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"Yes, we should've notified you, and we didn't," he said. "It was a stupid mistake. And I'm afraid to think about how dearly Max may be paying for it."

  Silence.

  Gordian was still leaning against the edge of his desk, massaging the corner of his eye with his fingertip.

  "Let's back up a second," he said. "You're convinced Blackburn's in some kind of trouble?"

  Nimec gave him another nod.

  "And you want to go extricate him from it."

  "If I can," Nimec said. "With some help."

  Gordian shook his head. "It's tough for me to believe Caine's people would go so far as to harm Max. Regardless of what he might have gotten wind of."

  Nimec moved his shoulders. "We can't make assumptions about how much Caine might or might not know. Or who his people are. Or what sort of people they're involved with."

  Gordian placed both hands on his desk and studied them, his lips pressed together.

  "It's a hell of a time for me to make this sort of decision," he said, looking up at Nimec. "I'm flying to Washington in a little while. And I've got my mind on other matters beside that."

  "Caine's hostile bid," Nimec said.

  "Yes."

  There was another period of silence. It fell over them with a weight that was almost palpable.

  "All right," Gordian said finally. "See what you can do. But if something comes up, you'd damned well better consult with me. I lost too many good men and women in Russia to tolerate anyone in this organization taking unnecessary chances."

  Nimec breathed.

  "Thanks," he said, rising from his chair. "I only regret not being able to join you in D. C. You'll have a crack security detail, but it's going to be a madhouse."

  Remaining seated, Gordian looked at him and shrugged dismissively.

  "Just be careful to watch your own back," he said. "My guess is I won't be facing anything deadlier than potshots from reporters."

  Nimec offered a thin smile.

  "Probably right," he said. "But somebody's got to worry."

  "Marcus, what's wrong?"

  "Nothing."

  "Obviously something's wrong."

  "Give it time. I need to relax."

  Lying in bed with Caine amid the restored deco furnishings of their room at the Hotel De Anza, her face beside his on the pillow, her naked body pressed against him, Arcadia Foxworth licked her fingertip and slid her hand under the sheets, tracing a slow line of moisture down his stomach.

  He lay there, tense and unresponsive.

  "Tell me," she said, raising her head off the pillow. "Is there somebody else?"

  "Only you," he said distractedly.

  "Well…"

  "Well, what?"

  "There's your wife," she said. "She's one I know of, anyway."

  He broke off his thoughts and looked at her.

  "What's that supposed to mean?" he said. "Must you be jealous of Odeille?"

  "Hardly," she said. "It isn't important what you do with her when we're not together. But when we are, I want you here. Thinking about me."

  "Arcadia," he said, "let's not argue."

  "I'm not arguing."

  "Then let's not continue with whatever sort of conversation we're having. I've been under a great deal of pressure lately. That's all there is to it."

  She looked at him, easing closer over the mattress, the bare white flesh of her breasts against his shoulder.

  "Okay," she said, taking him into her hand, tightening her fingers around him beneath the sheet. "Usually, though, it's pressure that gets you going."

  He lay there on his back, very still, staring past her face at the ceiling. What was he supposed to say? That his dealings with Nga had taken him over a line he'd never expected to cross? That he'd been coerced into ordering the murder of Roger Gordian — and Lord knew who else would be on that plane — and would soon have blood on his hands? Would that help her understand why he wasn't feeling especially aroused?

  "Stop," he said abruptly. "It isn't happening."

  "I've come two thousand miles from New York to be with you," she said.

  "Nobody twisted your arm."

  Her eyes widened. She pushed away from him, her hand retreating from where she'd had it, grabbing the sheet, tugging it up over her chest.

  "You son of a bitch," she said.

  Caine threw his legs over the side of the bed and strode naked across the room to the chair on which he'd put his clothing. He kept his back to her as he silently got dressed.

  "Aren't you going to say anything?" Arcadia said. She had sat up against the headboard.

  He waited until he was fully clothed before turning to answer.

  "Yes," he said. "I'm thinking that you're right. I should be honest about what's bothering me. You deserve honesty."

  She looked at him.

