"The reception?" she asked. "I'm going too. I'll be on a pager."

"If you hear anything "

"I'll come rescue you," she said.

He nodded, still looking at her, believing she was right in more ways than she intended. She was capable of rescuing him. He wanted to tell her. But then he saw a change in her expression, and he realized perhaps he already had.

She looked around nervously and fiddled with her purse. "Don't get up," she said, coming out of her chair. Daggett acted natural, but his eyes wandered the area. Had she seen someone? She was acting that way.

She came across to him, bent to kiss him on the cheek, and forced what felt like a plastic container into his hand. A roll of film? He didn't want to look. "Your boys will work faster than ours," she said. "I need that back. See you tonight." She left.

Daggett opened his hand beneath the table. It was a clear plastic container labeled FAA EVIDENCE.

Inside was a broken gla.s.s bulb.

FOURTEEN.

THE RECEPTION, HOSTED by the air industry's powerful lobby, began at seven-thirty.

The "private home" now a commercial building rented specifically for entertaining had been built in the mid-nineteenth century by a wealthy widow from Missouri. Colonial, it imitated the great southern mansions, since, the story went, this woman had fancied herself a southern belle not the daughter of a hog farmer as was actually the case.

Carrie, having arrived precisely at eight, waited outside, expecting Cam any moment.

A steady flow of the properly dressed climbed the front steps and pa.s.sed through the towering front doors, engrossed in petty conversations, mostly concerning the intolerable heat.

At ten past, with the heat and looks of pity getting to her, Carrie queued up with the others, fearing that without an invitation she might be rebuked. The reception line was a bipartisan Who's Who of congressmen, a Democratic congresswoman and senators.

Carrie pa.s.sed first through the metal detector, which had become so commonplace at these functions that it nearly went unnoticed, and then on through the reception line, all without incident.

The party was on; it was hot outside, cool in here; time to drink.

The grand ballroom boasted a twenty-five-foot arched ceiling of intricate plaster work the walls held large but unremarkable eighteenth-century oil landscapes darkened with age, caged ornately in bright gilded frames. A number of nine-foot-high doors led off to a garden patio on the left, and points unknown presumably sitting rooms or a kitchen on the right. She calculated the commission on a place like this before she reached the bar. A trio of electric piano, ba.s.s, and drums played a Ray Charles medley from the far end, between two fully staffed and stocked bars. The mood was festive. People were showing off their Nantucket tans. Carrie wished she had one. Hearing s.n.a.t.c.hes of many stories, many laughs, she felt increasingly alone.

Where was Cam?

The drinks went a long way toward making her feel comfortable. An attractive single woman in a lovely dress became the object of much male attention. Gentlemen began to buzz around her, bees to her honey, engaging her in small talk, prying into her marital status, and delivering more drinks than she could juggle with two hands. She lost count after three, sipping more often out of nerves and excitement than a desire to get drunk. Someone who considered a spritzer a stiff order, she was dizzy before thirty minutes had pa.s.sed.

Who needed Cam?

The compliments kept pace with the drinks and the trays upon trays of international hors d'oeuvres. She understood why single women appreciated Washington so much. On the arm of Cam, the few c.o.c.ktail parties she had attended had always proved frightfully boring. But now! Now she was having the time of her life. She secretly hoped he'd forgotten about the party, or had a flat tire or a meeting he "simply couldn't get out of." G.o.d, had that excuse grown tiresome!

When the band struck up a fairly convincing version of "In the Mood," a few of the older couples began to dance, and as if reading her thoughts, a darkly handsome young man who had mentioned something about being with the National Gallery (what he was doing at this particular party was anybody's guess) invited her to dance, placing her drink down for her and swinging her out onto the floor. As far as she was concerned, he was the second coming of Fred Astaire, and in her best Ginger Rogers imitation, she attempted to follow his graceful footwork. After another dance she had to take a break.

In the powder room there was a pack of cigarettes on the counter. Marlboros. Her favorite.

Cam had helped her to quit twice. Their one split had followed a series of arguments surrounding her "weakness," her inability to kick the habit. But there were the Marlboros, and she was feeling as good as she could recently remember. As she fixed her hair the pack continued to stare at her, and finally she opened the hard-box lid, slipped out a cigarette and put the accompanying butane lighter to it. She wanted to dislike it, because she knew how bad it was for her, but with a few drinks in her the smoke felt absolutely wonderful curling down her throat, tasted fantastic, and she wasn't sorry at all. She smoked it down, enjoying herself immensely, stole a few more from the pack and, placing them in her purse with the disposable lighter, headed back out to her waiting audience.

