverted image of a Native

American—which toPaulson’s way of thinkinghadmoreofMikhailBakuninin it than of Cochise orToohoolhoolzote. Joininganother prison-born groupcalled the American IndianMovement, Russell had beeninvolved in a half-dozennihilisticacts,endingwiththedeaths of three federalofficers, then vanished. Butsooner or later they allscrewed up, and today was

John Russell’s turn. Takingits chance to raisemoney byrunning drugs into Canada,theWarriorSocietyhadmadeits mistake, and allowed itsplans to be overheard by afederalinformant.They were in the ghostly

remainsofafarmingtownsixmiles from the Canadianborder. The FBI HostageRescue Team, as usualwithout any hostages torescue,was acting its role as

theBureau’spremiereSWATteam. The ten men deployedon the mission under squadsupervisorDennisBlackwereunder the administrativecontrol of the Special Agentin Charge of the local fieldoffice. That was where theBureau’s customaryprofessionalism had come toa screeching halt. The localS-A-Chadsetupanelaborateambush plan that had startedbadly and nearly ended in

disaster, with three agentsalready in hospitals from theauto wrecks and two morewithseriousgunshotwounds.In return, one subject wasknown dead, and maybeanotherwaswounded,butnoonewas sure at themoment.The rest—three or four; theywerenotsureofthateither—were holed up in what hadoncebeenamotel.Whattheyknewforsurewas thateitherthemotel had a still-working

phone or, more likely, thesubjectshadacellular“brick”and had called the media.What was happening nowwas of such magnificentconfusion as to earn theadmiration of Phineas T.Barnum. The local S-A-Cwas trying to salvage whatremained of his professionalreputationbyusingthemediato his advantage. What hehadn’t figured out yet wasthat handling network teams

dispatched from as far awayas Denver and Chicagowasn’tquitethesamethingasdealing with the localreporters fresh fromjournalismschool.Itwasveryhardtocalltheshotswiththepros.“BillShawisgoingtohave

this guy’s balls for brunchtomorrow,” Leary observedquietly.“That does us a whole lot

of good,” Paulson replied. A

snort.“Besides,whatballs?”“What you got?” Black

asked over the secure radiocircuit.“Movement, but no ID,”

Leary replied. “Bad light.Theseguysmaybedumb,butthey’renotcrazy.”“The subjects have asked

for aTV reporter to come inwithacamera,andtheS-A-Chasagreed.”“Dennis, have you—”

Paulson nearly came off the

scopeatthat.“Yes, I have,” Black

replied. “He says he’s incommand.” The Bureau’snegotiator,apsychiatristwithhard-won expertise in theseaffairs, was still two hoursaway, and the S-A-Cwantedsomething for the eveningnews. Black wanted tothrottle the man, but hecouldn’t,ofcourse.“Can’t arrest the guy for

incompetence,” Leary said,

his hand over themicrophone. Well, the onlything these bastards don’thaveisahostage.Sowhynotgive’emone?That’llgivethenegotiatorsomethingtodo.“Talk to me, Dennis,”

Paulsonsaidnext.“Rules of Engagement are

in force, on my authority,”Supervisory Special AgentBlacksaid.“Thereporterisafemale, twenty-eight, blondand blue, about five-six.

Cameraman is a black guy,dark complexion, six-three. Itoldhimwheretowalk.He’sgot brains, and he’s playingball.”“Rogerthat,Dennis.”“Howlongyoubeenonthe

gun, Paulson?” Black askednext. The book said that asniper could not stay fullyalertonthegunformorethanthirtyminutes,atwhichpointthe observer and sniperexchanged positions. Dennis

Black figured that someonehadtoplaybythebook.“About fifteen minutes,

Dennis. I’m okay ... okay, Igotthenewsies.”They were very close, a

mere hundred fifteen yardsfrom the front door of theblockbuilding.Thelightwasnot good. The sunwould setin another ninety minutes. Ithad been a blustery day. Ahot southwesterly wind wasripping across the prairie.

