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"Deputy Secretary of Defense Hawkins doesn't share your atypical optimism," Viens said.

"What are you talking about?" Stoll asked. "I saw the Hawk on the news last night. Every coif with a mike who accused him of mismanagement got his or her nose bit off."

"Meanwhile, the Deputy Secretary is already looking for a job in the private sector."

"What?" Stoll said.

"And it's only been two weeks since the forward funding was uncovered. There are going to be a lot more defections." Viens raised his eyebrows forlornly. "It really sacks, Matt. I finally get my Conrad and I can't even enjoy it."

The Conrads were an unofficial award given at a private dinner every year by the foremost figures in American intelligence. The dagger-like trophy was named after Joseph Conrad, whose 1907 novel, The Secret Agent, was one of the first great espionage tales. Viens had coveted the award for years, and had finally won it.

Stoll said, "I think you're going to weather this thing. There won't be a real investigation. Too many secrets'll be made public. There'll be some wrist-slapping, the money will be found and returned to the treasury, and they'll watch your budget more closely for the next couple of years. Just like a personal audit."

"Matt," Viens said, "there's something else."

"There always is. Action followed by an equal and opposite reaction. What else are they planning?"

"I hear they're going to subpoena our diskettes."

That got Stoll's attention. His round, beefy shoulders rose slowly. The diskettes were time- and destination-coded. They would show that Op-Center was getting a disproportionate amount of satellite time.

"How solid's your info?" Stoll asked.

"Very," Viens said.

There was a sudden gurgling in Stoll's belly. "You, uh--didn't get that yourself, did you?"

Stoll was asking Viens whether he'd ordered surveillance on Landwehr. He prayed that his friend had not.

"Please, Matt," Viens said.

"Just making sure. Pressure can do funny things to sane people."

"Not me," Viens said. "Thing is, I won't be able to do much for you during the rest of the shakedown. I've got to give the other bureaus whatever time they need."

"I understand," Stoll said. "Don't sweat it."

Viens smiled halfheartedly. "My psych profile says I never sweat anything," he said. "Worst that happens is I follow the Hawk into the private sector."

"Bull-do. You'd be as miserable as I was. Look," Stoll said, "let's not go counting Mother Carey's chickens before the storm hits. If the Hawk flies the coop, maybe that'll take some of the pressure off."

"That's a slim maybe."

"But it's a possibility," Stoll said. He glanced at the clock in the lower right corner of the screen. "I'm supposed to see the boss at seven-thirty to let him know how the ROC is working. Why don't we have dinner tonight? On Op-Center."

"I promised the missus we'd go out."

"Fine," Stoll said. "I'll pick you both up. What time?

"How's seven?" Viens asked.

"Perfect," said Stoll.

"My wife was expecting candles and hand-holding. She'll kill me."

"It'll save Landwehr the trouble," Stoll pointed out. "See you at seven."

Stoll clicked off feeling miserable. Sure, Viens had given him access to the NRO, but Op-Center had had the crises to justify that access. And what did it matter whether Op-Center or the Secret Service or the NYPD needed assistance? They were all on the same team.

Stoll phoned Hood's executive assistant, "Bugs" Benet, who said the chief had just arrived. Finishing his tea and engulfing the second half of his bagel, the portly young chief technical officer strode from his office.

* * *

FIVE

Monday, 2:30 p.m.,

Qamishli, Syria

Ibrahim was asleep when the car eased to a stop. He awoke suddenly.

"Imshee imshee--!" he cried as he looked around. Yousef and Ali were still playing cards in the backseat. Ibrahim's eyes settled on the round, dark face of his brother, which was sleek with sweat. Mahmoud was looking in the rearview mirror.

"Good afternoon," Mahmaud said dryly.

Ibrahim removed his