"No. Not at this time of night."

"If we do, I'm nothing but another visitor. That won't be too difficult, will it?"

"I don't see why it should be. As you said in the car, we have hundreds of visitors a year, and at all hours. No. I don't see it as being any problem."

Kort noticed that the man's attention was fixed on the photograph of a middle-aged woman with waxy brown hair, and beside her a young girl of six or seven in a bathing suit, her face wreathed in a big smile for the camera. Kort said, "They needn't ever know about it. I'm a man of my word."

"Oh, I'm sure you are."

"You don't believe me .. ."

"Does it matter?" Ward asked. "I don't know what you're after, but if you intend to string me along, it won't work. Just so we understand one another." He was gaining his strength back, a result of his familiarity with his surroundings, no doubt. Kort needed him strong, but not to the point of rebelliousness. "Tonight is all you'll get from me," Ward said defiantly.

Kort couldn't risk giving the man any more time to pull himself together. "If need be, you'll introduce me as David Anthony, a pilot's representative of Belgian Airways. We've broken off negotiations with Air Bus and are considering buying four of Continental's 1996 options on 959s for our shorter routes. If we take the deal then we'll need a simulator and an instructor course. Easy enough?"

"You've thought it all out, haven't you?" Ward asked bitterly.

Kort said confidently, "I wouldn't be here if I hadn't."

They pa.s.sed down a long hall, climbed a set of metal stairs, and stopped at the steel door, which had a keypad cipher lock requiring that a number be entered. Ward hesitated; it seemed to occur to him that he could still prevent this from happening. Kort said, "I'm aware of the non-security access on the first floor." He knew that the irony of this building was that where the second floor used the special locks, the first floor did not.

Ward entered the code without argument and opened the door to an enormous, brightly lit room with a high vaulted ceiling. Like a giant gymnasium.

They stepped out onto the catwalk that ran some forty feet straight ahead into the tremendous open s.p.a.ce. To the right of the catwalk, rising on hydraulics from the cement floor like ambulatory s.p.a.ce pods, were four enamel-white simulators. The s.p.a.ce was immaculately clean. Each simulator had a large "elephant's trunk" carrying the ma.s.s of cables to a hole in the floor. Three of the pods moved silently, rising slightly up or down, careening left or right. The sophisticated hydraulics realistically duplicated the flight as unseen trainees worked the controls. Wrapped off the far face of each pod like opaque sungla.s.ses, a series of flat metal surfaces indicated the screens for the computerized visual effects, so that once inside, trainees witnessed real-time moving images in a sweep of 190 degrees around them. These were among the most sophisticated flight simulators in the world.

"These are the runway specifics," Kort said, producing a folded piece of paper and handing it to Ward.

Ward accepted the note paper reluctantly. He located a pair of reading gla.s.ses and looked them over.

"Wait here," Ward said, crossing the aluminum bridge between catwalk and simulator. He stepped inside the machine, leaving the door open, and then came back out, pa.s.sed Kort closely and indicated that he should join him.

The room marked Simulator Computers used filtered air, chilled to 64 degrees and pumped into the room with enough velocity that opening the door required a good strong push. The cold air slapped Kort in the face. He buckled under the surprise of the door's resistance, stepped through, and followed Ward as the door eased shut. The room had a false floor raised to allow s.p.a.ce for computer cables. Windows looked out on the four simulators. Mainframes capable of crunching eighty million bytes of data thirty times a second purred as they went about their work. Ward spent five minutes programming the runway specifications.

Ward spoke softly as they left the room, "We have LAX in our database, you know. You should have just asked." The comment froze Kort, and a hot jolt of anger flushed through him despite the chill of the room Ward's knowledge and his resulting confidence could become a problem. He hadn't realized Ward might recognize LAX just by some numbers. He had given him too much information, he decided. Would a man with this much background in avionics realize his purpose in conducting these tests? His intentions? Anxiety took hold.

Once Kort had crossed the drawbridge between the catwalk and the simulator, Ward raised it electronically, isolating the two and leaving the simulator independent and detached, able to move freely on its hydraulics.