  He didn't know why he said what next came out of his mouth, other than that it made him feel better, released some of his pent-up anxiety and frustration.

  "You're lovely, Arcadia. First-class. But you've walked a long road from the streets of Argentina, and I like my women younger," he said. "The simple fact is that you don't excite me anymore."

  Her mouth actually dropped open. She looked as if she'd been slapped.

  It occurred to Caine that he might have gone further than he'd intended, that there was little chance she would ever want to see him again after this ugly scene.

  Once more over the line, he thought. Yet strangely, it didn't seem to matter… although why it didn't was a question he'd have to consider later on.

  "Don't bother yourself about the hotel tab, I'll take care of it," he said.

  And turned from her shocked face, opened the door, and left the room.

  Chapter Nineteen

  VARIOUS LOCALES

  SEPTEMBER 25/26, 2000

  "Local traffic, Learjet Two Zero Nine Tango Charlie, ready to go off Runway Two at the east end," Gordian was saying into his mike, informing any nearby multicom users of his departure. The small private airfield UpLink shared with a handful of other Silicon Valley firms had no ground radio facilities, but the nationwide advisory frequency of 122.9 was often monitored by pilots, and his practice was to broadcast his takeoff and landing intentions as a courtesy to them and a hedge against unwanted — and potentially disastrous — midair encounters.

  Not that it looked as if there would be anything but smooth flying today. With a clear blue sky, high ceiling, and gentle winds, Gordian was anticipating a takeoff into ideal weather conditions. His only fillip of concern, and very slight concern at that, had come when he'd lowered his flaps while taxiing and noticed the hydraulic-pressure gauge drop off a hair more readily than normal.

  This was something a less cautious pilot probably wouldn't have detected, nor found of much interest if he had, and quite understandably so. Gordian himself couldn't see any reason to worry. Though the aircraft's flaps, speed brakes, and landing gear all operated on the same hydraulic line, they would continue to respond properly, if perhaps a bit slowly, with the fluid level on the low side. Further increasing his confidence was the knowledge that his engine instrument-and-crew-alerting system — or EICAS — annunciators would flash a warning to indicate a problem with the circuit, serious or otherwise. And they had remained dark.

  Still, he couldn't help but feel disappointed in Eddie, who'd inspected the plane the day before, and was usually an even bigger stickler for safety than he was… too thorough to let even a minor abnormality slip past his attention.

  But later for that, he thought. As always in the moments before going airborne, Gordian could feel the sky exerting an almost physical pull. Moving the throttles forward, he concentrated on the EFIS panel in front of him, his eyes shifting between its flat-screen primary flight displays — arranged in the same "standard T" of old-fashioned analog instruments — and the bars of his ITT gauge, which measured the internal temperature of the turbofans. A hot start could lead to engine failure within seconds, making the ITT readout one to watch
carefully.

  Nothing to trouble him on that score; the turbos were operating well within standard limitations.

  Its compressors whining and sucking in air, its wheels rumbling over the tarmac, the Learjet rolled up the centerline straight as an arrow. Gordian felt the shove of acceleration, and then the excitement that had accompanied each of the hundreds of takeoffs he'd flown over the past thirty years. He snapped his eyes to the window and quickly observed the distance markers along the runway— a feature as rare to civilian fields as it was common to military ones, and emplaced at Gordian's direction as a nod to his fighter-jock days.

  Returning his attention to the EFIS, Gordian saw his virtual airspeed bug indicate that he had reached 104 knots, go-or-no-go speed. He conducted a last-minute check of the crucial displays. Everything was running smoothly, the bank of caution lights still out, his system readings A-okay. Go.

  He released the stick, gripped the yoke with both hands, and rotated the jet to a seven-point-five-degree nose-up angle for liftoff. There was a slight jolt and another familiar tingle of excitement as his wheels left the pavement. His hands on the control column, Gordian increased his pitch to ten degrees and continued his ascent.

  After several seconds he again looked outside to confirm what the altimeter and his own physical sensations had already told him. He had reached a positive rate of climb, the ground rapidly dwindling beneath him, the undivided blue of the sky pouring into his windshield.

