"Forget that," Royce said.

"Everything you'll need is on the plane. It's a simple job."

Vaughn followed Royce down the corridor and got in the Rover.

"Who is the target?" Royce continued driving, but he spared Vaughn a glance.

"You don't get it yet, do you?" He didn't wait for an answer.

"I've seen your service record. When you ran missions in Iraq, did you know the names of those you killed?"

"They were the enemy," Vaughn argued.

"Really? Were the insurgents wearing uniforms? Carrying little signs that read 'I am the enemy'?" Vaughn already knew where this was going.

"It was a combat zone."

"The world is a combat zone nowadays," Royce said.

"You think those people in New York on nine/eleven thought they were in a combat zone?"

"So this guy is a terrorist?" Vaughn asked, holding up the picture. The Rover was barreling down the highway toward the military airfield.

"Here's the deal, Vaughn. I don't know his name. I don't know what he does. I don't know why Section Eight wants him dead. I get the mission, I task it out. This entire operation runs on cutouts. The way a true covert operation is supposed to. Certainly you understand that?"

Vaughn glanced out the window at the Okinawan countryside. A cutout was a person who knew both sides in a covert operation but was the only link between them. If the cutout was removed, then both sides were secure.

"I understand, but – "

"There are no 'buts' in Section Eight. You do the missions you're assigned. Right now that man is your mission."

They pulled into the airfield, where a Learjet painted black was waiting, engines running. Vaughn noted that there were no identifying numbers painted on the plane's tail. Royce rolled up to the boarding steps.

"As I said, everything you need to do the job is inside. You'll be taken around customs once you land.

You've got the target and location. You have one hour to make it back to the plane, which will bring you back here. The plane is coming back whether you're on it or not."

Vaughn got out of the Land Rover and it pulled away. He stood for a moment, watching it, then looked at the stairs and the dark entry into the plane. There was nowhere else to go.

Rogelio Abayon could hear his own breathing. The sound of air rasping in and out of his lungs. He felt like he would never get a clear breath. Never fill his lungs completely without hearing the sound of one of the simplest of human autonomic functions. And he knew he wouldn't. Of that the doctor was certain. Abayon knew his breathing would be the last thing he would hear, and that when he heard silence, there would be no more.

No words of comfort from family or friends. The former had been his wife, and she was long dead, over sixty years. He'd watched her die. The latter he could count on one hand with four fingers left over, and he was about to send that one person away from him and knew he would never see him again.

There was a tentative knock on the steel door, the sound muted and faint, stirring Abayon out of his dark thoughts.

"Enter," he ordered.

The door swung open, protesting on rusty hinges. Maintenance of his quarters was not what it used to be. There were more important chambers in the complex that demanded constant attention.

A young man dressed quite well for the environment entered. He wore a gray silk suit with highly shined black shoes. Abayon assumed his guest had brought the suit and shoes in a bag, since getting to the cave complex's secret entrance was quite an endeavor. The effort was not lost on Abayon, since it confirmed his decision to entrust a critical part of his plan with this young man.

"Ruiz," Abayon said, extending his hand.

Ruiz shook the old man's hand and then took the indicated seat.

"Are all the objects in place?" Abayon asked.

"Yes, sir. The last shipment arrived two days ago and they are in a secure location."

"And the auction?"

"The word is being put out discreetly to specific buyers. This is a very closed and elite world, and we've let enough information slip that the excitement and interest level is very high."

"It should be," Abayon said.

"And the Chinese?"

"They are very happy with the shipment we gave them as payoff. They are providing us with security and support as requested. They believe our story about the Japanese, so they are more than willing to help us as there is no love lost between those two countries."

"Excellent," Abayon said. He raised his hand.

"Go and do your duty."

Ruiz stood.

"Yes, sir."

He turned and walked out the door.

For several minutes Abayon was alone, then there was another knock. The second part of the plan. The time spacing between the meetings had been to ensure that Ruiz and the next man would not meet. Only Abayon knew the full extent of what he had spent years planning. He had not really needed Ruiz here, since he'd already known the answers to the questions he'd asked, but everything was coming toward the end, and throughout his life as the leader of the Abu Sayef, Abayon had always wanted to meet face-to-face with subordinates before they went to do tasks he had assigned them. He always wanted to look his men in the eyes and get a feel for their state of mind and emotion, while at the same time letting them know that he was taking full responsibility for their orders. He never delegated responsibility. It was a lesson he had learned during the Second World War fighting the Japanese.

The second man who entered was Abayon's age but in much better physical condition, although he was missing three fingers from his right hand – the result of a machete blow from a Japanese officer during World War II. The two had known each other since childhood.

"My old friend," Abayon said.

Alfons Moreno walked up to Abayon, took his hand and kissed the back of it before sitting down.

"Is it time?" Moreno asked.

Abayon nodded.

"The dark ones are stirring the nest to see what comes out. We must make sure our sting is much worse than they ever feared."

"The man was from the Yakuza, and the assault was pushed by the Americans," Moreno pointed out.

"Two different directions."

"Yes, but we know someone was pulling the strings in the background, just as they've been since – who knows how far back they go? We have never been able to determine that."

"We have not been able to determine much at all about our enemies."

Moreno frowned.

"But the raid failed and the envoy did not succeed."

Abayon shook his head.

"But I don't think either was designed to succeed. Whoever is behind all this plays games with people. To see how they react. They are trying to draw me out so they can have their Golden Lily back. They have tried before and they are patient, but now they rightfully fear me, so they are taking action first."

Moreno sighed.

"It is all too complicated. This game."

Abayon knew that Moreno considered him a bit of a paranoid. To survive this long, he'd had to be paranoid.

"Yes, it is complicated, but it is necessary because our opponents also are complicated and shift identities. And it is no game. Much is at stake. The future of everyone. Most people around the planet are living as slaves and don't even see their shackles or who controls their lives."

"I know it is not a game," Moreno said.

"But remember that there are good and evil people on both sides. The Americans helped liberate us in World War Two. Colonel Volckman taught us much of the tactics we still use."

"Volckman was a great man," Abayon agreed, "but he is long dead and the new world is much different. The Americans seek to crush all who do not believe as they do, and that seems to be in our enemy's interest. So perhaps they are one and the same."