The smell of the simulator was immediately electronic as Ward closed and locked the door behind them. The two men ducked and crossed into the flight deck, and Kort felt disoriented. The c.o.c.kpit was ablaze with instrument lights. The windows looked out on an airfield a simulated airfield, but one so impossibly close to reality that within seconds, Kort felt as if he were actually out on a runway. The parallel lights of the runway blinked in unison. "Amazing," he said, without meaning to.

Ward scowled as he worked a small-screen computer at the instructor's post. Then he moved into the pilot's seat.

Kort took the instructor's seat behind the pilot's chair. His stomach turned. He didn't want Ward to see him like this.

Anthony Kort suffered from acrophobia. Even the thought of taking off in a plane, much less from a position in the nose of the aircraft, knotted his stomach. Originally intended as part of this operation's preliminary research, and scheduled for another operative, this responsibility had fallen onto his shoulders. The situation required he avoid revealing his weakness. He had to maintain his domination over Ward. "What I want you to do is this: You will take off, fully loaded, and begin your ascent. When I say, you will release the controls."

"She'll crash if I do that," Ward replied, waiting for a different command. "And it'll be no fault of the plane," he added, defending his baby. "Thrust won't maintain the climb. She'll fall like a stone."

Kort said, "Just do as I say."

"You want it to crash? That's absurd."

"I want you to do as I say." He glanced away from the dizzying screen and studied his watch. He had to avoid looking at that screen at all costs; he had to avoid any sign of weakness. Besides, it was important he look at his watch: The timing had to be perfect.

Engineers working for Der Grund had spent months studying the specifications of the 959 to make this predictability as exact a science as possible. Kort was now to use the simulator to test their theories and discover their accuracy.

As the plane lifted off the runway, Kort counted off the seconds on his watch. When his watch read fifty-four seconds, Kort called out, "Now!"

Ward removed his hands from the controls and sat back as the speakers inside the simulator screamed loudly, the plane complaining violently, sliding toward impact, the combined effects horribly real. Louder and louder it grew until silenced by impact.

Even without watching, it took Kort a moment to recover after the crash. He checked several of the flight deck's instruments. The results of this first test were not right; he would have Ward repeat the simulation using a different duration of time between takeoff and loss of pilot control. He would try fifty-two seconds next.

Ward reset the simulator. The hydraulics leveled; the screen flickered and cleared. And there was the same runway again LAX stretching out before them.

Ward, as pilot, flew six takeoffs, each using a slightly different elapsed air time. On this sixth attempt, he got remarkably close to obtaining the data Kort sought. Dizzy with victory, and badly nauseated from his acrophobia, Kort ordered Ward to try exactly forty-seven seconds. This time would be perfect.

The flight deck's sixty-four-track stereo sound system duplicated everything from the sound of the jets and the wind to the grinding of the hydraulics and the thud of the wheels as they were drawn into the aircraft. The nose lifted dramatically from the runway, engines whining; Ward released the controls when instructed by Kort. Pilotless, the plane slipped helplessly and crashed. Kort leaned forward and again checked several of the instruments. He smiled triumphantly, and drew a box around the number 47. One last time that was all he needed to be absolutely certain.

"You don't like flying," Ward suggested. "You haven't looked at the screens once."

Kort wanted one last run-through, but Ward's observation worried him. This last attempt had gone perfectly. The sense of achievement welled up in him, and had he been alone he might have cheered his own success. Perfection was everything to Anthony Kort. Forty-seven seconds. But he wanted desperately to repeat the test one final time to duplicate his success precisely, to relive that success, to make absolutely certain his success could be duplicated. That was the point. His pursuit of perfection wouldn't allow it any other way. In a perfect world .. .

"Let's repeat that once more," he ordered.

"Forty-seven seconds again?"

"Exactly as we just did it."

"What is it that you're after? Who are you? This isn't corporate espionage, is it? It's something else." He turned around to face Kort.

"Just fly the plane," Kort instructed.

