Marchenko decided to attach the weapon to the helicopter. He did not want any delays once his money had been transferred. Besides, he had to do something to keep moving or else he'd go mad. As soon as he had word from Mevlevi, he would activate the bomb, gather his men, and proceed back to Syria, where their aircraft waited to ferry them home to Alma-Ata, and to a hero's welcome.

He ordered the chief mechanic to move the weapon to the Sukhoi and to attach it to its right firing pod. The mechanic cradled the Kopinskaya in both hands and marched to the helicopter. Marchenko himself opened the steel claws that normally held an air-to-ground missile while the mechanic fitted the bomb to the pod. The entire process took one minute. All that remained was to enter the proper sequencing code and the bomb would be primed.

Marchenko ordered the pilot to warm up the engines, then walked briskly from the hangar to the concrete bunker that housed Mevlevi's communications center. He descended two flights of stairs and passed through a four-inch steel door before entering the radio shack. He ordered the soldier on duty to connect him with Ivlov, now positioned just two kilometers north of the Israeli border. A husky voice came on line.

"Ivlov."

"What is your status?"

Ivlov laughed. "I have three hundred soldiers a stone's throw from the border. Half of them are wearing more Semtex than clothing. If you don't give the order to go soon, they'll cross on their own. To their minds, they're dead already. We have a battery of Katyusha rockets pointed at the heart of Ebarach. Rodenko has twice as many aimed at New Zion. It's perfect fighting weather. We're waiting for the green light. What the hell is going on?"

"Hang on for a few more minutes. I expect the okay anytime."

Marchenko ended the communication, then returned to the hangar. The determined young pilot had put on his helmet and climbed into the cockpit of the attack helicopter. A minute later, the turbine engine whined as it came to life. The long rotor blades began to turn.

Marchenko looked at his watch. It was five minutes to twelve in Zurich.

Where the hell was Mevlevi? Where was his money?

CHAPTER 66

Nick sped down the Gotthardo Pass, thankful for the milder climatic conditions prevailing on the southern side of the Alps. Ten minutes before he had been enveloped in swirling snow. Now, as he passed the mountain auberge of Airolo, the sky was clear except for a general haze that partially obscured his view of the green valley below. The road had also improved. After an initial series of switchbacks, the highway had widened to four lanes and assumed a straight slope downhill. With his left foot awkwardly planted on the accelerator and his right leg propped over the center console, he maintained a cruising speed of one hundred fifty kilometers per hour.

Stall him, Peter. Do not let him leave that room. I'm coming as quickly as I can.

Nick was thankful for the automobile's hermetic seclusion. The hum of the engine was constant, nearly hypnotic. He pushed himself into its center, allowing it to absorb the pain of his injured leg, and if he was honest, the sting of his wounded heart. Sylvia had been Kaiser's spy. At his behest, she had supplied Nick with his father's activity reports. At his command, she had plumbed Nick's innermost thoughts, her promise of love tawdry bait used to lure him out of his protective shell.

I loved you, he thought, wanting to blame her for the frustration, the fury, the injustice that tore at his gut. And then he wondered if he really had loved her, or if part of him had always suspected that her affections had been less than genuine. He'd never really know. His view of their time together was permanently tainted by her acts. He feared that suspicion would become a permanent faculty, like sight or smell, a sixth sense that would not allow him to fully unburden himself to another, and so would never permit him to truly love. Over time, it might fade, but like it or not, it would never fully disappear.

And then another voice rebelled at the sentence he had passed on his own broken self. Trust, it said. Trust in yourself. Trust your heart. Nick smiled as the count robustly joined in, It's the only thing we have left these days.

Maybe there was still hope.

An hour later, Nick had crossed through the urban center of Lugano. He drove the Ford at breakneck speed along a two-lane road that mimicked the lake's undulant borders. A sign indicated the town of Morcote. Red tiled roofs passed in a blur. A filling station. A cafe. A taxi flew by in the opposite direction, horn blaring as it crossed over the center line. Then he saw the Hotel Olivella au Lac and his heart skipped a beat.

A half dozen police cars were crammed into the hotel's courtyard. A steel gray van was parked next to them, its sliding door pulled open. Six policemen in navy jumpsuits rested inside. Their glum expressions attested to the outcome of the operation.

Nick pulled the Ford Cortina to the side of the road and hobbled across the street to the hotel. A uniformed security guard tried to keep him from entering the hotel.

"I'm an American," Nick said. "I'm with Mr. Thorne." He opened his wallet and flashed an out-of-date Armed Forces identification card. But the guard couldn't care less about the card. He was staring at the blood-caked shirt and the torn trousers.

"DEA," Nick said, paying no attention to the guard's disgusted expression.

The guard softened his demeanor and nodded. "Prego, signore. Fourth floor. Camera quattro zero sette." Room 407.

The corridor was quiet. A single policeman stood guard at the elevator landing. Another waited next to an open door at the far end of the hallway. Miles of blue carpeting lay in between. Nick could smell the cordite even at this distance. Gunshots had been fired. Who was dead? Who was wounded? Who had suffered from the failure of his ill-conceived plan?

Nick gave his name and waited while the policeman walkie-talkie'd for approval to an unseen poobah in the room at the end of the hallway. A two-syllable response blurted from the walkie-talkie, and Nick was allowed to proceed.

He was halfway down the corridor when Sterling Thorne emerged from the room. The drug enforcement agent was wearing a drab green jacket, and his face was streaked with grime. If possible, his hair was more disheveled than usual. All in all, it was an improvement.

"Who do we have here? The prodigal son himself. 'Bout time you showed up."

"Sorry," said Nick, deadpan. "Traffic."

Thorne began to smile, then as if seeing him for the first time, grimaced. "Jesus, Neumann. What happened to you? Looks like you've been in a fight with an alley cat. And lost." He pointed at the bloody shirt. "I'll have to tell the boys to order up another ambulance. How bad is it?"

Nick kept limping toward the room. No point in going into the details now. "I'll live. What happened here?"

"Your buddy took a cap in the shoulder. He's all right, but he won't be pitching in the World Series. Lost a lot of blood."

"Mevlevi?"

"Gone." Thorne pointed to the emergency exit at the end of the hall. "We found some of his blood going down the stairs. Some more in the hotel room. The police have sealed the borders and are searching the hotel and the surrounding towns for him."

Nick was furious. How could Thorne have allowed a wounded man to escape? He had known all along that the Pasha would be at the hotel. Why hadn't he positioned his men here before Mevlevi's arrival? He could already hear Thorne's excuse. The Swiss police won't move until they have proof of wrongdoing on their own soil. We had to wait for Jester.