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  "Loss of manhood," Liz Gordon piped in without looking up from her National Enquirer.

  Stoll glanced over. "Come again?"

  "Consider the elements," Liz said. "Strong hands, stone-faced bluffs, the size of the ante the whole cigar-smoking, Wild West, backroom, night-with-the-boys thing."

  Stoll and Katzen both looked at her.

  "Trust me," she said, turning the page. "I know what I'm talking about."

  "Trust someone who gets their news from the tabloids?" Katzen said.

  "Not news," Liz said. "Fruitcakes. Celebrities live in a rarefied atmosphere that makes them fascinating to study. As for gamblers, I used to treat chronic cases in Atlantic City. Poker and pool are two games men hate to lose. Try Go Fish or Ping-Pong— they're much less damaging to the ego."

  Ann sat at Liz's table. "What about intellectual games like chess or Scrabble?" she asked.

  "They're macho in a different way," Liz said. "Men don't like losing those either, but they can accept losing to a man much easier than they can to a woman."

  Lowell Coffey snickered. "Which is just what I'd expect a woman to say. You know, Senator Barbara Fox busted my chops harder last night than any man has ever done."

  "Maybe she was just doing her job better than any man has ever done," Liz observed.

  "No," said Coffey. "I couldn't use the kind of shorthand with her that I used with the men on the committee. Ask Martha, she was there."

  Ann said, "Senator Fox has been a rabid isolationist since her daughter was murdered in France years ago."

  "Look," Liz said, "all this isn't my opinion. Countless papers have been written on the subject."

  "Countless papers have been written about UFOs," Coffey said, "and I still think it's all a sack of horsefeathers. People respond to people, not sexes."

  Liz smiled sweetly. "Carol Laning, Lowell."

  "Excuse me?" Coffey said.

  "I'm not allowed to talk about it," Liz said, "but you are— if you've got the cajones."

  "You mean Prosecutor Laning? Fraser v. Maryland? Is that in my psych profile?"

  Liz said nothing.

  Coffey flushed. He turned the page, creased and recreased the fold, and looked at the newspaper. "You're barking up the wrong tree, Elizabeth. I crashed into her car by accident after the trial. It was my first case and I was distracted. Losing to a woman had nothing to do with it. "

  "Of course not," Liz said.

  "It's true," Coffey said as his pager beeped. He glanced at the number, then dropped the newspaper on the table and stood. "Sorry, kiddies, but you'll have to hear my closing argument some other time. I've got a world leader to call."

  "Male or female?" Phil asked.

  Coffey made a face as he left the room.

  When he was gone, Ann said, "Don't you think you were a little rough on him, Liz?"

  Liz finished with the National Enquirer, collected the Star and Globe, and stood. She looked down at the rosy-cheeked brunette. "A bit, Ann. But it's good for him. Despite the bluster, Lowell listens to what people say and some of it sinks in. Unlike some people."

  "Thank you very much," Stoll said as he shut his computer and disconnected the computers. "Before you got here, Ann, Liz and I were 'debating' about whether her ineptitude with hardware was actually a physical limitation or a subconscious antimale bias."

  "It's the former," Liz said. "It would be the same as saying that your skills with hardware ipso facto make you a man."

  "Thank you again," Stoll said.

  "My God," Ann said, "I move that we all cut back on the morning caffeine and sugar intake."

  "It's not that," Stoll said as Liz left. "It's just the Monday after an international blow. We decided we're all a little testy because nobody thought to preprograrn their VCRs for the week we're going to be living here."

  Katzen tucked his laptop under his arm and rose. "I've got some material to get for the meeting," he said. "See you folks in fifteen."

  "And then every quarter hour after that," Stoll said, following him out, "until we're all old and gray."

  Alone now, the Press Officer sipped her espresso and contemplated the primary Op-Center team. They were a bunch of characters, with Matt Stoll the biggest kid and Liz Gordon the biggest bully. But the best people in any field usually were eccentric. And getting them to work together in close quarters like this was a thankless job. The best Paul Hood could ever hope for among his eclectic officers was peaceful coexistence, shared purpose, and some degree of mutual, professional respect. He got that through high-maintenance, hands-on management— though she knew the toll that took on his private life.