Ward had troubled eyes. He couldn't hide the anger on his face as his earlier fear gave way to a growing understanding of Kort's purpose. Kort thought about stopping here; he had what he needed. Ward's impatience was suddenly a liability. He was about to call it off when Ward encouraged the throttle forward and sent the plane charging down the runway. As the yoke came back, the hydraulics at the rear of the pod contracted, and the nose angled into the pale blue electronic sky. The jets screamed in stereo. The steep-pitched climb continued. This was wrong! Kort turned to chastise the pilot, and in doing so, made the mistake of looking into the hypnotic screen. He couldn't take his eyes off it. The ground faded below them; the nose aimed into the blue. The plane banked sharply left and right, up and down, as the pod physically responded to Ward's erratic piloting. Kort, who wore no restraining belt, fell from his seat. "Stop it," he demanded in a weak voice. The simulator continued to heave and jerk unpredictably on the hydraulics. "Stop it!" he tried again, but this time his food came up.

Ward spun around wild-eyed, and shouted above the roar, "You may ruin my marriage," he said in a menacing voice, "but there's not much left there anyway. You will not sabotage one of our planes, or whatever it is you have planned. I will not contribute to that."

"Stop it!" Kort demanded, feeling slightly better from vomiting.

Ward came out of the pilot's chair, the plane slipping into a devastating dive, and laid a knee into the side of Kort's face right into his bad tooth as he pushed past. He was escaping!

Kort lunged forward and caught the man's ankle.

Ward went down hard.

The plane continued to dive. The sound grew to a fevered pitch. Kort climbed over him. Ward screamed for help. They wrestled. When Ward screamed again, Kort silenced him with a choke hold. He maintained the hold tightly until Ward lost consciousness.

The plane continued its long, eerie dive toward destruction. And although Kort knew he must release his hold, he could not. He took out his fear on the man's neck.

The 959 crashed. The sudden quiet was almost as deafening. Kort, regaining his senses, released his grip. Roger Ward fell away from him and rolled over, his eyes open and enlarged, his face a sickening blue. He was dead.

In the silence of the now motionless simulator, the stark reality of Kort's predicament slammed home. He had murdered Ward. An investigation would follow. There would be links to the simulator, to the 959 to everything he had hoped to prevent.

He was not a man to panic, but despite his training he did just that. He slapped the face of the warm corpse, repeatedly murmuring impossible demands that it return to life. He talked to himself trying to explain, to rationalize: he had wanted to gain control; to silence him; to scare him into behaving. Now this! He shook the man by the shirt. Come alive! The head flopped, ungainly, from side to side as if to say, "No."

Come to life, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d! Kort willed. But where he had the power to take the life away, he had none to restore it.

Slowly, he collected himself. Killing men was not something entirely new to him he reminded himself. He released Ward for the second time. Ward fell heavily to the carpet, a soft thud. The man had made his contribution; Kort had what he was after. Kort threw the switch to lower the drawbridge, listening intently as it fell securely into place. He opened the door and peered around the edge at the three other simulators, all of which were still moving, their drawbridges up. He checked his watch: just under two hours before this four-hour shift ended. It offered him a chance.

To leave the corpse inside the simulator module was unthinkable for it would undoubtedly be quickly discovered, bringing the police and reducing his lead time, which in turn would limit any chance of effective escape.

He collected Ward, throwing one of the man's arms over his own shoulders and supporting his weight by taking him below the ribs. He peered around the door once again. Seeing all was clear, he struggled across the drawbridge. Ward's feet dragged lifelessly. The catwalk seemed to grow longer with each step, but eventually he reached it and, just beyond, the door to the computer room. He shoved against the door, managed to open it, and lost his hold on Ward just as he stepped inside. Ward fell to the false floor. Kort had planned to hide the body amid the large computers, but the hollow sound of the false floor gave him a better idea.

He dragged him to the very back of the room, pa.s.sing six rows of machinery in the process. He removed one of the false plates, revealing a network of tangled wire. He removed four more plates and was able to use the slack in the various wires to push them aside.

As he grabbed for Ward, the drawbridge to the third simulator began to lower. One of the crews was taking a break! Panic jolted through him like a live current. He grabbed Ward and stuffed him under the false floor as outside, the drawbridge continued its descent. Frantically, he replaced the floor sections, remembering at the last moment to search the man's pockets for the car keys. He grappled with the last sections of flooring pieces to a puzzle. Finally, they went together.

He paused at the door, his mind racing ahead of him: He would have to call her from here; she would have to change her plans; he would have to trust her completely. So much to do.

The drawbridge lowered to within inches of clicking into place. Should he run for it, or bide his time and wait for the trainees to pa.s.s by before he attempted to leave un noticed? No time existed for such thought; he had to act, to go with his instincts.

