To Kirov's left rose the New York Stock Exchange itself. It could have been a temple on Mount Athos, so perfect was its architecture: the soaring Doric columns, the broad plinth, the bas-relief sculpture running lengthwise beneath the roof.

The limousine pulled to a stop. Kirov got out of the car without waiting for the door to be opened. Staring up at the Mercury Broadband banner that hung in front of the fabled Exchange, he gasped.

My God, he thought, I've done it.

The wheels of the Learjet touched down at John F. Kennedy International Airport at 8:47 A.M. Eastern Standard Time. The eight-passenger aircraft performed an abbreviated rollout, braking sharply and making a quick starboard turn off the runway. The doors to the flight deck opened, the engines revved, and the plane began an easy ride to its parking slot. Unbuckling his safety belt, Gavallan leaned forward, rocking slightly. Through the cockpit windscreen, he watched the impressive girth of a China Airlines jumbo jet cross their path. Inexplicably, the plane came to a halt directly in front of them.

"What's keeping the guy?" Gavallan shouted to the flight deck.

"Waiting for an inbound jet. It'll just be a couple of minutes."

"A couple minutes?" Gavallan wiped a hand across his face, looking to Cate for reassurance. Her only response was to bite her lip and go back to patting her foot nervously.

After an eternity- three minutes by his watch- the Lear arrived at its designated parking slot. The engine died and the plane rocked forward as the brakes were applied and stopped. Rushing to the door, Gavallan leaned hard on the exit lever. The door opened inward, sunlight flooded the cabin, and he went down the stairwell.

A small entourage waited. Three agents of the federal government left the comforts of their four-wheel mount and hurried to the plane. Gavallan recognized the tall, lanky man with the shock of brown hair, the seersucker suit, and the pair of bifocals perched on his forehead as Dodson. Four days earlier he'd seen him talking on the phone beneath the portico of the Ritz-Carlton.

"Mr. Gavallan, Howell Dodson. It's a pleasure, sir," the FBI man said, extending a hand. "Nice flight?" But if his voice was politeness itself, his posture was stiff, his face a mask of tension.

"We're here, that's what counts."

"Miss Magnus, I presume." Dodson gave her his hand and with a cock of the head shepherded them toward the waiting car. "We've got a helicopter standing by to ferry us to Manhattan."

"Tell me the rotors are turning," said Gavallan.

"The rotors are turning, Mr. Gavallan," said Dodson. "Are you sure we can't call ahead? Pull in Kirov as soon as he shows up? We do have resources available."

"No, thank you. That's not part of the deal." This was something Gavallan had to do himself. The FBI was there in a supporting role only, even if the Bureau didn't know it yet. Reaching the sedan, Gavallan tried to open the door, only to find Dodson's hand placed firmly against the window. "Just a second there. You can see that I've kept up my end of the bargain. I wouldn't want to go any further without seeing some good faith from your side."

"You don't trust us?" asked Cate, stepping forward.

"I'm not in the trust business." The smile was gone, the eyes direct, demanding.

Opening her purse, Cate drew out her pink compact, clicked it open, and handed Dodson a slightly dusted minidisc. "I'm not sure what program was used to store the information on the disc. You'll have to do your best with it."

"All that counts is that the data's there. Three years' of banking records, correct?"

"Oh, it's there all right," said Cate. "And then some."

"Thank you kindly." Dodson handed the disc to a fat, unattractive young man chafing in a catalogue-ordered blue twill suit. "Here you are, Mr. Chupik. I don't mean to rush you, but you have eight minutes to let me know what's on this disc."

"Piece of cake," said Chupik, sliding into the front seat and feeding the disc into his laptop computer. "I'll do it in five."

The jump light burned red.

The members of Team 7 stood as one, affixing their static lines to the jump cable. Team Leader Abel shuffled forward through the bare fuselage and opened the main cabin door. With a mighty rush, a chill midnight wind swept through the airplane. The biting cold stung his cheeks and brought tears to his eyes. Grasping either side of the door, he looked outside. A pine forest rushed beneath them, a dense lush carpet close enough to touch. They'd been crossing it for thirty minutes and still it ran on, measurelessly.

Stepping back, Abel checked his watch and signaled "Five" with his fingers.

All eyes were on him, yet no one responded. There was no need. All tactical contingencies had been dissected, analyzed, solved, and solved again. The time for words had passed. The time for deeds had arrived.

The Beechcraft 18 began a slow ascent. The altimeter rose from 250 feet to 300, then 350, the magnificent radial engines sawing the air with demonic fervor. Several modifications had been made to prepare the plane for its current purpose. All passenger seats had been stripped, all carpet and insulation torn out until the interior cabin was an aluminum and iron husk. Auxiliary fuel tanks were installed in the rear of the fuselage, gifting the plane with a two-thousand-mile range. A sophisticated satellite navigation system had been installed to insure that the men located their target. And unbeknownst to all- even the pilot- a remote-controlled detonation system was attached to the starboard fuel tank: three pounds of plastique governed by a long-distance radio signal.

The Beechcraft leveled off at 400 feet. The pilot slowed the aircraft's speed to 250 knots. From this height and at this speed, the soldiers of Team 7 would jump. It was a standard LALO jump: low altitude, low opening. Once outside the aircraft, they would fall fifty feet before the static line deployed their chutes. Five seconds later they would impact the ground at three times the usual landing velocity.

The forest vanished with a silent white clap. The tundra ran before them, a pale wilderness advancing to the edge of the world.

And then he saw it. Pump Station 2. A necklace of orange lights glimmering far on the horizon. A wisp of smoke rose from the power plant. No homing signal could have been better. Despite his training, Team Leader Abel's throat swelled and grew tight.

He raised three fingers.

Passing through the doors at 18 Broad Street, Gavallan received his visitor's badge, walked through the metal detector, then slid through the turnstiles that governed admittance to the Exchange. He'd been on the floor a dozen times over the years, yet he never entered the building without getting a certain buzz in the hollow of his stomach. It was no different this morning, except that coiled among his normal feelings of awe and respect was the unmistakable frisson of danger.

Dodson followed him closely, showing his badge, and Roy DiGenovese entered next. Mr. Chupik had stayed in the car. He'd needed only three minutes to open Pillonel's files. Scrolling page by page, transfer by transfer, deposit, by deposit, through Novastar's banking history, Dodson had looked on with a reverent gaze, saying the same words over and over again: "Well, ain't that sweet."

"Miss Magnus doesn't care to join us?" Dodson asked once the three men had assembled in the small foyer just inside the entryway.

"I think she'd prefer to wait outside. She's seen enough." Gavallan didn't add that Kirov was her father, or that she had plenty to do on her own outside the building. Some things the FBI didn't need to know.