Everyone laughed, a little giddy at the success of their mission. Their mood was hardly dampened when they saw the helo return and land on the Truth, which meant that the Agafia had slipped back over the line before they could arrive on the scene. Bagging the Pheodora was enough of a prize, and besides, they were headed back for Dutch Harbor riding on a white horse, in distinct contrast to their recent exit.

Sara couldn’t keep the smile from tugging at the corners of her mouth. Looking around, she saw that same suspicion of a smile on the faces of the rest of the other two boarding teams.

It was hard sometimes for her to believe her luck, that she got to whup bad guy ass on her nation’s territorial frontier. “Just another day at the office,” she told Ryan, a big fat lie if there ever was one.

“We are the defenders of the homeland,” Ryan said, dropping his voice to his best basso profundo.

“We are the shield of freedom!” Sara said, and the bridge exploded into laughter, in part triumphant because they were the prize crew of a seized vessel and because at heart every Coastie was part pirate, and in part relieved because no shots had been fired and everyone was going home alive.

JANUARY

HUGH COULD BARELY WALK when the Federal Express DC-10 rolled to a stop at Stevens International in Anchorage. It had taken eight hours and change en route from Tokyo, crammed into the cargo net seat the crew had hung from the fuselage. The ambience of the airplane, one enormous cavern crammed with pallets and igloos lashed down with a spaghetti-like construction of webbing and belts, was not enhanced by what seemed a preponderance of crates of chickens. Every time the airplane hit an air pocket the chickens clucked and shrieked and little feathers floated out through the cracks of the crates. Hugh would inhale one of the feathers and wake up in the middle of a sneezing fit. Why the hell anyone would air-freight chickens to America was beyond him. He would have thought there were already plenty in residence.

He was cold, too, having only the lightweight jacket he started out with in Washington three days before. Four days? Or was it five, with the delay in finding a plane going in the right direction? He’d lost track, and besides he was going back over the date line again. Even if he was right about how long he’d been on the road, he was going to be wrong about what day it was when he got there.

This wasn’t what he’d signed up for. He’d signed up for a silver Aston Martin, a Walther PPK and a vodka martini, shaken, not stirred. Not to mention Halle Berry in a bikini. Not barely endurable trips in flying warehouses. Not making end runs around a boss too motivated by politics and patronage to be effective. And most especially not duct-taping people to chairs and beating on them with claw hammers.

He stumbled down the stairs the ground crew brought to the forward door and almost ran into Frank Clifton, captain of the aircraft.

“Whoa there,” Frank said, steadying him.

“Sorry, Frank,” Hugh said. Frank looked cheerful and well rested. Hugh hated him. He mustered up what shreds of civility he had left and managed a smile. “I appreciate the ride.”

Frank shrugged. “My pleasure. Lucky I was on my way back from Manila when you called the office.”

“I know.”

Hugh had inherited Frank from the previous holder of his job. Frank Clifton had flown cargo for Flying Tigers and now flew DC-10s for FedEx. Agents and case managers became very adept at finding pilots who would turn a blind eye at an extra body riding in the back of their jets. It was a useful option in intelligence gathering in that cargo jets went everywhere, including places passenger jets would never dream of landing, and it was very cost effective, usually entailing a bottle of Glen-morangie, paid for out of petty cash. Management probably knew all about it but turned a blind eye, because you never knew when helping out your government was going to translate into another federal subsidy, which couldn’t hurt the golden parachute waiting for the CEO to don and bail.

The pilot regarded him quizzically. “So, what’s the big emergency, buddy boy?” He reflected. “Well, not that a ride in last class on a commercial liner is much better these days.”

“I can’t say,” Hugh said. “Not yet, anyway. It’s important though, Frank. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.” He managed another smile. “I gotta go.”

“Need a ride?”

Hugh blinked at him, and then around at the spread-out, much-added -to package-sorting warehouse, the huge hangar built to annual DC-10s, the seven-he counted-other DC-10s lined up in a proud row on the tarmac outside. It was dark, with stars and a hint of pale green aurora on the northern horizon. The cold seared the insides of his nostrils and he hunched his shoulders inside his sport jacket and tried not to let his teeth chatter. January in Alaska. He’d forgotten. “What time is it, anyway?”

Frank consulted an enormous silver watch the size of a horse’s hoof, bristling with accessory rings and function knobs. It looked like it could jam the Internet all by itself. “Five thirty-seven.”

“What day is it here?”

Frank looked at him with a sapient eye. “January ninth. Do you need a ride or not? I’ve got my truck in the lot.”

Hugh forced his tired mind to think. “Let me make a phone call first, okay?” He fumbled for his cell phone.

“Sure, but no point in making it in the cold.” Frank led the way to a door leading into a small room in the main office building. It was furnished with some shabby couches and a couple of beat-up coffee tables. A counter held a sink and a coffeepot and a miniature refrigerator, and copies of Northern Pilot and Aviation Week and Penthouse littered every available surface. It was warm, that was the main thing, and the warmth made Hugh realize just how cold he had been. His hands shook as he punched in an autodial number on his cell phone, and it was only by clenching his teeth together that he kept them from chattering.

The number answered on the third ring. A warm contralto voice said drowsily, “Hello?”

“Lilah? It’s Hugh.”

“Hugh? What are you- What time is it?” There were rustling sounds. “Hugh Rincon, it’s not even six a.m.!”

“I know, I’m sorry. Is Kyle there?”

“Who is it, honey?” he heard Kyle’s voice say.

“It’s Hugh,” she told him.

“Hugh?” Kyle said into the phone. “Where the hell are you? And what the hell are you doing calling at the crack of dawn?” Kyle’s voice sharpened. “What’s wrong? Sara? Your folks?”

“No, nothing like that. I have to talk to you, Kyle, right away.”

“Are you in Anchorage?”

“Yes. I’ll meet you at your office.”

“For crissake, just come to the house.”

“No,” Hugh said. “The office. I’m grabbing a ride, I’ll meet you there.”

“Hugh-”

“Fifteen minutes.” Hugh hung up, and followed Frank outside to a brand-new Dodge Ram Power Wagon. Frank was believer in conspicuous consumption. The truck seemed to ride at least ten feet above the ground. Hugh struggled in, muttered, “FBI headquarters, Sixth and A,” and passed out before the truck had warmed up enough for Frank to judge it safe to be put into drive.

Hugh had spent the hours prior to departure from Tokyo on the phone with the director in Langley, who stubbornly refused to connect the dots, the same dots Hugh had spent the last two months painstakingly tracing in a trail that led from the bombing in Pattaya Beach, the sighting of Fang and Noortman there, to Peter the Wolf in Odessa, to Harvey Mott’s report, to Hugh’s shakedown of Noortman in Hong Kong, who in his terror had confirmed much of this continuing story and who had added a whole new chapter that Hugh had utterly failed to sell to his boss. At this point Hugh was frantic to find a true believer.