Dust stung the eyes. Worse,the wind was hitting overforty knots and was directlyacross his line of sight. Thatsort of wind could screw uphis aim by as much as fourinches.“Team is standing by,”

Black advised. “We just gotCompromiseAuthority.”“Well, at least he isn’t a

total asshole,” Leary repliedover the radio. He was tooangry to care if the S-A-C

heardthatornot.Morelikely,the dumbass had just chokedagain.Both sniper and observer

wore ghillie suits. It hadtaken them two hours to getinto position, but they wereeffectively invisible, theirshaggy camouflage blendingtheminwiththescrubbytreesand prairie grass here. Learywatched the newsiesapproach.Thegirlwaspretty,he thought, though her hair

and makeup had to besuffering from the dry, harshwind.Themanonthecameralooked like he could haveplayedguardfortheVikings,maybetoughandfastenoughto clear the way for thatsensational new halfback,Tony Wills. Leary shook itoff.“Thecameramanhasavest

on.Girl doesn’t.”You stupidbitch, Leary thought. I knowDennis told you what these

bastardswereallabout.“Dennis said he was

smart.” Paulson trained therifle on the building.“Movementatthedoor!”“Let’s everyone try to be

smart,”Learymurmured.“Subject One in sight,”

Paulson announced.“Russell’scomingout.SniperOneisontarget.”“Got him,” three voices

repliedatonce.John Russell was an

enormousman.Six-five,overtwo hundred-fifty pounds ofwhat had once been athleticbutwasnowaframerunningto fat and dissolution. Hewore jeans, but was bare-chested with a headbandsecuringhislongblackhairinplace.His chest bore tattoos,someprofessionallydone,butmore of the prison spit-and-pencil variety. He was thesort of man police preferredtomeetwithguninhand.He

moved with the lazyarrogance that announced hiswillingnesstodepartfromtherules.“SubjectOne is carrying a

large, blue-steel revolver,”Leary told the rest of theteam.Looks likeanN-FrameSmith.... “I, uh—Dennis,there’s something odd abouthim...”“What is it?” Black asked

immediately.“Mike’s right,” Paulson

saidnext,examining thefacethroughhisscope.Therewasawildness tohis eyes. “He’son something, Dennis, he’sdopedup.Call thosenewsiesback!”Butitwastoolateforthat.Paulson kept the sight on

Russell’s head. Russellwasn’tapersonnow.Hewasa subject, a target. The teamwas now acting under theCompromise Authority rule.At least the S-A-C had done

that right. It meant that ifsomethingwentbadlywrong,the HRT was free to takewhatever action its leaderdeemed appropriate. Further,Paulson’s special SniperRules of Engagement wereexplicit. If the subjectappeared to threaten anyagent or civilian with deadlyforce, then his right indexfinger would apply fourpounds, three ounces ofpressure to the precision set-

trigger of the rifle in hisgrasp.“Let’s everybody be real

cool, for Christ’s sake,” thesniper breathed. His Unertltelescopic sight hadcrosshairs and stadia marks.Automatically Paulsonreestimated the range, thensettled down while his braintried to keep track of thegusting wind. The sightreticle was locked onRussell’s head, right on the

ear,whichmade a fine pointofaim.It was horridly comical to

watch. The reporter smiling,moving themicrophone backand forth. The burlycameraman aiming hisminicam with its powerfulsingle light running off thebatterypackaroundtheblackman’s waist. Russell wasspeaking forcefully,, butneither Leary nor Paulsoncould hear a word he was

saying against thewind. Thelook on his face was angryfrom the beginning, and didnot improve. Soon his lefthandballedintoafist,andhisfingersstartedflexingaroundthegripsoftherevolverinhisright. The wind buffeted thesilk blouse close around thereporter’s bra-less chest.Leary remembered thatRussell had a reputation as asexual athlete, supposedlyonthebrutalside.Buttherewas

astrangevacancytohisface.His expressions went fromemotionless to passionate inwhat had to be a chemicallyinduced whipsaw state thatonly added to the stress ofbeing trappedbyFBI agents.He calmed suddenly, but itwasn’tanormalcalm.That asshole S-A-C, Leary

sworeathimself.Weoughttojust back off and wait themout. The situation isstabilized. They’re not going

anywhere. We couldnegotiate by phone and justwaitthemout....“Trouble!”Russell’s free hand

grabbed the reporter’s upperright arm. She tried to drawback, but possessed only afraction of the strengthrequired to do so. Thecameramanmoved.Onehandcameoff theSony.Hewasabig, strong man, and mighthave pulled it off, but his

moveonlyprovokedRussell.The subject’s gun handmoved.“On target on target on

target!” Paulson saidurgently. Stop, you asshole,STOPNOW! He couldn’t lettheguncomeupveryfar.Hisbrain was racing, evaluatingthe situation. A large-frameSmith & Wesson, maybe a.44. It made big, bloodywounds. Maybe the subjectwas just punctuating his