A few minutes later, she glanced up and saw Cam entering the room. At first, she felt anger at his being so late. This was quickly replaced by relief they had the night in front of them and guilt over the cigarettes. She experienced a flutter of happiness within her breast: she was wearing a new dress, she had a couple of drinks in her, and her date had finally arrived. But this happiness was quickly sabotaged as Cam stepped aside, revealing a tan and incredibly fit Lynn Greene. It was all made very much worse when Cam held up a finger to the woman as if to say Wait a minute. His gesture confirmed that they had arrived together.

Indignation rose within Carrie flushing her face scarlet. She gulped down the remainder of her drink, grabbed her National Gallery dancing partner by the hand and steered him out onto the dance floor, immediately in step with a romantic ballad. She pressed herself close, a slender hand around his neck, and nestled her head into his comfortable but somewhat unwilling shoulder. The moment was broken as her partner lifted his arm and waved slightly to a tall, extremely handsome dark-haired woman with green eyes, clad in a stunning white dress.

"A friend?" Carrie asked, unavoidably slurring her syllables.

"My wife," the man responded. "Sylvia," as if an introduction were appropriate.

It figured. This man had been the most polite, and while attentive, had in no way come on to her, which was why she felt safe with him. Married! At that instant Cam spotted her, smiled broadly, apparently not the least perturbed. He pushed his way to the bar, where he ordered a drink. He stood by the band watching her dance. Eventually, the song ended. Carrie's partner politely excused himself, caught up to and kissed his wife. Together, they edged through the crowd to the opposite bar, the wife checking one last time to make certain Carrie wasn't following.

"h.e.l.lo there," Cam said over his gla.s.s of cranberry juice. He seldom drank at these occasions, considering them work. He leaned forward for a kiss, but Carrie, suddenly fearing he might smell the cigarette on her, averted him at the last second, offering only her cheek. "Sorry I'm late. Really I am. I could tell you that it was unavoidable, but I know it wouldn't help. Still, it was. I always say that, don't I?"

She nodded, tongue-tied and a little too drunk. It fed her anger but she resisted this with everything she could muster. She would not give in to it. She would not be a victim of behavior patterns as Cam always was. The progression of events seemed apparent enough to her: Lynn Greene worked out of Los Angeles. Cam had gone to Los Angeles; they had reunited; and now, here was Lynn Greene, three thousand miles from home. It could all be explained by work she was certain of that but it seemed a little too cozy. Still, she wanted to believe him. It was a new dress. It was a decent enough band. It was early yet. If only she could think of something to say.

"Aren't you talking to me?" he asked.

Fearing the booze might cause her to say something she would regret, she simply said, "Hi," and retreated to her purse, where, against her intentions, she located and lit a cigarette.

The band began to play a poor rendition of a Beatles song.

"What are you drinking?" he asked, making nothing of the cigarette.

This made her feel all the more guilty. "Vodka, in any number of combinations."

"Be right back." He disappeared behind a swirl of dancers. She took a drag and blew the gray smoke high over their heads.

Daggett ordered them both vodka and tonics and returned to her as quickly as possible. She continued to smoke, though clearly was uncomfortable about it. He tried his best to ignore it. "Listen," he said intimately, "I really am sorry about being late. I'll make it up to you somehow."

"No need to. You're here. I'm glad for that." She squinted at her cigarette. "I hate being single. I'm so glad I'm not single. Really." Smoke ran into her eyes as she attempted to keep the cigarette away from him. She frowned at it.

He asked gently, "Would you like me to get rid of that?"

"Please."

He pinched it between his fingers as if it were contaminated, and cut his way through the congestion to the far wall where he located a freestanding sandbox ashtray. As he twisted it into the sand, he noticed a gold filter standing b.u.t.t-up in the sand. A b.u.t.t identical to the one he had found in Seattle. With some difficulty, he recalled the report that had crossed his desk, naming the brand and style: Sobranie Black Russian filters. A rare brand in the United States, it was available throughout Europe, though expensive.

Could it be put down to coincidence that he would find the same cigarettes being smoked here? It was a big crowd, an international crowd to be sure. His curiosity won out. He had to know who was smoking these cigarettes. He would think of nothing else until he did, which would only further spoil the evening. He began to justify his need: there weren't that many people smoking; with a brand as uncommon as this, how hard could he or she be to locate? But to allow these thoughts was itself trouble, for suddenly he was filled with pure, hot panic. This was, after all, a party celebrating tougher restrictions on airline security. What if this reception was the target? What if Bernard hadn't built two barometric detonators, as he suspected, but instead, one barometric and one clock?