He tugged open the stiff door, and ran like h.e.l.l.

Kort saw no way around returning to the hotel. He had to collect his things; he had to wipe down the room thoroughly and, as best as possible, remove any evidence of his having been there. He was practiced in such last-minute ordeals; they came as an accepted, though unwanted, part of his existence. The room had been paid in full through Friday morning, so that much he counted in his favor a grace period. Enough time to train to Los Angeles and kill a couple of days in preparation. Yes, he still might pull it off.

He had a plane to bomb.

He left Ward's car parked on a residential street where he a.s.sumed it might take the police days, perhaps weeks, to locate, and removed his rental from the Pay-and-Park.

He had never intended to kill Ward. Now, for his actions, he paid the price in hasty departure preparations that put him at a much greater risk than he would have wished. In a perfect world, Ward would have lived, would have awakened the next day and gone about his business as usual, the secret of his affair, of his hour in the Duhning simulator, carefully preserved.

Inside the lobby, Kort watched a slightly hunchbacked woman continuously vacuum the same spot on the immense red throw rug that lay beneath the embroidered couches and marble-topped coffee table that formed the focal point of the lobby. She appeared to have fallen asleep. A young man with hard hair that appeared permanently wet, and a bow tie that showed elastic at the mouth of the collar, stood sentry behind the registration desk, his dark eyes gla.s.sy with fatigue, his cup of much-needed coffee tucked appropriately out of sight, its rising steam giving it away.

Kort didn't stop at the desk. No sense in giving this kid a chance to remember his face. He rode the elevator to his room and phoned instead.

"Front desk," this same young man said, chewing his words through a yawn. "How may I help you?"

"Could you scare me up a pair of pliers?" Kort asked.

"Pliers?" the front desk replied, somewhat surprised. "Is it anything housekeeping could help with, sir?"

"No. Just a pair of pliers. Can you get me a pair of pliers, please?"

"Maintenance would have a pair. Or housekeeping might. I'll check for you, sir. Should I send them up if I can locate some?"

"Yes, please. And call me if you can't. You'll remember to call me?"

"Yes, sir."

Kort waited by the phone expecting failure. It was his experience that problems ran in schools, like barracuda. No single problem was likely to kill you, but combined they could be deadly. Typically, when you least needed failure, it struck. For this reason, he always remained on alert.

To his surprise and a good omen a room service waitress delivered the pliers less than five minutes later. They were an aluminum alloy with green rubber handle grips. Kort sterilized them first by cooking them in the hot-water coffee maker provided for the room. After a ten-minute cook, he heated the mouth of the pliers with his butane lighter until the metal began to smoke. Then he allowed them to cool while he gathered his nerve.

The tooth had to come out. That was all there was to it. He had tried to make arrangements for it to be pulled professionally the following day, but he would no longer be here on the following day, so he had no choice. Rotten to the core, the tooth had to be extracted before he embarked on his train ride. The importance of the operation, and his relative isolation, forced the decision. Even so, he stood in front of the well-lit bathroom mirror, the pliers now cool and resting on a fresh towel, and stared at himself for several long minutes.

No one was asking him to do this, he reminded him self. Not anymore they weren't. Der Grund had been cut off at the knees. Out of a total of sixteen, only he and two or three others had escaped the bust. He had been disembarking an ocean liner in New York at the time he had heard about it. At that moment, he had realized both the jeopardy he faced and the freedom made suddenly available to him. Nonetheless, he had boarded the sleeper for Chicago, and on to Seattle, as planned. If he had his way, the operation would still succeed.

But that meant the tooth had to come out. Twice he picked up the pliers. Twice he placed them back down. He a.s.sumed there was a good possibility he might pa.s.s out during his attempt. He looked around. Hard objects everywhere. Not a good place to fall.

There would be blood as well. Perhaps a great amount, he wasn't sure. He cracked off the plastic wrap that sealed the cap to the bottle of hydrogen peroxide, wondering if he would find the strength to use it like mouthwash after the procedure. Infection remained his greatest enemy. Like it or not, the hydrogen peroxide seemed a necessity. Just the thought of it made him feel sick to his stomach. He and the pliers entered into a staring contest.

