"What cell phone?" asked Joko. Dalton nodded to Levka, who filled Joko in-and Fyke and Nikki Turrin as well-on the possibility that his Motorola cell phone might might still be on the still be on the Blue Nile Blue Nile and and might might be remotely turned on and that be remotely turned on and that might might . . . . . .

"Jesus, Dobri," said Joko, blinking across the table at Levka. "That's a lot of might mights. I'm gonna start calling you Mighty Mouse." I'm gonna start calling you Mighty Mouse."

Nikki, who was an NSA agent, spoke up after a pause.

"Don't laugh. It could work."

She had the full attention of the table.

"Dobri, do you know the model number of the phone?"

"Yes. Is K1M. Motorola Krzr. With MP3 player. Phone number is three-eight-zero-six-five-six-one"-Nikki was scribbling on a n apkin-"three-two-nine-four-nine."

Nikki looked at her watch: a little after midnight.

"What time is it in Maryland right now?"

"Around seven in the evening," said Dalton.

Nikki got up, pulled out her BlackBerry, started hitting b.u.t.tons as she walked away. "Give me an hour."

"Well," said Mandy, picking up her champagne and looking around the table, "that leaves us five. Anyone for poker?"

"Not yet," said Dalton. "Here comes Roth."

"Oh dear," said Mandy, watching the intense young man striding across the floor. "He does not look happy."

"I'm not," said Roth as he reached the table, looking back to the entrance and then scanning the room as he took a chair. "I've been talking to Tel Aviv-"

"Do we get the tap?" asked Dalton.

"They said yes, but that's not the point. We also monitor marine communications along the Med. What was the name of the port captain you spoke to . . . Was it Woodside?"

"Yes," said Mandy. "Dugal Woodside. What's the problem?"

"Well, he's just filed a formal notification with the IMO that he's decided to seize the Novotny Ocean Novotny Ocean. Under suspicion of smuggling stolen yachts. In the filing, he says he already had some problems with the Panama registration. And he has the authority to commence a formal investigation. He's already got a guard on the wharf, and he's quarantined the entire crew on board. Including Captain Maloutsis."

"We thought he might do that," said Dalton. "We hoped hoped he would. Why so worked up?" he would. Why so worked up?"

"According to the bulletin, he intends to stage this inquiry here at Gibraltar. And he's going to call for anyone connected with the matter to come in and make a formal deposition."

"Oh . . . b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l," said Dalton.

"I'd have put it stronger than that," said Roth. "That means he's going to want to talk to you and Mandy. He's already left an official notice at the hotel requiring you not to leave Gibraltar until you come in and provide an affidavit. Mandy's credentials will stand up, of course, but how about yours, Micah? I think not. They'll hold you and start digging. None of which we have the time for. We have to find find that boat. Where's Nikki Turrin?" that boat. Where's Nikki Turrin?"

"Outside. She's on the line to somebody in Maryland," said Fyke. "About Levka's cell phone."

Roth got up, looked around the table at a series of shocked expressions he found quite impressive, particularly for range and impact. "I warned you about this. I suggest we go find her-"

"And get the h.e.l.l out of Gib," said Mandy, rising.

"You can stay, if you want-" can stay, if you want-"

"Like h.e.l.l," said Mandy.

"Then, let's go," said Roth. "Dagan's having them fly the Legacy in from Athens. It'll be on the ground at Boukhalef field in Tangier. If we can get there."

"Yes. And how are are we supposed to get to Tangier? The Lear's definitely out," said Mandy. "We can't avoid a Royal Navy inquiry by b.u.g.g.e.ring off in Poppy's jet. He'd have a fit." we supposed to get to Tangier? The Lear's definitely out," said Mandy. "We can't avoid a Royal Navy inquiry by b.u.g.g.e.ring off in Poppy's jet. He'd have a fit."

"A pox on Poppy," said Fyke, looking down at the darkened marina, at the cruisers moored there, hundreds of shapes and sizes, a sea of masts and flying bridges, rocking gently in the changing tides. "Anyone up for a little piracy?"

