‘Operatives,’ I said.

No reaction.

‘Leaders?’

‘Go on.’

‘Al-Qaeda is using women leaders?’

‘They’re using whatever works.’

‘Doesn’t seem plausible.’

‘That’s what they want us to think. They want us searching for men that don’t exist.’

I said nothing.

‘Go on,’ he said.

‘OK, the one who calls herself Svetlana fought with the mujahideen and knew you captured the VAL rifle from Grigori Hoth. They used Hoth’s name and his story to get sympathy over here.’

‘Because?’

‘Because now al-Qaeda wants documentary proof of whatever else it was that you guys were doing that night.’

‘Go on.’

‘Which Sansom got a big medal for. So it must have looked pretty good, once upon a time, way back when. But now you’re worried about exposure. So I’m assuming it wouldn’t look so good any more.’

‘Go on.’

‘Sansom is miserable, but the government has got its panties in a wad, too. So it’s both personal and political.’

‘Go on.’

‘Did you get a medal that night?’

‘The Superior Service Medal.’

‘Which comes directly from the Secretary of Defense.’

Springfield nodded. ‘A nice little bauble, for a lowly sergeant.’

‘So the trip was more political than military.’

‘Obviously. We weren’t officially at war with anyone at the time.’

‘You know the Hoths killed four people, and probably Susan Mark’s son too, right?’

‘We don’t know it. But we suspect it.’

‘So why haven’t you busted them?’

‘I work security for a congressman. I can’t bust anyone.’

‘Those feds could.’

‘Those feds work in mysterious ways. Apparently they consider the Hoths to be A-grade enemy combatants, and a very significant target, and extremely dangerous, but not currently operational.’

‘Which means what?’

‘Which means that right now there’s more to be gained by leaving them in place.’

‘Which actually means they can’t find them.’

‘Of course.’

‘You happy about that?’

‘The Hoths don’t have the memory stick, or they wouldn’t still be looking for it. So I don’t really care either way.’

‘I think you should,’ I said.

‘You think that’s their place? Where you were?’

‘This block or the next.’

‘I think this one,’ he said. ‘Those feds searched their hotel suite. While they were out.’

‘Lila told me.’

‘They had shopping bags. Like window dressing. To make the place look right.’

‘I saw them.’

‘Two from Bergdorf Goodman, and two from Tiffany. Those stores are close together, about a block from those old buildings. Their base was on the block east of Park, they’d have gone to Bloomingdales instead. Because they weren’t really shopping.

They just wanted accessories in their suite, to fool people.’

‘Good point,’ I said.

‘Don’t go looking for the Hoths,’ Springfield said.

‘You worried about me now?’

‘You could lose two ways around. They’re going to think the same as us, that even if you don’t have the stick, then somehow you know where it went. And they might be even more vicious and persuasive than we are.’

‘And?’

‘They might actually tell you what’s on it. In which case from our point of view you would become a loose end.’

‘How bad is it?’

‘I’m not ashamed. But Major Sansom would be embarrassed.’

‘And the United States.’

‘That, too.’

The waiter came back and inquired as to whether we needed anything else. Springfield said yes. He reordered for both of us. Which meant he had more to talk about. He said, ‘Run down exactly what happened on the train.’

‘Why weren’t you there, instead of the chief of staff? It was more like your line of work than his.’

‘It came on us fast. I was in Texas, with Sansom. Raising money. We didn’t have time for proper deployment.’

‘Why didn’t the feds have someone on the train?’

‘They did. They had two people on the train. Two women. Undercover, borrowed from the FBI. Special Agents Rodriguez and Mbele. You blundered into the wrong car and rode with them all the way.’

‘They were good,’ I said. And they were. The Hispanic woman, small, hot, tired, her supermarket bag wrapped around her wrist. The West African woman in the batik dress. ‘They were very good. But how did you all know she was going to take that train?’

‘We didn’t,’ Springfield said. ‘It was a huge operation. A big scramble. We knew she was in a car. So we had people waiting at the tunnels. The idea was to follow her from there, to wherever she was going.’

‘Why wasn’t she arrested on the Pentagon steps?

‘There was a short debate. Those feds won it. They wanted to roll up the whole chain in one go. And they might have.’

‘If I hadn’t screwed it up.’

‘You said it.’

‘She didn’t have the memory stick. So nothing was going to get rolled up anyway.’

‘She left the Pentagon with it, and it isn’t in her house or her car.’

‘You sure about that?’

‘Her house has been torn down to the slab and I could eat the largest remaining part of her car.’

‘How well did they search the subway train?’

‘Car number 7622 is still in the yards at 207th Street. They say it might take a month or more to rebuild.’

‘What the hell was on that memory stick?’

Springfield didn’t answer.

One of the captured phones in my pocket started to vibrate.

SIXTY-TWO

I PULLED ALL THREE PHONES OUT OF MY POCKET AND LAID them on the table. One of them was skittering around, an eighth of an inch at a time. Vigorous vibration. Its window said Restricted Call. I opened it up and put it to my ear and said, ‘Hello?’

Lila Hoth asked, ‘Are you still in New York?’

I said, ‘Yes.’

‘Are you near the Four Seasons?’

I said, ‘Not very.’

‘Go there now. I left a package for you at the desk.’

I asked, ‘When?’

But the line went dead.

I glanced at Springfield and said, ‘Wait here.’ Then I hustled out to the lobby. Saw no retreating back heading for the door. The scene was tranquil. The greeter in the tail coat was standing idle. I walked to the desk and gave my name and asked if they were holding anything for me. A minute later I had an envelope in my hands. It had my name handwritten across the front in thick black letters. It had Lila Hoth’s name up in the top left corner, where the return address would. I asked the desk clerk when it had been delivered. He said more than an hour ago.

I asked, ‘Did you see who dropped it off?’

‘A foreign gentleman.’

‘Did you recognize him?’

‘No, sir.’

The envelope was padded, about six inches by nine. It was light. It had something stiff in it. Round, and maybe five inches in diameter. I carried it back to the tea room and sat down again with Springfield. He said, ‘From the Hoths?’

I nodded.

He said, ‘It could be full of anthrax spores.’

‘Feels more like a CD,’ I said.

‘Of what?’

‘Afghan folk music, maybe.’

‘I hope not,’ he said. ‘I’ve heard Afghan folk music. At length and up close.’

‘You want me to wait to open it?’

‘Until when?’

‘Until you’re out of range.’

‘I’ll take the risk.’

So I tore open the envelope and shook it. A single disc spilled out and made a plastic sound against the wood of the table.

‘A CD,’ I said.

‘A DVD, actually,’ Springfield said.

It was home made. It was a blank disc manufactured by Memorex. The words Watch This had been written across the label side with a black permanent marker. Same handwriting as the envelope. Same pen. Lila Hoth’s handwriting and Lila Hoth’s pen presumably.

I said, ‘I don’t have a DVD player.’

‘So don’t watch it.’

‘I think I have to.’

‘What happened on the train?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You can play DVDs on a computer. Like people watch movies on their laptops on airplanes.’