Could a bomb be smuggled into this party? Doubtful. He had pa.s.sed through a metal detector and a couple of city cops on his way in. The very nature of the reception would have demanded the toughest security procedures. But what about the cars outside? How thorough was the security?

He rudely barged his way back through the hordes and reached Carrie, regretting his words before he even uttered them. "Something's come up," he said as gently as he could. "I'll only be a few minutes. Promise. Not long at all." She rolled her eyes. "Save me room on your dance card?"

Her eyes pleaded with him. He saw hate, love, and confusion.

"Bear with me," he said.

"Go on," she told him. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Only a couple of minutes."

"Sure." He saw the courage and strength it took for her to say this, for her eyes betrayed her, but it was one of those efforts so typical of her. It was times like this that he saw himself through her eyes, and wondered how he deserved her.

"Thanks," he said.

"Go on," she insisted, giving him a gentle but convincing shove. "They're going to play another slow song soon."

He targeted a male smoker and closed in. The important thing was not to panic, not to jump to any conclusions. Part of him wanted to believe that the bomber might be here at this party, but the more he thought about it, the more absurd it seemed. Ward's killer was not the only person who smoked Sobranies. And what would an international terrorist be doing at a Washington social affair? Milling with other guests and making small talk. He settled down some with this reasoning, though he didn't abandon his a.s.signment.

The music faded into the background. His attention fixed on the guests. A black and gold cigarette would be fairly easily spotted. He weaved his way through the crowd smoothly. Here, the slate gray fumes rose from a small cl.u.s.ter of talkers ... A woman ... A white cigarette with a white filter. There, another. Group by group, face by face, he pursued the smoke.

"Cam!" An arm reached out and snagged him. The voice sounded familiar, but at first there were too many faces with which to a.s.sociate it. "Right here," the man next to him said. Daggett recognized Richard Tuttle, now a senior vice-president in a security consultant firm. He wanted to break loose, but Tuttle had him firmly by the arm. Tuttle had been a special agent until forced into mandatory retirement at fifty-five. Now he consulted for commercial carriers for probably five times the pay. His company had been instrumental in the adoption of the recent legislation that this reception was celebrating. He introduced Daggett to his friends. Daggett wanted out. He shook hands all around. He tried to sidestep Tuttle, to quickly move on, but Tuttle, feeling the liquor, retained him firmly in his grip. To tear himself away might create a scene more trouble than it was worth: Tuttle and Mumford went way back.

Tuttle excused them both and drew Daggett away from the others. He had hard facial features and a youthful laugh. He spoke in a very low register, which sounded unnatural and forced. "You all right?"

"A little distracted is all. I'm in a bit of a hurry. Working," he added.

"I understand."

No you don't, he felt like telling the man. "Well " Daggett said, giving a little jerk and trying to pull away. Tuttle's grip remained ironclad. "With this one safely in the win column," Tuttle began, "I'm more than likely going to be wearing an executive VP hat any day now, and that's going to leave a hole in the ranks, if you follow me. We could use someone with your experience. Bring you in at the VP level, or d.a.m.n near it. First year you'd take home maybe forty or fifty I know, I know," he said, expecting Daggett to protest, "but by year three or four you'd be pulling in at least twice that, maybe three times depending on how the rest of the company grows, and we're growing like gang busters You'd be at an executive decision level, not one of the flunkies catching a G.o.dd.a.m.ned plane every other day."

"Richard "

"h.e.l.l, this isn't anything close to a formal offer. But I'd like you to let me take you out to lunch one of these days and lay it all out there for you. Make it official and let you think about it. That child of yours, Dirk is it?"

"Duncan "

"You won't believe the health benefits, retirement plan, and profit sharing programs we've got. Even some of Dirk's past expenses may be covered here we'd have to look at that. How about a lunch one of these days?"

Duncan's expenses .. . Here was everything Carrie wanted for them: security, high pay, reasonable hours, benefits. The temptation of a cushy desk job seem only too appropriate when his elevated blood pressure was causing a painful drumming in his ears, and sweat formed on the back of his neck. Was Tuttle sweating? h.e.l.l no. Did Tuttle work to midnight only to head back to the office at six in the morning? He was tempted.

"Love to," Daggett said, slapping his damp hand inside Tuttle's huge mitt, freeing his arm. "I'll be in touch." He escaped.

He had lost precious time. He felt both frantic and silly, unsure which to trust.