words, but Paulson didn’tknow or care what thosewordswere.Hewasprobablytelling the black guy on thecamera to stop; the gunseemed to be pointing morethatway than at the girl, butthe gun was still coming upand—The crack of the rifle

stopped time like aphotograph. Paulson’s fingerhad moved, seemingly of itsown accord, but training had

simply taken over. The riflesurgedbackinrecoil,andthesniper’s hand was alreadymoving towork the bolt andloadanotherround.Thewindhad chosen a badmoment togust, throwingPaulson’s aimoff ever so slightly to theright. Instead of drillingthrough the center ofRussell’s head, the bulletstruck well forward of theear. On hitting bone, itfragmented. The subject’s

face was ripped explosivelyfrom the skull. Nose, eyes,and forehead vanished into awetredmist.Onlythemouthremained, and that was openand screaming, as bloodventedfromRussell’sheadasthough from a cloggedshowerhead. Dying, but notdead, Russell jerked oneround off at the cameramanbeforefallingforwardagainstthe reporter. Then thecameraman was down, and

thereporterwasjuststandingthere,nothavinghadenoughtime even to be shocked bythe blood and tissue on herclothing and face. Russell’shandsclawedbrieflyatafaceno longer there, then wentstill. Paulson’s radio headsetscreamed“GOGOGO!”buthescarcelytooknoteofit.Hedrove the second round intothe chamber, and spotted aface in a window of thebuilding. He recognized it

from photographs. It was asubject,abadguy.Andtherewas a weapon there, lookedlikeanoldWinchester lever-action. It started moving.Paulson’s second shot wasbetter than the first, straightinto the forehead of SubjectTwo, someone namedWilliamAmes.Time started again. The

HRT members raced in,dressedintheirblackNomexcoveralls and body armor.

Two dragged the reporteraway.Twomoredidthesamewith the cameraman, whoseSonywasclaspedsecurelytohis chest. Another tossed anexplosive flash-bang grenadethrough the broken windowwhile Dennis Black and theremaining three teammembers dove through theopen door. There were noother shots. Fifteen secondslatertheradiocrackledagain.“This is Team Leader.

Building search complete.Twosubjectsdownanddead.Subject Two is WilliamAmes. Subject Three isErnestThorn, looks likehe’sbeen dead for a while fromtwo in the chest. Subjects’weaponsareneutralized.Siteis secure. Repeat, sitesecure.”“Jesus!” It was Leary’s

first shooting involvementafter tenyears in theBureau.Paulson got up to his knees

after clearing his weapon,folded the rifle’s bipod legs,then trotted toward thebuilding. The local S-A-Cbeat him there, serviceautomatic in hand, standingover the prone body of JohnRussell. It was just as wellthat the front of Russell’sheadwashidden.Everydropof blood he’d once had wasnow on the cracked cementsidewalk.“Nicejob!”theS-A-Ctold

everyone. That was his lastmistake inaday repletewiththem.“You ignorant, shit-faced

asshole!”Paulsonpushedhimagainst the painted blockwalls.“Thesepeoplearedeadbecause of you!” Learyjumped between them,pushing Paulson away fromthe surprised senior agent.Dennis Black appeared next,hisfaceblank.“Clean up your mess,” he

said, leading his men awaybefore something elsehappened. “How’s thatnewsie?”The cameraman was lying

on his back, the Sony at hiseyes.Thereporterwasonherknees, vomiting. She hadgood cause. An agent hadalready wiped her face, buther expensive blouse was ared obscenity that wouldoccupy her nightmares forweekstocome.

“You okay?” Dennisasked.“Turnthatgoddamnedthingoff!”He set the camera down,

switching off the light. Thecameraman shook his headand felt at a spot just belowthe ribs. “Thanks for theadvice, brother.Gotta send aletter tothepeoplethatmakethisvest. I really—”Andhisvoice stopped. Finally therealization of what hadhappened took hold, and the

shock started. “Oh God, oh,sweetmercifulJesus!”Paulson walked to the

Chevy Carryall and lockedhis rifle in the rigid guncase.Leary and one other agentstayed with him, telling himthat he had done exactly theright thing. They’d do thatuntil Paulson got over hisstress period. It wasn’t thesniper’s first kill, but whilethey had all been differentincidents, they were all the

same, all things to beregretted. The aftermath to arealshootingdoesnotincludeacommercial.The reporter suffered the

