" 'The net'?" Thorne exclaimed in disbelief. "Is that what you think we've set up here? If we've got a net, Terry, then it's got a hole big enough for Moby fucking Dick to swim through, 'cause that's what our man has been doing these last eighteen months."

"You've got to give Eastern Lightning time. Every operation has its own schedule."

"Well, this schedule is coming to an end. Eastern Lightning is my baby. I set her up. I put her into play." Thorne pushed himself off his desk and began pacing the room. "Let me remind you of our tactical goals. One: Staunch the flow of heroin into southern Europe. Two: Force the party responsible, and we know damn well who that is, out of his mountain hideaway and into a Western nation where we can arrest him. And three: Seize the sonuvabitch's assets so we have sufficient resources to pay for our dream holiday here in Switzerland. After all, every op's got to be self-financing, these days. Am I right so far?"

"Yes, Sterling, you're right, but what about-"

"Shut up, then, and let me finish." Thorne rubbed his forehead and continued his pacing. "How long has this op been green lighted? Nine months? A year? Try twenty months. Two zero months. Hell, it took us a year just to get Jester in place. Since then, what have we got? Have we stopped the flow of heroin into Europe? Even one damned shipment?"

"That's Jester's fault," Strait protested. "Your source is supposed to supply us with details regarding our man's shipments."

"And so far he hasn't. Put the blame on my shoulders. They may be narrow, but I'll be proud to carry the load."

"This is not about placing blame, Sterling."

"You're right," said Thorne. "It's about getting results. As for our first goal- interdict the flow of heroin- strike one. As for our second- flush the bird from its covey- let me ask you this: Has that sonuvabitch Mevlevi even looked in our direction? Has he even blinked?"

Strait said nothing, so Thorne continued.

"Instead of getting scared, the bastard's hunkering down for the long haul, tightening security, doubling the size of his army. Christ, he has enough firepower up there to take back the West Bank. Jester says he has something big planned. You've read my reports."

"That's what has us scared. You're more interested in broadening the scope of this operation than in bringing its original mandate to a successful conclusion. We passed on your information to Langley. Let them handle it."

Thorne beseeched the ceiling for divine intervention. "Face it, Terry, we aren't ever going to force our man into a friendly nation where we can arrest him. And so we're left with goal number three: Seize the motherfucker's assets. Hit him where it hurts. You know what I'm saying? Grab 'em by the balls and their hearts and minds will follow. That's all we got left going for us. The only information that Jester has given us is regarding our target's finances. Let's use it."

Terry Strait stood very still, refusing to be caught up in Thorne's emotional outburst. "We have discussed this before," he said quietly. "Proper evidence must be submitted to the office of the Swiss federal prosecutor. Evidence that must first substantiate the target's involvement with illegal narcotics-"

"Beyond any reasonable doubt," Thorne cut in.

"Beyond any reasonable doubt," confirmed Strait.

"And that's what I gave him, goddammit."

"You didn't?" Strait's eyes bulged. "That information is classified!"

"Hell, yes I did. We have satellite photos of Ali Mevlevi's compound. The man has his own private army, for Christ's sake." Thorne put a hand to his mouth as if he had mistakenly revealed a secret. "Oh, I forgot, that's Langley's concern. None of our business." He smiled sarcastically. "No problem. There's enough evidence to go around. We have sworn statements as to Mevlevi's involvement in heroin trafficking from his former business partners, two of whom are doing time in the supermax facility outside Colorado Springs. Best of all we've got intercepts from the Defense Intelligence Agency's supercomputing center in San Diego that track the exact sums of money going into and out of Mevlevi's accounts at the United Swiss Bank. That alone is proof of significant money-laundering activity. Put those three together and we have a slam dunk. Even that pansy-assed federal prosecutor Franz Studer couldn't disagree."

"You had no right to submit that information without prior approval from the director. Eastern Lightning has to be given time. Director's orders."

Thorne grabbed the piece of USB stationery from Strait's hands. "I am sick and tired of waiting around until the bad guys figure out we got a hook in their gills and wriggle free. Jester has provided all the information we need. It's my op and I decide how and when to roll it up." He crumpled up the surveillance list and threw it on the floor. "Or do we have to wait until Mevlevi uses that army of his?"

Strait shook his head vigorously. "Would you stop with that army nonsense? Operation Eastern Lightning was designed to capture the man responsible for the trafficking and distribution of thirty percent of the world's heroin and, in the process, to seize a significant amount of contraband. We did not go to all this trouble to freeze a dozen insubstantial bank accounts that hold what for this man amounts to pin money. Or to indulge your hopeful fantasies about stopping some Middle Eastern crackpot."

"Have you read Jester's summary of the materiel Mevlevi's accumulating? He's got a couple dozen tanks, a squadron of Russian Hind helos, and who knows what else? We don't have a fart's chance in a windstorm of arresting this guy. Success in our game is the art of the possible. The only thing we have left to us is his assets. If you think freezing upwards of one hundred million dollars is 'pin money,' then we must be reading from two different balance sheets." Thorne walked past Strait and looked out the window. The nosy old broad across the way was still checking on his team's activities.

"Freeze his money and he'll be back in business in a year, maybe two," said Strait. "This operation is about drugs, Sterling. We work for the United States Drug Enforcement Administration. Not the CIA, not the NSA, and not Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms. We can nail Mevlevi and his drugs. But it will take time and patience. Something you're very short of."

"Fine. Forget about the guns. By freezing Ali Mevlevi's accounts, we stop the flow of drugs now. No one in D.C. gives two shits about what happens next year."

"Well, I do. And so does the director." Strait approached Thorne and jabbed a rigid finger into the West Virginian's shoulder. "I'll remind you of one other problem. By convincing Studer to stick that account number on the USB surveillance list, you placed the life of source Jester in great danger. After what happened on Christmas Eve, I'd have thought you'd be a little more careful."

Thorne spun, and as quick as a mongoose grabbed Terry Strait's index finger, bending it backward unmercifully. His guilty conscience didn't need a reminder about his responsibility toward his agents. "That does it. I have tolerated your sanctimonious bullshit long enough. I am going to nail Mevlevi the only way I know how. Stop the money and you stop the man. Is that clear?"

Strait grimaced. "If Mevlevi finds out we know what we're looking for, Jester is in deep shit."

"Did you hear me, Reverend Terry? I asked if that was clear?" Thorne bent the finger further backward. He told himself that Becker's death was a random act of violence, a failed robbery, then laughed at his willful naivete. He knew better.

Strait stooped forward. His head faced the floor as if he were looking for a lost contact lens. In response, Thorne applied greater force to the distended digit. Strait yelped, then fell to one knee. "Clear, Terry?"