IT was sixty klicks across the strait to Tangier. The motor yacht, a cla.s.sic wooden Chris-Craft about fifty feet long, which was chosen by Fyke for its primitive electronics, making it easy to jump-start, and approved by Dalton on the possibility that it wouldn't have any modern GPS gear, which it didn't, covered the sixty klicks in five hours, with no sign of pursuit either from the sky or from some naval patrol boat out of Gibraltar. was sixty klicks across the strait to Tangier. The motor yacht, a cla.s.sic wooden Chris-Craft about fifty feet long, which was chosen by Fyke for its primitive electronics, making it easy to jump-start, and approved by Dalton on the possibility that it wouldn't have any modern GPS gear, which it didn't, covered the sixty klicks in five hours, with no sign of pursuit either from the sky or from some naval patrol boat out of Gibraltar.

A long, narrow, sharp-bowed, spear-shaped boat without a flying bridge, the Chris-Craft also had a wooden hull and low superstructure that made it a good choice if you were hoping to avoid radar detection. It was not a good choice if any of the pa.s.sengers were p.r.o.ne to seasickness. A long, narrow hull in open water tends to pitch and yaw with every roller. So although the boat covered the sixty klicks in five hours, for some of the more delicate pa.s.sengers, such as the two Mossad agents and Ray Fyke, these were not happy hours.

Levka, at the wheel of the boat-she was called Tropical Dancer Tropical Dancer-and back in his element, seemed content just to be driving a big cruiser again even if it was likely to result in a lengthy jail sentence in some North African h.e.l.lhole. It had occurred to Levka that staring Third World prisons in the face made up a large part of his daily duties when in Micah Dalton's employ.

Dalton, standing beside him, listening to the chatter on the marine radio, smoking a Sobranie, and staring out at the lights of Tangier as they started to spread out across the black horizon, was thinking about the size, shape, and dimensions of the problem that was also spreading itself out on his own black horizon.

Down in the lounge, all teak and bra.s.s and mahogany, with a lovely stainless-steel galley and a cozy little stateroom in the bow, Mandy was reclining on a leather couch, watching Nikki Turrin set about making chicken soup. It was about the only thing the men had been able to keep down, but even that not for very long.

Ray Fyke, Joko Levon, and Danny Roth were out on the fantail under the open sky, a place with easy and frequent access to the ocean from all three sides. Perhaps in honor of Fyke, whose sainted mother was from County Clare, all three men were green. Although he had spent a lot of time at sea with the SAS, and later during a turn as first mate on a gypsy tanker in the South Seas, this bouncy little voyage across the straits in what he felt was little better than a high-toned canoe was just too d.a.m.ned much.

Behind the flat stern of the boat, far off in the east, the light was beginning to change, the sky turning from a featureless void to a pinkish gray. In the cabin, Levka, still on the question of staring prison in the face, drained his coffee cup, set it down in the gimbal ring, and glanced sideways at Dalton.

"So, boss, no offendings, but what are we going to do when we get into Tangier?"

Dalton's hard face creased in the dim light, the red glow from the instrument panel giving his smile a sardonic cast.

"Mandy met me in Sevastopol with, among other useful things, a bag of gold wafers. I'm told they like gold in Tangier."

Levka found this comforting, but he followed the line of inquiry awhile longer.

"You got any idea what is all about? Kidnap me, take my boat, set you up for killing Mr. Galan?"

"I'm beginning to. We've been following the Blue Nile Blue Nile all the way from Kerch to Gibraltar. And I've left a paper trail all the way along the line. Vienna. Venice. Kerch. Istanbul. Athens. Gibraltar. If they manage to use your boat for something spectacular, I'll be the one most closely a.s.sociated with it. And you? I think that was why they kept you alive. The idea was, after . . . whatever it is . . . they'd find your body in the boat. Mine too, and Mandy's as well, if the trap on the road to Staryi Krim had worked a little better. I have no idea how they managed to get Burke and Single on the owners' list of Northstar Logistics-" all the way from Kerch to Gibraltar. And I've left a paper trail all the way along the line. Vienna. Venice. Kerch. Istanbul. Athens. Gibraltar. If they manage to use your boat for something spectacular, I'll be the one most closely a.s.sociated with it. And you? I think that was why they kept you alive. The idea was, after . . . whatever it is . . . they'd find your body in the boat. Mine too, and Mandy's as well, if the trap on the road to Staryi Krim had worked a little better. I have no idea how they managed to get Burke and Single on the owners' list of Northstar Logistics-"

"That your company in London?"

