The conclusion she drew from all this was that she and her “counter-cell cell” had failed.

Miserably.

They’d failed to stop the sleepers. They’d failed to find the Illinois and Yakima bombers, and who knew how many others-regardless of the presence of other “cells.” Her team had managed to identify public enemy number one in Raul Márquez-or at least engage in educated speculation to that end-but they’d obviously made their determination, and launched their assassination operation, too late to stop the activation order from being issued.

Plus, in gauging his identity as late as we did, we managed to send our “operative” on a fruitless mission-what good did it do to assassinate the opposing army’s leader if he’s already sent his troops into battle?

Meaning that for all she knew, she had personally ordered Cooper to his death.

Brit Hume continued his presentation of BIOTERROR BOMBS: AMERICA UNDER FIRE, confirming what Ebbers had told her about the news coverage on his call: there was not a single angle in the coverage that featured Márquez, Cuba, Guatemala, Castro, the source of the engineered filo used in the “bioterror bombs,” or any ramifications thereof.

Laramie poured herself another cup of coffee, clicked off the television with the remote, and opened her door-fully intending to return to the room that was now completely overtaken by Wally Knowles’s computer system.

55

Cooper found the first-aid kit in his jumpsuit and located an Ace bandage.

He tackled Márquez and pinned him to the mucky floor of the cavern-thinking, as he did it, of his episode with Jesus Madrid in the velociraptor’s Manchester United-inspired workout room. He held Márquez down so he couldn’t squirm away, wrapping the Ace bandage around the leader’s mouth, winding it tightly behind his head and securing it with a few strips of the adhesive tape that came along with the bandage in the kit. He used the tape to “cuff” Márquez’s hands behind his back.

Then he pulled Márquez to his feet. He swung his assault rifle around to the front-figuring the MP5 would put on a better show than a handgun-and pocketed the Browning where he could quickly snatch it with his off hand.

“After you, Señor Presidente.”

He offered Márquez a hard kick in the ass to emphasize his point.

“Take us back in the way you came out. And don’t worry,” he said, “you’ve made your point that you don’t give two shits about dying. Rest assured I’m skilled at causing great pain with my choice of where to plug you full of holes. One at a time.”

He knew it was a mostly idle threat.

Márquez led him around enough corners to get Cooper feeling dizzy. He worked at keeping the ideal distance between them, close enough to grab Márquez the minute a guard came into view, but far enough away to prevent the guy from elbowing him in the chin. He learned the best way of using his flashlight was to pin it between his left arm and rib cage, the way he had while copying the names from the marble slab. He kept the beam trained past Márquez so he could see-and use the beam to blind, if necessary-the first security man to make an appearance.

A set of musty stairs appeared, and Cooper could see a bud of hesitation in Márquez’s step. The president hadn’t meant to reveal it and Cooper would take and use the error to his advantage. Another door, recently constructed like the one guarding the entrance to the crypt, stood at the top of the stairs.

Cooper poked Márquez in the shoulder with the end of his assault rifle.

“Open the fucking door,” he said in a caustic whisper.

He felt the temperature and humidity conditions shift the instant Márquez opened the door-this door led into the house.

Cooper closed the gap as the door swung over its jamb, shoving himself quickly against Márquez and propelling them both into and through the doorway faster than his quarry expected. This kept Márquez from doing any yelling or screaming-

And before the two guards, positioned on opposing sides of the wine cellar door, were even able to figure out what the hell the president was doing with an Ace bandage around his head, Cooper processed the scene-

Guard to the left. Guard to the right-slightly behind the opening door. You’re in the wine cellar-walls full of racks. Door opposite him-closed. Nobody else in the room-

The first bullet down the silenced barrel of his MP5 caught the edge of the first guard’s eyebrow and sent a chunk of his skull, and some of the brain behind it, into a row of Syrah. As he pivoted, Cooper delivered a savage kick with his combat boot into Márquez’s shin to keep him at bay. The second guard couldn’t decide between radioing in this disturbance and defending himself, walkie-talkie wrist rising from waist to mouth, gun arm reaching to take aim-neither act making sufficient headway before Cooper’s second bullet tore through the bridge of his nose and plastered an airborne mist of red, white, and gray across a pane of glass protecting a cooled section of Sauvignon Blanc.

He repeated the cycle of gunshots, ensuring that neither man, as he fell, would find enough remaining consciousness to sound an alarm. Then he reached out and picked up Márquez by the collar and set him back on his feet. He jammed the hot barrel of the assault rifle into Márquez’s spine and listened.

He wondered how much racket he’d made. He saw that the Maglite had fallen from beneath his underarm, that the armor-piercing shrapnel, or skull fragments, or whatever, had broken a few bottles of the Syrah. Plus, Márquez had crumpled from the kick to the shin and the guards had fallen like redwoods.

He stood, waiting-listening for another pealing two-tone shrill, or the crackle of radio static, or the shuffle of hustling footsteps. There came no sound but the whirring of some climate-control device doing its thing in the cellar.

I need a fucking fax machine.

Time was running out-it wouldn’t be long before his usual half-ass sort of plan caved in on itself.

“Let’s go, King,” he said, and shoved him toward the door that would take them into the house.

The phone on Laramie’s bedside table jangled noisily.

She came over to the table, fumbled the phone in her first attempt to answer, then finally managed to lift the receiver to her ear-at which point Julie Laramie encountered the second strange call to greet her in the same twelve-hour span.

“Yeah-”

The screeching blare of a fax tone assaulted her ear before stopping abruptly. A rattle-and-bang sound was followed by a harsh, almost unrecognizable whisper, spoken so closely into the microphone on the other end of the line it was difficult to tell it was a human being doing the talking.

But Laramie could still tell who it was.

“Goddammit, I didn’t even think-I need a fax machine, what the fuck is the fax number at your hotel?”

The words from Cooper’s noisy whisper were bundled together like a ball of yarn. A rocket science degree was not necessary for Laramie to understand that she would need to hustle.

“Um, Christ, fax, ah, room Fourteen,” she said, “dial the same number and hit fourteen instead of-”

The line was already dead.

Laramie ran from her room, down the sidewalk outside the row of rooms, and banged on her guide’s door. The numeral 14 was affixed in cheap plastic to its exterior.

She barged in when he opened the door, heading for the fax machine she knew him to keep on his side of the two-room suite setup.

“It ring yet?” she asked her guide, to no reply-but then the fax machine answered her question, bleating out a gurgling ring, then going silent.

Then it rang again.

“Christ,” she said, “how many rings do we have this set for-”

The machine picked up and she could hear the screeching data-feed noise again, followed by silence, and then the machine’s status screen told her it was RECEIVING.