normal post-traumatichysteria. She ripped off herblood-soaked blouse,forgetting that there wasnothing under it. An agentwrappedablanketaroundherand helped to steady herdown.Morenewscrewswereconverging on the scene,

most heading toward thebuilding. Dennis Black gothis people together to cleartheir weapons and help withthetwocivilians.Thereporterrecovered in a few minutes.Sheaskedifithadreallybeennecessary, then learned thather cameraman had taken ashotthathadbeenstoppedbythe Second Chance vest theBureau had recommended toboth of them, but which shehadrejected.Shenextentered

the elation phase, just ashappy as she could be thatshe could still breathe. Soonthe shock would return, butshe was a bright journalistdespite her youth andinexperience,andhadalreadylearned something important.Next time she’d listen whensomeone gave her goodadvice; thenightmareswouldmerely punctuate theimportance of the lesson.Withinthirtyminutesshewas

standing up withoutassistance, wearing herbackup outfit, giving a levelifbrittleaccountofwhathadhappened.Butitwasthetapefootage that would impressthe people at Black Rock,headquarters of CBS. Thecameraman would get apersonal letter from the headof the News Division. Thefootage had everything:drama, death, a courageous(and attractive) reporter, and

would run as the lead piecefor the evening newsbroadcast for this otherwiseslownewsday,toberepeatedby all the network morningshows the next day. In eachcase the anchor wouldsolemnly warn people thatwhat they were about to seemight disturb the sensitive—just to make sure thateveryone understood thatsomething especially juicywas about to screen. Since

everyone had more than onechance to view the event,quite a few had their tapemachines turning the secondtime around. One of themwas the head of theWarriorSociety. His name wasMarvinRussell.

It had started innocentlyenough. His stomach wasunsettled when he awoke.The morning jobs became alittle more tiresome. He

didn’t feel quite himself.You’re over thirty, he toldhimself. You’re not a boyanymore. Besides, he’dalwaysbeenvigorous.Maybeitwasjustacold,avirus,thelingeringeffectsofbadwater,somestomachbug.He’d justwork his way out of it. Headded weight to his pack,took to carrying a loadedmagazine in his rifle. He’dgotten lazy, that’s all. Thatwas easily remedied.Hewas

nothing if not a determinedman.For a month or so, it

worked. Sure, he was evenmoretired,butthatwastobeexpected with the extra fivekilosofweighthecarried.Hewelcomed the additionalfatigue as evidence of hiswarrior’svirtue,wentbacktosimpler foods, forcedhimselftoadoptbettersleephabits.Ithelped. The muscle acheswere no different from the

time he’d entered thisdemanding life, and he sleptthe dreamless sleep of thejust. What had been toughbecame tougher still as hisfocusedmind gave its ordersto a recalcitrant body. Couldhe not defeat some invisiblemicrobe? Had he not bestedfar larger and moreformidable organisms? Thethought was less a challengethan a petty amusement. Aswith most determined men,

his competition was entirelywithin himself, the bodyresisting what the mindcommanded.But it never quite went

away. Though his bodybecameleanerandharder,theaches and the nauseapersisted. He becameannoyed with it, and theannoyance first surfaced injokes. When his seniorcolleagues took note of hisdiscomfort, he called it

morning sickness, evokinggales of rough laughter. Hebore the discomfort foranother month, then foundthat it was necessary tolighten his load to maintainhis place in front with theleaders. For the first time inhislife,faintdoubtsappearedlikewispycloudsintheclearsky of his determined self-image. It was no longer anamusement.He stuck with it for still

another month, neverslackinginhisroutineexceptfor the additional hour ofsleep that he imposed on hisotherwise tireless regimen.Despite this, his conditionworsened—well, not exactlyworsened, but did notimprove a bit.Maybe it wasmerely the increasing years,hefinallyadmittedtohimself.Hewas,afterall,onlyaman,however hard he worked toperfect his form. There was

no disgrace in that,determined though he mighthavebeentopreventit.Finally he started

grumbling about it. Hiscomrades wereunderstanding. All of themwere younger than he, manyhavingservedtheirleaderforfive years or more. Theyrevered him for histoughness, and if thetoughness showed a fewhairline cracks, what did it

mean except that he washuman after all, and all themoreadmirablebecauseofit?One or two suggested homeremedies, but finally a closefriend and comrade told himthathewasfoolishindeednottoseeoneofthelocaldoctors—his sister’s husband was agood one, a graduate ofBritish medical schools.Determined as he was toavoid this abnegation of hisperson, it was time to take