"Not mine. But it's a CIA front. That's another marker. If you could see it how the authorities would see it, Galan has a contact with you through Irina Kuldic, he turns up dead, and I'm the guy in the Leopoldsberg parking-lot video, so you and I are connected, we own the boat. The boat turns up at some disaster. They could make a case against us that would hold up in the court of world opinion, if not in a real court."

"A-what you call-propaganda?"

"Yes. Something like that. Embarra.s.s England and the U.S. Implicate the CIA in some atrocity. Ramp up the tensions between us and Israel. Not to mention further inflame the Muslim world against the Great Shaitan. Typical Russian ploy. The part I can't figure out is . . . where."

"But Bogdan, he know the truth."

"Killing Bogdan Davit wouldn't faze them. The only witness to what happened in Leopoldsberg is an Austrian OSE agent. Brancati's got her in the a.r.s.enale. I don't think they can get to her. But all she has is what she saw. And that can be picked apart."

"But, where they do this . . . propaganda?"

"It has to be at this end of the Med, or why waltz us all the way out here in the first place?"

"So. To know this, we need need find boat." find boat."

"Yes. Wherever your boat is, that's where it will happen."

"Where what what will happen?" asked Mandy, coming up from the lounge with two cups of soup in her hands. She looked out at the stern and saw what looked like three dead men sprawled along the benches back there. No, not dead. One of them was up and over the stern again. "Dear G.o.d. You'd think they'd be empty by now." will happen?" asked Mandy, coming up from the lounge with two cups of soup in her hands. She looked out at the stern and saw what looked like three dead men sprawled along the benches back there. No, not dead. One of them was up and over the stern again. "Dear G.o.d. You'd think they'd be empty by now."

She turned and handed a cup to Levka and kept the other one for herself, delicately sipping at the rim, steam rising up.

"Where what will happen?" she asked again.

Dalton laid it out for her. She listened in silence, nodding from time to time. When he was finished, she said, "Let's get Nikki up here. She's the one with friends at the NSA."

Nikki came up the stairs carrying a cup of coffee for Dalton, looking a little drawn. Going from a sunny spring afternoon in Seven Oaks to hunting gators in the Florida Panhandle to a midnight race across the Straits of Gibraltar to Tangier is the kind of thing that sounds better than it lives.

She looked out the windshield, saw Tangier filling up their future, the scattered lights of the Medina piling crazily up the sides of the hill, the radio masts on the top of Cape Spartel blinking in the dark, the sky turning from black to gray behind them, and wished she found the sight wonderfully romantic. As it was, she needed a shower, she was hungry, she was homesick, and she was scared. Mandy looked at her for a while, feeling a strange emotion for her . . . Sympathy? Compa.s.sion? Affection?

"Sit, Nikki," she said, pushing her over to the copilot chair and putting a sweater over her shoulders. It was chilly out on the water, the dampness working its way into the bones. Mandy stepped back, looked at Nikki, reached out to brush a strand of hair out of her eyes. The girl was was very beautiful, if you liked those dusky Mediterranean odalisques like Isabella Rossellini or Juliette Binoche. Mandy supposed some men did. very beautiful, if you liked those dusky Mediterranean odalisques like Isabella Rossellini or Juliette Binoche. Mandy supposed some men did.

G.o.d knew why.

"We've reached a dead end, Nikki," she said, folding her arms across her chest, c.o.c.king her head sideways. "These two berks haven't a clue. It's down to you and that trick with the cell phone. Were you able to get anywhere with that?"

Nikki sighed, looked up at Mandy.

