Proof, young man! Where is your proof?

Nick laughed disconsolately, realizing that only one course of action was left open to him. He would have to stay at the bank and conduct his investigations from within. He would partition his soul and show Kaiser its dark side. He'd slip deeper into the evil tapestry being woven inside the Emperor's Lair. And all the while, he'd keep an alert eye peeled for his moment. He didn't know how or when. Just that he had to do everything within his power to obtain enough evidence of wrongdoing to warrant the freezing of the Pasha's accounts.

Nick spun on his heels and walked up the rickety gangway. A pair of hungry swans and a lonely mallard followed him. He raised his head and noticed a black Mercedes sedan lolling at the curb. Before long, the passenger door opened and Sterling Thorne stepped out. He was wearing his trench coat, collar turned up against the cold.

"Hello, Neumann." Thorne's hands remained conspicuously in his pockets.

"Mr. Thorne."

"Call me Sterling. I think it's about time we became friends."

Nick couldn't smother a smile. "That's okay. I'm happy with our relationship the way it is."

"Sorry about that letter."

"Does that mean you'll take it back? Maybe toss in an apology?"

Thorne smiled grimly. "You know what we want."

"What? To crucify the man I work for? To help sink United Swiss Bank?" Saying the words, knowing that yes, they were exactly what he himself had pledged to do, made Nick feel tired. Tired of defending the bank from Konig's takeover. Tired of Thorne's persistent interference. Tired of his own nagging doubts. Still, as if allergic to Thorne, he said, "Sorry, that isn't going to happen."

"I made myself a promise that we're going to stay calm today," Thorne said. "We aren't going to argue like a couple of alley cats. You heard what I told Kaiser the other day. I saw by your eyes that you believed me."

Christ, Nick thought, the guy never said die. "That was some scene you made up there. Uncle Sam would be real proud of you."

"Sounded like an encyclopedia, didn't I? All those dates and figures. Only stating the truth. I don't enjoy hound-dogging you like this. It's just my job."

"Is blackmail part of your job, too?"

"If necessary," said Thorne innocently, as if blackmail were just another form of friendly persuasion. "I'm sorry to hurt your feelings, but your pride means a damn sight less to me than getting my hands on Ali Mevlevi. I told you the other night about Jester- the agent we had in place next to Mevlevi."

"Has he turned up yet?" Whoever Jester was, Nick felt for him. He'd been in the same lousy position.

"He hasn't and we're worried about him. Before he went under, Jester swore that your boss and Mevlevi were real close. Apparently, they go way back. Seems Mevlevi was one of your boss's first clients in Beirut when Kaiser was setting up the bank's office over there in the Middle East. I think I remember hearing Kaiser deny that, don't you? How do you like your boss palling around with one of the biggest smugglers of heroin in this hemisphere?"

Nick didn't like it one bit, but he'd be damned if he'd let Thorne know."Let me stop you right here," he said, placing a hand on the agent's jacket.

Thorne grabbed his wrist and stepped closer to him. "You are working for a man who kisses the ass of the scum who killed his son! A low-life bastard who values money over his own blood. You are aiding and abetting the worst men on the face of this planet."

Nick pulled his hand free and retreated several steps. His position was untenable. "Maybe you're right, this guy, Mevlevi, the Pasha, whoever, is a major heroin smuggler and he does his banking at USB. I agree, that stinks. I'm on your side here. But do you expect me to rifle through the bank's papers, to request duplicates of his transfer confirmations, to steal his mail from his post box?"

Thorne looked deeper into Nick's eyes, as if he had spotted the glimmer of something promising. "I see you've been thinking about it."

Nick's carefully constructed defenses were crumbling. "It can't be done," he said. "Not by me, not by anyone, except Kaiser or Ott or one of that group. And even if I did get you the info, it's illegal for me to turn it over. I'd go to jail."

"We can get you to America on the next plane."

"So you told me. And then what? I hear whistleblowers are warmly welcomed by corporate America."

"We'd keep your name secret."

"Bullshit!"

"Dammit, this is about more than your career at the bank."

Thorne had never spoken truer words. "And what about Mevlevi himself, or his cohorts?" Nick asked. "You think they're going to just let me go? If he's as bad as you say, he's not going to let me walk away, free and easy. If you want this guy so badly, why don't you just get out there and arrest him?"

"I'll tell you why. Because Mr. Mevlevi lives in Beirut and never comes out. Because we can't crawl within ten miles of the Lebanese border without violating a dozen treaties. Because he's got himself holed up in a compound with more firepower than the First Marine Division. That's why! It's a shitty situation. The only way we can get him is by freezing his money. We need your help to do that."

Nick had already decided what needed to be done, but he sure as hell wasn't going to invite Thorne along for the ride. Thorne was his cover. Nick didn't want to be treated like one of the good guys. "Sorry, no go. I am not ruining my life so you can nail one of ten thousand bad guys out there. Now excuse me, I have to go."

"Dammit, Neumann, I'm giving you the word of the United States government. We will protect you."

The word of the United States government.

Nick tried to find an answer that would put off Thorne once and for all. But he had lost his concentration. He couldn't stop Thorne's pledge from reverberating in his head.

The word of the United States government. We will protect you.

He stared at Sterling Thorne and for just a second, he swore he was looking into the slack-jowled face of Jack Keely.

"Neumann, it's good to see you here," says Jack Keely. He is nervous, fidgeting on the balls of his feet. "Colonel Andersen called my superiors, said something about you augmenting. You want to be a lifer, eh? Congratulations. Said you're interested in Intelligence? Maybe a liaison position between Quantico and Langley?"

First Lieutenant Nicholas Neumann sits at a table in the visitors' entry hall at the headquarters of the Central Intelligence Agency in Langley, Virginia. It is a large room with a high ceiling and fluorescent lighting. On this hot June day, the air conditioners labor to keep the building cool. Nick wears his class A "alpha" dress greens. Two new ribbons adorn his breast- one for duty in the Pacific theater of operations, the other for meritorious service. The second is a surrogate for the Bronze Star awarded for valor in combat during an operation that never officially took place. He balances a black cane in his right hand. The cane is a step up from the crutches he wore out during his four-month stay at Walter Reed Hospital. The truth is that he has been declared NPQ- not physically qualified- for further duty. He cannot become a career officer, even if he wanted to. In ten days he will be discharged from the United States Marine Corps. Colonel Sigurd Andersen, of course, knows this. As he knows about all of Keely's intrigues.

"Thanks for finding the time to see me," says Nick, motioning as if to stand.

Keely waves him down. "So your wounds have healed?" he asks lightly, as if a quarter pound of shrapnel, like a bad haircut, is only a temporary nuisance.

"Getting there," says Nick. He rubs his leg gingerly to show that there is still a long way to go.