what he knew to be goodadvice.Thedoctorwasasgoodas

advertised. Sitting behind hisdesk in a laboratory coat thecolor of starched white, hetook a complete medicalhistory, then performed apreliminary examination.There was nothing overtlywrong.Hetalkedaboutstress—something his patientneeded no lectures about—andpointedout that over the

years stress claimed anincreasing heavy forfeit onthosewho bore it. He talkedaboutgoodeatinghabits,howexercise could be overdone,how rest was important. Hedecidedthat theproblemwasa combination of varioussmall things, including whatwas probably a small butannoying intestinal disorder,and prescribed a drug toameliorate it. The doctorconcluded his lecture with a

soliloquy about patients whowere too proud to do whatwas good for them, and howfoolishtheywere.Thepatientnodded approvingly,according the physiciandeserved respect. He’d givennot dissimilar lectures to hisownsubordinates,andwasasdetermined as always to dothings in exactly the rightway.Themedicationworkedfor

a week or so. His stomach

almost returned to normal.Certainly it improved, but henoted with annoyance that itwasn’t quite the same asbefore.Orwas it? Itwas, headmitted to himself, hard toremember such trivial thingsas how one felt onawakening. The mind, afterall, concerned itself with thegreat ideas, like mission andpurpose, and left the body toattend its own needs andleave the mind alone. The

mind wasn’t supposed to bebothered. The mind gaveorders and expected them tobe followed. It didn’t needdistractions like this. Howcould purpose exist withdistractions?He’ddeterminedhis life’s purpose long yearsbefore.Butitsimplywouldnotgo

away, and finally he had toreturn to the physician. Amorecarefulexaminationwasundertaken. He allowed his

body to be poked andprodded, to have his blooddrawnbyaneedle insteadofthe more violent instrumentsfor which he had preparedhimself. Maybe it wassomethingalmostserious,thephysician told him, a low-order systemic infection, forexample.Thereweredrugstotreat that. Malaria, oncepandemic to the region, forexample, had similar butmore serious debilitating

effects,asdidanynumberofmaladies which had oncebeen serious but were noweasily defeated by the forcesavailable to modernmedicine. The tests wouldshow what was wrong, andthedoctorwasdetermined tofix it. He knew of hispatient’s purpose in life, andshared it from a safer andmoredistantperspective.Hereturnedtothedoctor’s

office two days later.

Immediately he knew thatsomething was wrong. He’dseen the same look oftenenough on the face of hisintelligence officer.Something unexpected.Something to interfere withplans. The doctor beganspeaking slowly, searchingfor words, trying to find away to make the messageeasier, but the patient wouldhave none of that. He hadchosen to live a dangerous

life, and demanded theinformation as directly as hewould have given it. Thephysician noddedrespectfully, and replied inkind.Themantookthenewsdispassionately. He wasaccustomed todisappointments of manykinds. He knew what lay attheendofeverylife,andhadmany timeshelped todeliverittoothers.So.Nowitlayinhispathalso,tobeavoidedif

possible but therenonetheless, perhaps near,perhaps not. He asked whatcould be done, and the newswas less bad than he hadexpected. The doctor did notinsult him with words ofcomfort,butreadhispatient’smind and explained the factsof the matter. There werethingstobedone.Theymightsucceed. They might not.Timewouldtell.Hisphysicalstrength would help a great

deal, as would his irondetermination.Aproper stateof mind, the physician toldhim, was highly important.The patient almost smiled atthat, but stopped himself.Bettertoshowthecourageofa stoic than the hope of afool. And what was death,after all? Had he not lived alife dedicated to justice? Tothewill ofGod?Had he notsacrificed his life to a greatandworthypurpose?

But that was the rub. Hewas not a man who plannedon failure.He had selected agoal for his life, and yearsbefore determined to reach itregardless of cost to himselforothers.Onthataltarhehadsacrificed everything hemight have been, the dreamsof his dead parents, theeducation which they hadhoped he would use for thebetterment of himself andothers,anormal,comfortable

lifewithawomanwhomightbearhimsons—allof thathehadrejectedinfavorofapathof toil, danger, and utterdetermination to reach thatsingleshininggoal.And now? Was it all for

nothing?Was his life to endwithout meaning? Would henever see the day for whichhe had lived? Was God thatcruel? All these thoughtsparaded through hisconsciousness while his face