What a simple question, and the answer was a killer.

"Yes. I managed. I ended up calling Hank Brocius."

"The AD of RA," said Dalton. "The Marine with the IED burns. I heard he was on leave."

"Yes. He's in Garrison, Upstate New York. With Briony Keating."

Mandy and Dalton exchanged a charged look.

"With?" asked Mandy, who knew something of their history. "Or with with ?" ?"

"I have no idea which," she said, hardening up. "And I don't really care. What's important is, he said he'd put a tech on it and get back to me."

She lifted up her BlackBerry, turned it in the red glow of the instrument panel. "That was . . . hours ago. So far, nothing."

They heard a low moan and the sound of heavy feet dragging across the decking, turned and saw Daniel Roth making unsteady progress toward the gangway that led down to the head. He looked about as bad as a man can look and not be on an autopsy table. "I need," he said, swallowing carefully, "to visit the facilities. You might wish to stand clear in case I do not make it."

He got level with the pilot chair, stopped to stare out at Tangier, surprised to see how close it was.

"G.o.d be praised. Dry land. I may yet live. Is that Tangier?"

"It had better be," said Dalton. "If it's not, Levka goes overboard."

"And I will go with him. Gladly. But if it is is Tangier, before we dock, radio the port, ask for a man named Tariq Ibn Zuliman. He's one of the harbor police. A secret Hebrew. If I am dead, tell him that Daniel Roth said Tangier, before we dock, radio the port, ask for a man named Tariq Ibn Zuliman. He's one of the harbor police. A secret Hebrew. If I am dead, tell him that Daniel Roth said Shlm Shlm. Do we have money at all?"

"Better," said Levka. "We have gold."

"Good," said Roth, weaving. His hawkish face suddenly took on an abstracted glaze, and his color altered for the worse.

"You will . . . excuse . . ."

"Dear G.o.d," said Mandy. "Go!"

Roth went stumbling down the stairs. Mandy leaned down and called after him, "Mind, you make it all the way to the head. If you don't, you're the one who mops it up."

She straightened up, registered the disapproving looks.

"I am not well suited," she said with dignity, "to the caring professions. Sick people make me angry. I want to smack them."

"She doesn't approve of blood either," said Dalton.

"Fine on the inside," said Mandy, "where it belongs. But people who get some minor flesh wound and then go tottering about the terrain, moaning and wailing, spouting and gouting, ruining the rugs and draperies, well, they're just . . ."

"Inconsiderate?" suggested Nikki.

"Exactly," said Mandy with a thin but approving smile.

DAWN light was slowly rising up the crowded slopes of the Medina, and already hundreds of people were out in the streets and swarming the crowded, dumpy little harbor. A small, neat brown man, in a starched tan uniform, a Sam Browne harness, and gleaming riding boots, was standing on the mole, watching with an amused smile, as their boat cruised slowly along the quayside. light was slowly rising up the crowded slopes of the Medina, and already hundreds of people were out in the streets and swarming the crowded, dumpy little harbor. A small, neat brown man, in a starched tan uniform, a Sam Browne harness, and gleaming riding boots, was standing on the mole, watching with an amused smile, as their boat cruised slowly along the quayside.

He bowed as they came level, tipped his kepi when he saw Mandy and Nikki in the pilot cabin, adroitly caught a line from Ray Fyke, pulling briskly on the rope until their port-side b.u.mpers rolled, squealing, up against the wooden dock.

"Mr. Roth is with you?"

Dalton stepped up to the taffrail.

"Mr. Roth is . . . unwell. Are you Ibn Zuliman?"

A cavalier bow, a sardonic half smile, eyes bright.

"I am he. We received your radio message. Are you intending to disembark? There will of course be . . . formalities . . ." formalities . . ."

"Yes," said Dalton. "We have the 'formalities' in hand. May I introduce Miss Mandy Pownall and Miss Nicole Turrin, both of America. And the large unshaven gentleman with the lime-green skin is Raymond Fyke, a British national. We have some tea brewed. Will you step down and join us?"