  Leaving the cafeteria to go to the meeting, Ann ran into Martha Mackall. The forty-nine-year-old Political Officer and linguistics expert was also hurrying to the meeting, though she never seemed to be in a hurry. The daughter of the late soul singer Mack Mackall, she had his cheek-splitting smile, smoky voice, and easy manner— layered atop her own core of steel. She always appeared cool, the result of having grown up on the road with her father, where she learned that drunks, rednecks, and bigots were more intimidated by a sharp mind and wit than by a sharp knife. When Mack was killed in a car crash, Martha went to live with an aunt who made her study hard, put her through college, and lived to see her make the move from her father's "Soul to Go" days to the State Department.

  "Morning, glory," Martha said as Ann increased her speed to keep up with the taller woman.

  "Morning, Martha," Ann said. "I understand you had a busy night."

  "Lowell and I did the Dance of the Seven Veils up on the Hill," she said. "Those Congresspeople take a bit of persuading."

  The two walked the rest of the way in silence. Martha was not one for small talk in any language, unless it was with the high and mighty. Increasingly, Ann had the feeling that if there was anyone who coveted Hood's job, it wasn't Mike Rodgers.

  Mike Rodgers, Bob Herbert, Matt Stoll, Phil Katzen, and Liz Gordon were already sitting around the large, oval conference table in the Tank when Ann and Martha arrived. Ann noted that Bob Herbert appeared drawn. She assumed that he and his old friend Rodgers had spent the night working on the Striker mission— and dealing with some of the emotions the bombing had to have brought out in the wheelchair-bound Intelligence Officer.

  The women were followed in by Paul Hood and a hustling Lowell Coffey. Even before the attorney was in, Rodgers had pressed a button in the side of the table and the heavy door had begun to shut.

  The small room was lit by fluorescent lights; on the wall across from where Rodgers was sitting, the large, digital countdown clock was frozen at zero. Whenever there was a crisis with a timetable, the clock was set and a similar read-out appeared in every office— just so there was no mistake about when things had to be done.

  The walls, floor, door, and ceiling of the Tank were all covered with mottled gray and black, sound-absorbing Acoustix. Behind this were several layers of cork, a foot of concrete, and more Acoustix. Buried in the concrete, on all six sides of the room, were wire grids that generated vascillating audio waves; no electronic information could enter or leave the room without being completely and irreparably distorted.

  Hood sat at the head of the table. To his right, on a small extension, were a monitor and computer keyboard and telephone hookup. A tiny fiber-optic camera was attached to the top of the monitor and allowed him to see anyone on-screen who had a similar setup.

  When the door was shut, Paul said, "I know we all feel sick about what happened yesterday, so there's no need to comment further about that. I want to thank Mike for the incredible job he did. He'll be telling you about that. In case you haven't already heard, there's more to this story than has been on the news. I've come straight from a plane flight and a quick shower, so I'm as eager to hear what he has to say as you are. I'd like to point out, though, that everything you'll be hearing is Priority One clearance. When we leave here, both Mike and I or Mike and Martha have to sign off on anyone less than that who needs to b
e told." Hood looked at Rodgers. "Mike?"

  Rodgers thanked Hood, then briefed the team on what had happened in the Oval Office. He told them that Striker had departed from Andrews at 4:47 A.m. and would arrive in Helsinki around 8:50 P.M, local time.

  "Lowell," he said, "where are we on the Finnish Ambassador?"

  "He's given me a temporary okay," the attorney said. "He just needs a rubber stamp from the Pesident."

  "When will we have that?"

  "This morning," Coffey replied.

  Rodgers looked at his watch. "It's already four in the afternoon over there. Are you sure?"

  "I'm sure. They start late and work late over there. No one makes any high-level decisions until after lunch."

  Rodgers looked from Coffey to Darrell McCaskey. "Assuming that we get what we want from the Finnish government, is there any way Interpol can help us with intelligence from St. Petersburg?"

  "That depends. You mean the Hermitage?"

  Rodgers nodded.

  "Do I tell them about the English agent who was killed there the other day?"

  Rodgers looked at Hood. "DI6 lost a man there trying to eavesdrop on the TV studio."