remained neutral, his eyesguarded as always. No. Hewould not let that be. Godcould not have deserted him.Hewould see the day—or atleast see it grow closer. Hislifewouldhavemeaningafterall. It had not been all fornothing, nor would whatfuture he might yet have befor nothing. On that, too, hewasdetermined.Ismael Qati would follow

his doctor’s orders, do what

must be done to extend histime, and perhaps defeat thisinternal enemy, as insidiousand contemptible as thoseoutside. In the meantime hewould redouble his efforts,push himself to the limits ofphysical endurance, ask hisGod for guidance, look for asign of His will. As he hadfought his other enemies, sowouldhe fight thisone,withcourage and total dedication.He’d never known mercy in

his life, after all, and hewould not start showing itnow. Ifhehad to facedeath,the deaths of others paledeven further than usual. Buthewouldnotlashoutblindly.Hewould dowhat he had todo. He would carry on asbefore,waitingforthechancethathisfaithtoldhimmustliesomewhere beyond his sight,between himself and the endofhispath.Hisdeterminationhad always been directed by

intelligence.Itwasthatwhichexplainedhiseffectiveness.

2LABYRINTHS

The letter fromGeorgetown arrived in aRomanoffice,scarceminutesafter transmission, where, aswith any bureaucracy, thenight clerk (what intelligenceagenciescallawatchofficer)simply dropped it on theproperdeskandwentbacktohisstudiesforanexamonthemetaphysical discourses of

Aquinas. A young Jesuitpriest named HermannSchörner,privatesecretary toFrancisco Alcalde, FatherGeneral of the Society ofJesus, arrived the nextmorning promptly at sevenand began sorting theovernightmail.The fax fromAmerica was third from thetop, and stopped the youngcleric in his tracks. Ciphertraffic was a routine part ofhis job, but was not all that

common. The code prefix atthetopofthecommunicationindicated the originator andthe priority. Father Schörnerhurriedthroughtherestofthemailandwentimmediatelytowork.The procedure was an

exact inversion of whatFatherRileyhaddone,exceptthat Schörner’s typing skillswere excellent. He used anoptical scanner to transcribethe text into a personal

computerandpunchedupthedecryption program.Irregularitieson thefacsimilecopy caused some garbles,butthatwaseasilyfixed,andclear-text copy—still inAtticGreek,ofcourse—slidoutofthe ink-jet printer. It hadrequired merely twentyminutes, as opposed toRiley’sthreelaborioushours.The young priest preparedmorning coffee for himselfand his boss, then read the

letter with his second cup ofthe day. How extraordinary,Schörnerreflected.Reverend Francisco

Alcalde was an elderly butuncommonly vigorous man.At sixty-six, he still playedafair game of tennis, andwasknown to ski with the HolyFather. A gaunt, wiry six-four, his thick mane of grayhairwasbrush-cutoverdeep-set owlish eyes.Alcaldewasa man with solid intellectual

credentials. The master ofeleven languages, had he notbeen a priest he might havebecome the foremostmedievalhistorianinEurope.Buthewas,beforeallthings,a priestwhose administrativeduties chafed against hisdesire for both teaching andpastoral ministry. In a fewyearshewouldleavehispostas Father General of RomanCatholicism’s largest andmostpowerfulorderandfind

himself again as a universityinstructor,illuminatingyoungmindsand leavingcampus tocelebrate mass in a smallworking-class parish wherehe could concern himselfwith ordinary human needs.That, he thought, would bethe final blessing of a lifecluttered with so many ofthem. Not a perfect man, hefrequently wrestled with thepride that attended hisintellect, trying and not

always succeeding tocultivate the humilitynecessary to his vocation.Well, he sighed, perfectionwas a goal never to bereached,andhesmiledat thehumorofit.“Guten Morgen,

Hermann!”hesaid,sweepingthroughthedoor.“Bongiorno, ” theGerman

priestreplied,thenlapsedintoGreek. “Somethinginterestingthismorning.”

The bushy eyebrowstwitched at themessage, andhejerkedhisheadtowardtheinner office. Schörnerfollowedwiththecoffee.“The tennis court is

reserved for four o’clock,”Schörner said as he pouredhisboss’scup.“So you can humiliate me

yet again?” It wasoccasionally joked thatSchörner could turnprofessional, contributing his

winnings to the Society,whose members wererequired to take a vow ofpoverty. “So, what is themessage?”“From Timothy Riley in

Washington.” Schörnerhandeditover.Alcaldedonnedhisreading

glasses and read slowly. Helefthiscoffeeuntouchedand,on fini