  His gear and flaps up, Gordian accelerated to two hundred KIAS, or over three hundred miles per hour. At a thousand feet he would very gradually trim airspeed until he attained cruising altitude.

  Right now, though, it was time for an announcement to his passengers.

  He switched on the cabin intercom.

  "Vince, Megan, Rich, we're on our way," he said. "ETA in D. C. is nine o'clock. So make yourselves comfortable and try not to discuss business. There'll be plenty of time for that later." He reached for the "off" switch, thought about the chattery teeth Scull inevitably got when he flew, and added a few words for his benefit. "There's a bottle of Glenturret in the wet bar for anyone who wants it. Courtesy of your captain. Later, folks."

  Smiling a little, feeling easier with himself than he had in weeks, Gordian cut the intercom and settled back into his pilot's chair for the trip.

  In a drawing room at the Leominster country club in Southampton, Reynold Armitage was gazing out the window at the ocean. It was a drab, chill day in eastern Long Island, and the threat of rain had driven the gulls close to shore. They wheeled in erratic circles, their wings tearing ragged holes in the stationary film of mist that had settled over the beach and jetties. Distantly across the water, Armitage could see a lighted buoy twinkling bright and red.

  Ensconced in the armchair opposite him, William Halpern released a long, heaving sigh. Wearing dark flannel pants and a herringbone blazer, he was a spare, white-haired man in his mid-fifties with an undershot chin and virtually neutral complexion.

  "Awful outside, isn't it?" he said in a haughty Connecticut Yankee accent. "The forecast was for sunny and warm, you know."

  Using his wheelchair's joystick control, Armitage swiveled around to face his host. He was feeling winded from the dampness, which exacerbated the respiratory problems associated with his condition. The mere act of breathing was a reminder of the limitations of his failing body. Yet from the way the president and chief executive of MetroBank seemed to take the bad weather as a personal affront, one would think he was the man in poor health.

  "It's difficult to make predictions for the shore," Armitage said. "Don't bother yourself about it, William. I'm hardly up to a stroll on the beach, and found the ride in your corporate helicopter to be quite entertaining."

  "I'm glad," Halpern said, although he still had the look of someone who had booked reservations at an exclusive restaurant and found his meal to be a cold disappointment. He glanced out the window again and then settled back, appearing resigned and vaguely disgusted, as if realizing there were no one in charge of the climate to whom he might complain. "I wanted a discreet and quiet spot for our meeting, you see."

  Armitage said nothing. There were, he thought, any number of quiet places in Manhattan where they could have met with greater convenience. But even in their elevated circles a Leominster membership was a glowing symbol of status, and Halpern obviously liked to showcase it. He was also well aware of the attention being paid to Marcus Caine's grab for UpLink voting stock, and with MetroBank retaining a significant percentage of the company, wouldn't want to start rumors flying by being seen with Roger Gordian's most noted media critic.

  No, there was nothing mysterious about Halpern's desire to meet where they were. The real question for Armitage was why he'd wanted to get together in the first place. And with their mannerly preliminaries out of the way, he wasn't about to kill time waiting for an answer.

  "So," he said. "What gossip about the financial community can we exchange? Let's think of something blisteringly hot and in the news. Something that gets flashbulbs popping. Shall we?"

  Halpern looked at him.

  "There's Monolith and UpLink," Armitage said with an arid little smile. "Not to mention UpLink and Monolith."

  Halpern seemed perplexed by his sarcasm. "I've sat down with some of the men on MetroBank's executive board to discuss liquidating our UpLink shares/' he said. "Prior to a formal meeting, you understand."

  "And?"

  "The consensus to go ahead with the sell-off hasn't materialized as I'd expected."

  "Interesting," Armitage said.

  "It gets more interesting," Halpern said. "As you know, I have no allegiance to Roger Gordian, and think his mission to save the world by planting a wireless telephone booth in every garden is nothing but horse crap."

  "You're mixing metaphors," Armitage said. "And being a tad reductionist about his goals, wouldn't you say?"