He carried them, the complimentary box of tissue, and the bottle of hydrogen peroxide into the empty bathtub, where he stretched himself out in a reclining position. He placed the bath mat behind his head as a cushion. He could pa.s.s out here. He could bleed here.

He hadn't noticed until that moment how ugly the shower curtain was. A very poor imitation of a pastel chintz, some of the color had apparently washed out of it, leaving only the worst of the orange and a morbid shade of purple fighting for visual dominance. To his eye, the purple won. It was just the kind of thing that belonged on the form letter left by the president of the hotel chain for customers' comments. He had to wonder if those things ever got read; he knew better than to think the president had ever seen the form itself, much less one properly filled out. He allowed himself several of these distractions. He spent a few minutes a.n.a.lyzing the work of the mason who had applied the shower's patterned tile, several more studying the bead of caulk that joined tub and tile. With the availability of such distractions diminishing, he faced up to the task before him.

The tooth had to come out.

Now.

He brought the pliers toward his mouth and stopped, remembering in an instant why he had begun before the mirror he had to see what he was doing. He climbed out of the tub, moved his supplies back to the edge of the sink, and faced himself once again. Yes, this was better. Looking at himself. It made him feel stronger. He needed his strength. He could not allow himself to pa.s.s out that was all there was to it. He had to maintain control.

He stretched his mouth open wide, adjusting his head so the greatest possible amount of light found its way to the impossibly red pulpy flesh at the back of his bottom row of teeth. The brown, rotted tooth there called to him in a pulsing, agonizing pain he had lived with for nearly two weeks.

He had bought the Anbesol for afterward, but now it occurred to him it might help beforehand as well. It was meant to kill the pain. He had plenty of that.

He opened this bottle, too, though its safety packaging was more contentious than that of the hydrogen peroxide. He planned the order of events carefully: Anbesol, extraction, peroxide, Anbesol. He repeated the words as a mantra, worried he might not think clearly once the deed was done.

Once and for all, the pliers rose to his mouth. The metal jaws still felt warm against his tongue. As they entered his mouth, he lost all sight of the beleaguered tooth, and resorted to a tactile exploration, where each wrong guess caused him enormous pain. The aluminum jaws nipped at his swollen gums. He forced his mouth open even wider, the pliers hard against his cheek, and gripped down onto the decay. His knees buckled as the pliers found purchase he knew he had it now. Of this there was no doubt. His left hand went out to steady him. He pinched the jaws of the pliers tighter, counted quickly to three, and jerked straight up.

His scream, m.u.f.fled by a diaphragm spasmodic from pain, and a hand stuffed into his mouth, died before penetrating the room's walls. The pliers, with their quarry, fell to the counter as he blindly found the hydrogen peroxide and tilted the bottle into his open mouth. This second scream had much more air behind it.

He spit out the pain into the sink and sagged down to his knees in agony, one hand groping for the Anbesol. He had to focus away from the pain. Away from his mouth.

The thought at work in his mind was whether or not the president of the company ever read those stupid forms.

THREE.

CRUMBLING BRICK BUILDINGS of Washington, D.C."s black ghetto crowded the potholed streets that ran down past gasworks and an electric substation to the polluted Anacostia River. Set back from the river's edge, looking like a twelve-story apartment complex, stood a government building, the upper floors of which housed the FBI's Washington Metropolitan Field Office. It was here, on the tenth floor, that Cam Daggett reported to work each day. Those who worked here called it Buzzard Point the actual name of this spit of land.

The Hoover Building, on Pennsylvania Avenue, which the public had come to think of as the FBI, was, in reality, the administrative agency that set policy and oversaw the activities of 55 field offices, each with its own territory. Aside from a few laboratories, its function was almost entirely bureaucratic.

WMFO or Buzzard Point was one such field office. Because its territory included the "District" and surrounding suburbs, its investigations often a.s.sumed a national scope.

Six-foot-high gray-carpeted office baffles separated one squad from another, the contained office areas referred to by the agents as bullpens. C-3's bullpen contained nine desks ten, including that of Gloria De Angelo secretary and den mother. Behind Gloria, another baffle worked to give privacy to C-3's squad chief. It was here that Bob Backman's desk sat empty.