She accepted that. "You said abort?"

"More than that. I don't know how you set up the fix, but you're going to have to unfix it, make it like it never happened."

She managed to shake her head. "You said something about Gibraltar rules. If you know the words, you know what they mean. The mission can't be aborted. We're in the time frame."

"The man who gave you the mission is dead."

The lines in her face deepened. "I read the papers."

"Other people are running the show now, and the decision is to abort."

"That's their decision, not mine."

"You're not in a position to refuse."

"I have no choice. Gibraltar rules."

"Screw the rules, your job is dead." Vince felt his anger flaring, and he throttled it down. "Look, I can roll this thing back without you, but it would be a lot easier if you worked with me. How did you set up the fix?"

She said nothing.

"Come on, we're talking about a lousy basketball game, not nuclear weapons."

Again nothing.

"This doesn't make any sense. No matter what the rules are, this is crazy."

"It doesn't have to make sense. David Ogden wanted it, and that's all that matters."

"David Ogden had tumors eating at his brain when he gave you those orders. He wasn't responsible."

"David Ogden with half a brain was more responsible than any man I ever knew. This is what he wanted, and this is what he gets."

"You're going to have to tell me, Shelley, one way or another."

She smiled. It was a hell of a time to smile, but there it was. She said, "What do you know about the Mukhabarat?"

"The Iraqi Security Service."

"Number Ten Flowering Square?"

"Their interrogation center in Baghdad."

"I was in there for eleven days. Do you know what it's like in there? There's nothing refined about the Iraqi technique, nothing sophisticated. I was beaten every day, over and over. I was raped every night, over and over. I took it for eleven days, and I didn't talk."

"Everybody talks."

"I didn't. On the twelfth day, David Ogden got me out."

"Nobody gets out of there."

"I did. An exchange, the kind you don't read about in the newspapers. David Ogden brought me back from hell. So if David Ogden wants something… wanted… he's going to get it. No matter what."

"You're still going to have to tell me."

She shook her head and he saw the look in her eyes. He had seen that look before in the eyes of the righteous and convinced. He had seen it in the eyes of a backwoods preacher shouting down sin. He had seen it in the eyes of a twelve-story leaper at the moment when she knew that she was really going to jump. He had seen it in the eyes of an Afghani guerrilla about to charge a Soviet tank with a hunting rifle in his hands. He had seen it, and he knew what it meant.

She was still smiling. "Do you think you can beat it out of me? You're welcome to try."

"No, I'm not going to do anything like that. I don't have to."

He prepared himself for a Delta tap, a deep probe on all levels for as far as he could go. He went into her head, entirely focused on what he was doing. He never heard a footstep behind him, or any other sound. Later, all he could remember from the moment were the odors of fresh mint and newly cut grass, just before the world fell in on him.

He came up out of it with a bitter taste in his mouth, and his head throbbing like an angry pulse. He opened his eyes, and tried to focus. He was lying on the bed, and there was someone lying next to him. The someone felt like a sack full of sand that was pressing against his back.

"He's coming around, lieutenant."

There were two uniforms standing over him, and two more in suits. He tried to put a hand to his aching head, but his hands wouldn't move. They were cuffed behind his back.

"Keep still," said one of the uniforms. "Don't go moving around."

The other uniform was talking into a mouthpiece, and someone on the other end squawked back at him. He clicked a button, and announced, "Wagon's on its way."

Vince tried to shift his weight away from the sack of sand. The first uniform bent over, and slapped him across the face. "I told you to keep still."

"Lay off," said one of the suits. He squatted next to the bed. "Can you stand up?"

Vince mumbled, "What's happening?"

"Can you stand?"

"Why should I?"

"I'm gonna read you your rights, and I want you standing when I do it."

"What did I do?"

"Come on, get up. Big guy like you can stand on his feet."

The suit put a hand under Vince's elbow, and pulled him up. He stood next to the bed, swaying. The other suit was down on the floor. There was a pistol lying on the carpet, and he was trying to poke it with a pencil into a transparent bag. The first suit read Vince his rights, and said, "Did you understand that?"

"I heard it, but I don't remember it. What's happening here?"

"Turn around and take a look."

Vince stood without moving. He did not want to turn around. He knew now that there was a body on the bed, and he did not want to see it. He thought about the Mukhabarat and Number Ten Flowering Square. He had known her for only a few hours, but he still did not want to see it.

The suit grinned at him. "What's the matter, got the jumps? Big guy like you got the jumps?"

Vince took a deep breath, and turned around. The body on the bed was what was left of Carmine Giardelli. He let out his breath, and said, "When do I get to make my phone call?"

12

MARTHA and her five kids rode the double chairlift that serviced the north face of Hightower Mountain, rising up over meadows of spun-sugar snow and slopes that were dotted with skiers carving tracks. Martha rode with Lila Simms, George and Chicken had the chairs up ahead, while Pam and Linda rode behind. Below them the countryside stretched out in a checkerboard pattern of blacks and whites, its geometry broken by a snaking river and the coil of the highway that bent around the base of the hill. It was their first trip of the day up the mountain, and it was the sort of day that skiers cherish: fresh powder, clear skies, and an edge to the cold that sets the blood singing. A plume of snow from a neighboring peak was a feather in the cap of the day.

Lila, sitting next to Martha on the lift, pointed to the slope below where a pair of skiers were carving patterns. "Look at that," she said excitedly. "Fresh powder there. I want some of that."

"You'll get it," Martha assured her. "It isn't going anywhere." "

You get enough skiers on it and they'll pack it down to nothing." The girl was dressed all in blue: ski pants, parka, and knitted cap. Even her skis and boots were the same shade of blue. She waved her arm in an exuberant circle to take in the mountain, the sky, and the snow. "Fresh powder, I love it. Powder up to the hips, that's heaven."

"If you want really deep powder, you have to go west. Ever skied out there?"

Lila's face lit up. "No, but I'd love to. Do you ever take groups there?"

"Uh…" Martha had to recall her role as a guide. "Sure, once in a while."

"Do you think I could come along sometimes?" Lila flashed a bouncy grin. "I'd love to ski Aspen, or Vail, or one of those places."

The girl's good humor was infectious, and Martha smiled back. "Hey, we just got here. Let's do this mountain first."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to sound greedy. I know how lucky I was to get this trip, and everyone's been so friendly. Pam, and Linda, and George… and Chicken."

Martha picked up the hesitation. "Any problems with Chicken?"

"No, not at all. It's just that he's different."

That's for sure, thought Martha. "How do you mean?"

"Well, he's cute, but he's sort of crazy, too."