  "Are we asking Interpol to do essentially the same kind of reconnaissance?" Hood asked.

  Rodgers nodded again.

  "Then tell them about the Englishman," Hood said.

  "I'm sure there's a hotdog who'll be willing to take them on."

  "What about at the border?" Rodgers asked. "If we have to go by land, is there any way the Finns can sneak our team across?"

  "I know someone in the Ministry of Defense," McCaskey said, "and I'll see what I can wangle. Just understand, Mike, there are less than four thousand effectives in the border guard. They don't exactly want to go pissing-off the Russians."

  "Understood," the Deputy Director said, then turned to Matt Stoll. The portly computer expert was tapping his steepled fingers together.

  "Matt," Rodgers said, "I want you to use your computer contacts to find out if the Russians have been ordering or stockpiling anything out of the ordinary. Or if any of their top tech people have relocated to St. Petersburg in the last year."

  "Those guys are pretty tight-lipped," Stoll said. "I mean, it's not like they have a lot of options in private industry if the government stops trusting them. But I'll try."

  "Don't try— do," Rodgers snapped, Almost at once, he looked down and rolled his lips together. "Sorry," he said after a moment. "It's been a long night. Matt, I may have to send my team into Russia, and that won't be a day at the beach. I want them to know everything they can about their target and who they might encounter. Knowing something about the electronics will help a great deal."

  "I understand," Stoll said stiffly. "I'll do some hacking, internetting see what I can find."

  "Thank you," Rodgers said.

  Ann watched as the Deputy Director turned to Liz Gordon. She reacted with surprise when he spoke. Unlike Hood, who put little faith in psychological profiles of foreign leaders, Rodgers trusted their validity.

  "Liz," he said, "I want you to put Russian Interior Minister Dogin through the computer. Factor in his loss of the presidency to Zhanin, as well as the influence of General Mikhail Kosigan. Bob has information on the General if you need it."

  "His name rings a bell," Martha says. "I'm sure he's in my file."

  Rodgers turned to Environmental Officer Phil Katzen, who had his laptop open and ready. "Phil, I need a workup on the Gulf of Finland into the Neva, and the Neva where it passes the Hermitage. Temperature, speed, wind factor—"

  The computer to Hood's right beeped. He hit F6 to answer, then pushed Control to hold the call.

  Rodgers continued, "And I want whatever you've got on the composition of the soil under the museum. I want to know how deep the Russians may have dug there."

  Katzen nodded as he finished typing.

  Hood hit Control again. The face of his Executive Assistant, Stephen "Bugs" Benet, appeared on the screen.

  "Sir," said Bugs, "there's an urgent call from Commander Hubbard at DI6. It pertains to this matter, so I thought—"

  "Thanks," said Hood. "Put it through."

  Hood snapped on the phone's speaker button, then waited. The bloodhound face appeared on the monitor a moment later.

  "Good morning, Commander," Hood said. "I'm with the rest of my team, so I took the liberty of putting you on the speakerphone."

  "Fine," Hubbard said, his thickly accented voice deep and raspy, "I'll do the same. Mr. Hood, let me get straight to the matter. We have an operative here who would like to be part of the team you've sent to Helsinki."

  Rodgers's expression soured. He shook his head.

  Hood said, "Commander, ours is a carefully balanced unit—"

  "I understand," Hubbard said, "but hear me out. I've lost two agents and a third is hiding. My staff wants me to send our own Bengal unit in, but it wouldn't do to have our two groups stumbling one over the other."

  "Could your Bengal unit put me on the phone with the head of this new operation in St. Petersburg?"

  "Pardon me?" said Hubbard.

  "What I'm saying," said Hood, "is that you're not offering me anything I can't get myself. We'll share what we find out, as always."

  "Of course," said Hubbard. "But I disagree. We can offer you one thing. Miss Peggy James."

  Hood quickly input Control/F5 on his keyboard to access agent files. He hit DI6, typed James, and her dossier appeared.

  Rodgers got up and stood behind Hood as he scanned the file, which was filled with data from DI6 as well as independent information collected by Op-Center, the CIA, and other U.S. agencies.

