“Don’t be an idiot.”

“I just wanted it cleared up. That being the case I assume you’ve got orders for me—something you couldn’t even trust to a scrambler.”

“All right. Knowing that much let’s see if you can guess what they are.”

“Well you want him back before Inauguration Day, for openers.”

“Yes, but you knew that. It gives you a little over six days.”

“It’s not likely.”

“Make it likely.”

“Don’t be an ass.”

“I know. All right. Suppose I tell you I’ve brought an A-team from Langley with me.”

“Then I’d say you’re a damn fool. I suppose you’ve got them running around loose in the Spanish countryside sighting in their scopes on sheep and peasants.”

“Hardly. They’re aboard the Essex. When you need them you ask Sixth Fleet for the Early Birds and they’ll be at your disposal by helicopter.”

Too little sleep, too many cigarettes; he had a headache, his mouth tasted brassy. It was absurd to think about it. Langley was CIA’s sprawling Virginia headquarters, a place which was top secret—Time said so. “An A-team from Langley” was a euphemism for a killer squad.

“These are the best professionals in the Agency. Twenty-eight men. Three helicopters.”

“And carrying as many guns as a heavy cruiser I’m sure.”

“It’s a direct Presidential order, David.”

“Face up on the table, will you? It was your crackbrained notion, you took it to Brewster and he okayed it.”

“Not really. I only provided the methodology.”

“It guarantees you won’t get Fairlie back alive.”

“On the contrary. You don’t use them until you’ve got Fairlie out. Fairlie and the kidnappers. Then you use them.”

Lime understood it up to a point; it was all based on a flimsy assumption regarding the kidnappers’ whereabouts. The premise behind Satterthwaite’s idea was that the kidnappers were holed up on territory belonging to a regime that wouldn’t assist in capturing them and wouldn’t agree to extraditing them to the United States even if it did capture them. So you had to go in, get them, take them out, and leave no clues behind to indicate you had ever been there. It was very Wild Bill Donovan in concept and Lime found it tiresome.

“David, if we put them on trial we have to admit how and where we took them. It could be embarrassing.”

“Embarrassing. For Christ’s sake.” Lime shook his head. “At any rate you’re still jumping to that conclusion.”

“And you’re wasting time in Spain when you should be down there.”

“Not yet. I still want a fact. Suppose they’re halfway to Albania?”

“You’re dragging your heels. Everything points to it—you know that.”

“You’ve already got plenty of gumshoes prowling around down there, I’m sure.”

“Damn few of them with your knowledge of the territory. And none of them with your knowledge of Sturka.”

“That’s two assumptions—the place and the identity—and I’m not buying either one of them yet.”

“Why?”

“Because of the Arab robes.”

“So it’s a bluff,” Satterthwaite said. “You’ve seen bluffs before.”

“The boat headed north. Is that the same kind of bluff?”

“Obviously a different kind of bluff.”

Filled with simmering anger Lime said, “You’ve got to understand this. I can’t do it by myself. I’ve got to have a fact, and then I can start taking advantage of their mistakes. I need their help.”

“Fat chance of getting it.”

“I don’t know. I only need to help plan their mistakes.”

Satterthwaite was silent for a bit; finally he said, “I’m going to let you alone from here on. But I want it clear that you’re under orders to use the A-team if and when you’ve extracted the kidnappers.”

“It’s so fucking cheap.”

“It’s politics. You don’t ask favors when you don’t have to—it only leaves you owing somebody a favor. With that crowd we can’t afford to be obliged to them for anything at all.”

“Then use an intermediary. The Russians?”

“It would have to be the Chinese and we don’t want to be owing them any favors either.” Satterthwaite sat back, reached for the door handle but didn’t open it. “Oh. You asked for Fairlie’s blood type—a wise question. Unfortunately it’s AB negative. I’ve left instructions to have a case on the ready helicopter aboard Essex. Good enough?”

“For the moment.”

An hour later Satterthwaite was on his way back to Washington and Lime was running a battery shaver over his chin in the rancid loo of the annex building. He wanted a shower and a good meal and twelve hours’ sleep; he settled for a quick wash and a desk-corner lunch of bread and cheese and jug sangría from a nearby café.

He locked himself in the tiny office cubicle and stretched out on the floor with his hands interlaced under the back of his head; stared at the ceiling and tried to fit things together in his mind. The way to do this was to let the mind go. His upper thoughts immediately swayed toward Bev Reuland but he made no effort to correct the drift.

Two days ago on his way to Andrews AFB he had made time to see her: called Speaker Luke’s office and arranged to meet her in the Rayburn cafeteria. He had stopped at a claustrophobically narrow shop to get a dozen pink roses and had arrived in the cafeteria carrying them. Bev, in a harlequin skiing jacket of some green-and-white synthetic fiber that glistened like plastic, her hair tied in a horsetail with a small ribbon, had watched his approach with suspicion, a shadow crossing her eyes.

“What’s this for?”

“A little grace if you please.”

“Those are break-it-to-her-gently roses.” She unwrapped enough of the green-wrapped package to see the buds. “They are lovely,” she conceded.

It was the middle of the afternoon and the place was nearly empty; conversations were faint distant mutters across the room. He said, “It’s nothing much. I’ll be gone a little while.”

No reply. She got up and went to the counter and he watched her go through the railed route to the coffee urn, a stop at the cashier, her high-hipped stride as she returned bearing two cups of coffee. She sat down on the edge of her chair as if she expected at any moment it would explode beneath her. “How long?”

“Open-ended.”

“They’ve sent you after Fairlie.” A flat statement, but she was very tense with eyes hungry for information.

“I remember Bev Reuland. The girl who only goes with people if they’re fun.”

“Oh shut up David, you’re not funny.”

Things had changed far more than he had wanted. It had always been no-questions-asked between them. She was a girl with a slow carnal smile and a healthy set of appetites and they liked each other. Now she was a different girl because if something happened to Lime a little piece of Bev would go with him. The cup and saucer rattled in her hand; she put them down. “Well. What are we supposed to say to each other?”

“Nothing. I’ll be back—you can think about what you want to say, and tell me then.”

“You weren’t going out in the field anymore.”

“I know.”

“I suppose they turned your head. It must be very flattering to be told you’re the best they’ve got—the only one who can do the job.” Her lips quivered before she drew them in between her teeth.

“I’m not dead yet,” he said very gently. The roses lay across the table between them; he pushed the roses away and covered her hand with his palm but she drew it away in pique and Lime laughed at her.

“It’s not funny.”

“You said that before.”

“Now I’m sure you’re listening,” she said. “God damn it they’ve got millions of people. It doesn’t have to be you. If you don’t find the kidnappers you’ll be blamed for it for the rest of your life—and if you do find them they’ll probably kill you.”

“I like your overwhelming confidence in me.”

“Oh I know, you’re the master spy, you’re the best in the world—I’ve heard all that drivel from your fawning admirers. I’m not impressed. Shit, David, they’re setting you up for a fall guy.”