He scanned the crowd for smoke.

There! Just ahead of him another cloud ascending from a pack of suits and dresses. He wedged his way past a fat woman with broad shoulders, forced against her so that he made full contact with the spongy warm skin of her back, damp at the spine. She threw a practiced elbow, a cow's tail dealing effectively with the annoyance of flies. His hopes rose as he attached the cigarette smoke to a face an average face of a man of average height. Daggett's view of the cigarette was blocked. But then it came into view: a white cigarette with a brown filter.

He moved on.

Anthony Kort found himself eye to eye with Cam Daggett. He had walked willingly into the hornet's nest and now he felt like a fool for allowing Monique to manipulate him this way. He had wanted to arrive, make contact with the Greek, leave. Monique, on the other hand, believed that for the sake of appearances they should spend at least a few minutes before attempting the contact. She had talked him into it.

He poked her in the back. "How about another drink?" he asked her. His bad temper was due in part to his present brand of cigarette. He had finished his last Sobranie not five minutes earlier and was now smoking a poor subst.i.tute, Camel filters. In a city this size, this continental, there had to be Sobranie for sale somewhere. He would put Monique on that.

"I will come with you," she said, excusing them both from the group.

"That was Daggett," he whispered only inches from her ear. "Let's get this over with now."

Monique's eyes followed Daggett until he disappeared. She took Kort by the hand and led him through a swinging door into the kitchen, the two of them immediately swallowed by the chaos there. She pointed out the door to the cellar. Kort headed down the steps into the dank darkness, where a single unlit bulb hung from a dust-encrusted electrical wire like the bald head of a hanged man. He touched it as he pa.s.sed beneath it and it swung back and forth like the pendulum to a clock.

In the far corner, to the right of a soapstone sink, was a pair of storm cellar doors with four poured concrete stairs leading up to them. Kort unbolted the doors and, pushing the left door open to the night air, insured himself a means of escape.

The success of the operation relied on the Greek's information. If he couldn't get the exact date of the meeting, then all was lost. Bernard's death meant nothing; Michael's arrest meant nothing.

A pair of heavy feet clumped down the stairs and a thick Greek accent complained in a forced and angry whisper, "I told you in my messages, you and I have nothing to discuss! This is an outrage." Kort pressed back into the shadows as the light came on. The floor became animated with the movement of shadows as the bulb swayed back and forth.

Monique had maneuvered the Greek to the near side of the stairs.

"I will only speak with him. That was the arrangement."

"Then it's time we should talk," Kort said from the shadows.

The Greek spun around, nervously. A big man with a swollen chest, thin gray hair and bad teeth, his hands appeared overinflated. He had the shifting eyes of a salesman and the red nose of a competent drinker.

Monique flew weightlessly up the stairs and threw the door shut behind her. By agreement, she would remain there to signal if necessary.

A wide grin taking his face, the Greek said, "I wondered how this catering job came my way at the last minute and so well paid. I should have realized .. ."

"What's this about the meeting?" Kort asked.

"I have the name for you the flight mechanic you wanted. His name is David Boote."

"I'll need his address, working schedule, and a recent photograph," Kort said. "We'll set up a dead drop for tomorrow. You'll be notified using the computers. Now what about the meeting?"

"I can't get the date for you. We had it for you it was to be three days from now the fourteenth but they've rescheduled, postponed it at least a week. Both Sandhurst and Goldenbaum are unavailable until the twenty-first of this month. It's the twenty-first at the earliest. I'm told the FBI is to blame. We cross-referenced the travel itineraries of these executives in order to identify the date for you. Everything was all set. But then the FBI requested the same itineraries, and a few hours later the meeting was postponed. There's nothing I can do about it now. There's simply no way."

"There must be a way," Kort demanded. "You're not thinking this through." He took another step toward the man. "You have been paid for this information. You will deliver. You understand?"

"What am I supposed to do? You think I didn't try? I've been throwing money around everywhere trying to get this for you. All I have are a few worthless rumors."

"Such as?"

"They're nothing."

"I want to hear them."

"I have no second source for any of this."

"Even so, I want to hear it."

The big man shrugged. He patted his pockets. Kort offered him a cigarette and they both smoked. "Even the executives themselves don't know when the meeting is to be.

That's what I'm told. They were asked to leave five different days open for travel, beginning the twenty-first. It could be any one of those days. I don't know. Arrangements new itineraries have been drawn up for each of the executives, but from this end this time."

"I can't wait until the last minute. I need to know in advance. I want those itineraries."