  Halpern shrugged. "Call it what you will, I am concerned with MetroBank's stake in his corporation only insofar as its profitability, or lack of same. But there are directors on the board who feel a personal loyalty to the man, and have been reluctant to part ways with UpLink despite the diminishing returns on our investment. Before yesterday, though, I'd convinced most of them that hanging tight would be an abdication of their fiduciary responsibilties."

  "And what's changed that?"

  "Not 'what,' but 'who,' " Halpern said. "Gordian himself phoned three senior executives. He requested they hold off on considering any offer from Marcus Caine until he's had a chance to meet with them."

  Armitage wondered if he was expected to be surprised.

  "A sensible preemptive move," he said. "And one with nothing behind it. As long as UpLink's value continues to deteriorate, your board is obliged to take a serious look at Marcus's bid. Money, not loyalty or misplaced faith in Roger Gordian, is what will count in the final tally."

  "And Gordian has promised to address shareholder doubts about UpLink's future at his press conference tomorrow," Halpern said. "He assured the directors he would be making a major, positive announcement. And that they would, at the very least, want to reassess their options after hearing what he has to say."

  This time Armitage raised his eyebrows.

  "I thought his reason for going to Washington was to protest the Morrison-Fiore legislation," he said.

  "So did I," Halpern said. "And I'll tell you something else. His top securities attorney caught a red-eye out to San Jose last night. Canceled all his other appointments at the last minute."

  "How do you know?"

  Halpern stared at him.

  "I have my contacts," he said, shrugging again. "You… and Marcus… can take my word for it. Something's in the air."

  Armitage inhaled. His chest felt tight. If the feeling persisted, he would have to page his nurse into the room and be administeed a respiratory dilator. He felt a sudden bolt of hatred, and wasn't sure why. Nor was he even certain toward whom it was directed.

/>   Outside the window a seabird emitted a shrill, ribboning cry as it plunged through the low veil of fog.

  He looked at Halpern.

  "I appreciate the tip, William," he said. "But the one thing you haven't told me is where you come down in this."

  Halpern crossed his legs and was silent a moment.

  "We've known each other for years, and you've always given me sound financial advice," he said finally. "But as you said yourself, this business is about money, not loyalty or faith… and like all bankers, I'm an agnostic."

  "Meaning you'll be listening to Roger Gordian's statement before deciding whether to stay behind the bid."

  Halpern nodded, brushing a speck of lint off his trousers.

  "Yes," he said without hesitation. "And very closely."

  On a stubby finger of rock jutting off his island base's ocean side, Kersik stared out across the benighted water at the lights of Sandakan Harbor. Restless, he had left camp alone, thinking the freshness of the breeze would somehow dispel his somber mood, but instead it had made him feel worse. He supposed it was his knowledge of the violence that soon would be launched from his pristine shoreline, the deaths that were inevitably to come. There would be dozens, perhaps hundreds… if not many, many more. For a just cause, yes, or anyway a cause in which he squarely believed. But wasn't that the same ancient, self-righteous madness which drove every act of war?

  Men fought. They had always fought, whether armed with stones, arrows, guns, or nuclear torpedoes. And they found their reasons. Indeed, Kersik sometimes felt that belief in a cause was nothing but a dark funnel into which both heroes and villains leaped with equal certitude, all tumbling together like clown players in a circus. Like the man who presently ruled Indonesia as if he were a Javanese king, parsing the nation's wealth out to his courtesans… like his predecessor, and Suharto, and those who had come before them, Kersik saw himself as being on the right side of history. Zhiu Sheng, Nga, Luan, they too were right from their individual perspectives — and yet the forces that had moved them into alignment were far too complex to be defined by absolutes.

  Kersik's brow creased above his bushy eyebrows. Wasn't the judgment of right or wrong only a matter of who survived to render the verdict when the smoke cleared and the spilled blood of the dead was washed away? He had renounced his allegiance to his country's government and was about to place himself in defiance of ASEAN, Japan, and the United States. The entire world, really. Before all was said and done, he would be called a rogue, an international pariah. And what would he think of himself in the end? Might a division ultimately form in his own mind… half of him feeling validated, half condemned?