  "She has quite a record," Hood said. "The granddaughter of a lord, three years in the field in South Africa, two in Syria, seven at headquarters. Special forces training, speaks six languages, holds four commendations. Rebuilds and races vintage motorcycles."

  He stopped when Mike Rodgers pointed to a crossreference to another file.

  "Commander Hubbard, this is Mike Rodgers," he said. "I see that Ms. James also recruited Mr. Fields-Hutton."

  "Yes, General," Hubbard admitted. "They were very close."

  "Watch out for grudge matches," Liz muttered, shaking her head.

  "Did you hear, Commander?" Hood asked. "That was our staff psychologist."

  "We heard," a sharp female voice replied, "and I assure you, I'm not in this for revenge. I simply want to see that the job Keith started is finished."

  "No one was questioning your abilities, Agent James," Liz said in a strong, unapologetic voice that left no room for debate. "But emotional detachment and objectivity fuel caution, and that's what we want in our—"

  "Balls," snapped Peggy. "Either I go with you or I go in alone. But I am going."

  "That will be quite enough," Hubbard said firmly.

  Coffey cleared his throat and folded his hands on the table. "Commander Hubbard, Agent James— I'm Lowell Coffey II, Op-Center's attorney." He looked at Hood. "Paul, you're probably going to have my head for this, but I think you should consider their offer."

  Hood's expression was unchanged, but Rodgers's eyes were wide and angry. Coffey avoided them.

  "Martha and I still have a few points to work out with the CIC," Coffey said, "and if I can tell them that this is an international team, there's a much better chance we'll be able to bargain for things like more time, a larger geographical area, that sort of thing."

  "You'll want me to fall on my sword too, Mike," McCaskey said, "but having Agent James on the team will help me too. The Finnish Minister of Defense is very close to Admiral Marrow of the Royal Marines. If we need other favors as this unfolds, he's the man we'll have to ask for them."

  The General said nothing for a long moment, and the silence from London was provocative. Hood finally looked at Bob Herbert. The Intelligence Chief's lips were pursed and he was drumming the leather armrests of his wheelchair.

  "Bob," Hood asked, "what do you say?"

  His
soft voice tinged with remnants of his Mississippi youth, Herbert said, "I say that we can get the job done just fine, all by ourselves. If the lady wants to go in alone, that's Commander Hubbard's business. I don't see why we need to toss an extra gear into a finely tuned machine."

  Martha Mackall said, "I think we're getting dangerously territorial here. Agent James is a professional. She'll fit into your finely tuned machine."

  "Thank you," Peggy said, "whoever you are."

  "Martha Mackall," she said, "Political Officer. And you're welcome. I know what it's like to be kept out of the boys' club."

  "That's bull," Herbert waved dismissively. "This isn't about black, white, male, female, or hands-across-the-goddamn-water. We've already got one first-timer on this mission: Sondra DeVonne, the lady who took Bass Moore's place. All I'm saying is that we'd have to be crazy to take on another."

  "Another lady, you mean," Martha said.

  "Another rookie," Herbert shot back. "My God, when did every command decision become a mandate against somebody?"

  Hood said, "Thanks for the suggestions, all of you. Commander, I hope you'll forgive us for talking about your person in front of her back."

  "I appreciate it," Peggy said. "I've always liked to know where I stand."

  Hood said, "I have my reservations, but Lowell's right. A binational group makes sense, and Peggy seems to have the right stuff."

  Herbert drove his palms into the edge of the table and whistled the first few measures of "It's a Small World." Rodgers returned to his seat. His neck was flushed above the collar of his uniform, and his dark brow seemed even darker.

  "I'll make sure you get the specifics as we do," Hood said, "so that your agent can link up with Striker. Needless to say, Commander, Striker's leader, Lieutenant Colonel Squires, has our complete trust. I expect Agent James to follow his orders."

  "Of course, General," Commander Hubbard said, "and thank you."

  Hood looked at Rodgers as the monitor winked off.

  "Mike," Hood said, "he was going to send her anyway. At least now we'll know where she is."

  "It was your call," Rodgers replied. "It's just not the one I would've made." He looked at Hood. "This isn't D-Day or Desert Storm. We didn't need an international consensus. The United States was attacked, and the United States military was responding. Period."