"Hey, pal, if I knew, why would I be sittin' here?"

Ha-ha. Phyllis stared at us, I'm sure thinking that men have a really neat sense of humor.

Mort informed me, "Inside the folder's what we know. Read4 it when you get time. It's like a mystery novel with the back half missing. Thing is, we learned about it only a few weeks ago"

Agency people are great folder builders, and I flipped it open and scanned the cover page, an abbreviated guide to all that followed. Essentially, we had first learned of the bounty not through any of the sophisticated collection means listed on the cover, but an announcement on Al Jazeera, the Arabic-language news channel. Details to follow.

I looked at Mort. "This is for real?"

"Real as it gets."

Phyllis chose this moment to say, "It does look implausible, doesn't it? It was aired three or four times before the night shift at the counterterrorism cell noticed. Of course, we got them to remove it from the broadcast."

Mort said, "Yeah, but it was prime time over there and Al Jazeera's on satellite-Middle Easterners, Americans of Arab descent, Indonesians, Pakistanis… its audience is huge. Plus Arabs are big-time bullshitters, and these days they all got a cell phone, so word spreads fast around the souks and tea rooms."

Naturally, I asked, "And how did Al Jazeera learn about it?"

"Back it up a bit," Mort replied. "There was a Web site posting the offer and reward."

"A Web site?"

"Yeah. Called www. killtheprez. com."

"This is a joke, right?"

"That's what we thought. At first. After this morning, I might think differently." He handed me a color page. "What do you think of this?"

I took a moment to study it, apparently a reproduction of the Web page under discussion. The background was pink, the print a crazy mixture of fonts, colors, and writing styles, reminiscent of one of those old-style circus posters, with floating balloons and clownish little figures dancing around the page. It certainly looked like a joke, or like somebody so contemptuous of this President that even an offer to assassinate him deserved to be treated facetiously

I next read the offer, splashed in bold blue letters across the top: "KILL THE AMERICAN PRESIDENT AND EARN $100,000,000 UNTRACEABLE

AMERICAN GREENBACKS."

Beneath the heading was the inevitable small print, laying out the "contest" rules and requirements, of which there were three: The claimant had to communicate his plan in advance; a unique "killing signature" was required for authorship verification; and to receive the grand prize the claimant had to remain anonymous and above suspicion.

I looked up at Mort. "How do you communicate your intentions in advance?"

He bent forward and pointed at a line near the bottom. The line read, "payoff@intercon. com." Mort said, "That address."

"And with that address can't you find who's behind this?"

"We tried. That address is linked to an anonymous e-mailer, and probably that one links to a daisy chain of five or ten more anonymous e-mailers."

Mort somehow sensed I didn't have a clue, and talked me through it. "It's not all that sophisticated. The e-mail is automatically forwarded to an anonymous e-mailer-sort of like a blank mailbox-where it happens again, and again. Like jumping through ten black holes." He directed my attention to the bottom of the page where seven or eight languages were listed-Russian, Spanish, Arabic, even Yiddish. Mort said, "Click your cursor on one of those, and it directed you to the same Web page, only it was in that language."

"We're talking past tense?"

Phyllis said, "The Web site was closed two days after the Al Jazeera broadcast."

Mort commented, "Al Jazeera's news manager told us they were tipped off by a phone call. Wouldn't say who. Can you believe that asshole quoted me the First Amendment?" He looked annoyed.

I asked, "Who shut down the site?"

"The owner."

"Do we know why?"

Phyllis looked at Mort and said, "The prevailing theory at the time was that he pulled the plug before the joke caught up with him."

"What's the current feeling?"

Phyllis regarded the Web page. "It's possible he got one or two viable offers. Probably there was an exchange of e-mails, the prospective killers forwarding their plan and the recipient somehow verifying he had the money. It's also reasonable to assume that some kind of arrangement to get the reward was worked out. Of course, we have no idea what."

"I see."

Phyllis leaned toward me. "But I think we'd all agree that one hundred million is a large… well, an almost incredible figure." She added, "We limited the knowledge as much as possible. The Secret Service was informed, of course, and the White House."

Mort added, "And don't assume it's Arab money. Could be a pissed-off Saudi prince, Colombian or Mexican drug lords, a foreign government, some U.S. billionaire who finds this President politically disagreeable…" He frowned and let the list of disturbing possibilities drift off.

Phyllis informed me, "Certainly you can appreciate why we've tried to keep this under a tight-lid. This bounty… well, it's an almost insurmountable temptation, isn't it? That kind of money can fuel a lot of wicked ambitions."

True enough. I don't believe everybody has a price, but a hundred million bucks can leave stretch marks on a lot of consciences. I mean, there are guys in New York who, for a few thousand Georges, will pump ten slugs into whoever you name. For a hundred million they'll wipe out Manhattan, with Queens thrown in for a bonus. But back to the discussion, I said, "It smells like a hoax."

She stared at me a moment then replied, "Drummond, you might find this hard to believe, but you are not the only bright person in this organization. Consider this-what matters is not what you or we believe but what others believe."

She had a point. I suggested, "This might be a good time to ask other international intelligence agencies what they know about this."

"Catch up. An hour ago, a message went to all our station chiefs to visit their counterparts and ask around. Given time differences, this kind of sweep normally takes about twelve hours to complete."

"And I'll be informed, right?"

"Trust me."

No comment.

There was a knock at the door, and it opened. Jennie stood in the doorway and asked, "Can I steal Sean for a moment?"

Nobody seemed to mind, so I stepped out and followed her through the maze of partitions to a side room allocated as her temporary office.

Directly outside her office and behind a gray metal desk sat an elderly woman, heavyset, with frizzy brown hair surrounding a face that was round and cherubic, like a jolly, chubby angel. We paused momentarily for Jennie to introduce me to Elizabeth, her executive assistant.

Elizabeth looked a little frazzled and clearly was not enjoying her new and uncertain environment. We exchanged pleasantries, then she asked me, "Where do I get paper and supplies in this madhouse?"

"Got me."

"How do I get my phone connected?"

"Plug it into the wall?"

Elizabeth pointed at the wall. "There is no phone socket out here."

"Good point."

"So…?"

I shrugged.

Elizabeth said, "You work here, don't you?"

Jennie informed her, "He's my partner for this case. But he's a typical male, Elizabeth."

For some reason Elizabeth found this very funny Personally, I considered this remark both rude and sexist, rooted as it was in an old, false, and demeaning stereotype. I suggested to Elizabeth, "See Lila out front. She knows everything."

As we entered Jennie's office, she looked at me and said, "Okay, we've had a couple of breaks."

"Go on."

"We found the limo."

"And did we find Larry?"