found the picture.”

Viglione’s right hand moved toward the pile of newspapers. Porterfield could see the gleam of the black metal finish of the pistol as the fingers fumbled for the handle, but Porterfield’s right arm was already in motion. The nunchaku hissed in the air and the chain swung the club into the back of Viglione’s head, making a hollow thud. Viglione’s head kicked forward, but his hand came up with the pistol in it. Porterfield crooked his arm around Viglione’s neck and pushed off on the door frame with both feet, twisting his body at the same time. Viglione’s neck snapped with a sickening crack, and Porterfield released his hold. He knew Viglione was already dead.

Porterfield muttered to himself, “You’d have a hard time killing an old lady with those things.” Then he spent a few moments wiping the handles of the nunchaku and collecting the papers from the back seat: the notations Viglione had made of the times Porterfield left home in the morning and returned at night, the crudely sketched map of the house and grounds, and the photograph of Alice.

33                   Porterfield walked down the empty hallway, past closed doors with numbers above them but no signs. At five-thirty in the morning there were few people in this wing. Porterfield had made too many of these early morning trips to Langley in the past two weeks. The president of the Seyell Foundation had no business in the complex at Langley, and each time the car came for him Porterfield knew there was a chance he’d be spotted. Half the governments of the world might have people watching the roads in this area to see who came and went.

“Porterfield.” The voice was quiet and familiar. He turned and waited while the tall black man came abreast of him, and they walked on together.

“You keep turning up pretty far from Miami, J.K.”

“It’s hot there right now.”

“It’s always hot there.”

“So I always get out when I can. I have to go back tonight, but I wanted to see you first. I’ve got something to show you.”

Porterfield stopped. “You wanted me?”

J.K. nodded. “This is probably the safest place.” He opened the thick file folder he was carrying and pulled out two eight-by-ten-inch black-and-white photographs.

Porterfield studied the pictures. They were both photographs of crowds of people in airline terminals. In the first one a group of passengers was moving along a corridor toward the camera, carrying small bags and briefcases. In the foreground was a middle-aged man with a high forehead and broad cheekbones and wearing a dark suit. “Who’s this?”

“He works at the Czechoslovakian embassy in Bogota. He’s here legally and everything, but we’ve been taking lots of pictures of those flights lately. In the other picture the mark is the stewardess. She seems to be a courier for somebody, but at the moment we’re just watching. Forget those two. Take a close look at the other people, the ones in the background.”

Porterfield held the photographs at arm’s length and lifted them close to the light in the ceiling. “Damned eyes aren’t as sharp as they used to be.” He squinted at the faces. “Okay, I see him. It’s Albert what’s-his- name.”

“Cotton. The flight list says he’s somebody else, but they seem to have made a mistake.”

“Did he follow this guy from Panama City?”

“That’s the mistake. According to the Latin America desk, Cotton is still in Panama City. This was a flight from Toronto.”

Porterfield studied the second photograph. “I’m getting good at this, now that I know the game. How many monkeys do you see in this picture? Oh, yes. There he is. The one with the moustache is Lester Viglione. I worked with him once, years ago.”

“He’s on a Special Ops detail attached to the Guatemala secret police, the ones that were supposedly disbanded. Now they only work nights.”

Porterfield shrugged. “It leaves him the daytime for travel.”

“He hasn’t been in this country for over ten years.”

“Who told you all that?”

“I have lots of friends, because I do lots of favors.” He put the photographs back in the folder and said, “Both of those were people who got wind of your little problem, asked permission to come home, and were refused.”

Porterfield said, “Thanks, J.K. I’ll take care of it. Keep it to yourself.”

“Take care of it? You know what I think they’re doing? I think they’re coming to see the Director. And if I just happened to notice these two in a couple of pictures, how many others are there? They’ll have to stand in line to get a shot at him.”

“Thanks, J.K. I’ll take care of it. I owe you another favor.” Porterfield turned the corner and left J.K. standing alone in the empty corridor. Porterfield made another turn and stopped at a plain door marked only with the number 412, and knocked.

Goldschmidt’s voice shouted, “Come in,” and Porterfield opened the door. “Hello, Ben. Did you come all the way out here again for this fiasco voluntarily, or did that fool order you to come?”

“The Director wanted us all there.” He glanced at his watch. “We’ve got a couple of minutes. You can make a call for me.”

“Sure. What is it?”

“Arrange to have some medical people standing by for an in-house autopsy, probably within twenty-four hours. The papers can say suicide or something.”

“But they only do that when an agent is killed.”

“I know. Better make sure there’s room for two.”

WHEN PORTERFIELD REACHED THE CONFERENCE ROOM, Kearns was sitting alone, staring at an oversized brown square on the table.

“What’s that?”

“It’s a menu. Under it there’s an order sheet that says ‘Director’s Breakfast.’ Apparently we are here for the Director’s breakfast. Is that a good sign or a bad sign?”

Goldschmidt entered and nodded at Porterfield, then said to Kearns, “Bad. It means we’ll be here for four or five hours.”

“But did the Palm Springs thing work?”

Porterfield shrugged. “Order champagne and see if anybody crosses it out.”

The door swung open and Pines held it while the Director passed him, not slowing his quick, jerky strides until he reached the head of the table. He sat down and Pines handed him a file folder, which he flipped open and studied in silence.

The others waited. Pines walked around the table and picked up the menu and handed it to Porterfield. “Just write in your orders and they’ll be here to pick it up in a minute.”

“I’d like to know whether I’m going to feel like eating,” said Goldschmidt.

Porterfield handed the menu back to Pines. “Just coffee for me. I should be back in Washington before there are too many people on the street.”

The Director looked up from his file and began talking as though he’d heard nothing. “It’s now two-thirty in the morning in California.” He paused. “The first phase of this ended about a half hour ago.” He held his arms out and grasped the round, imaginary object between his hands, then stared through it at the opposite wall of the room. “The initial reports give us some cause for hopefulness and some cause for—for disappointment.”

“Who got killed?” asked Goldschmidt.

The Director seemed to lift his invisible globe out of the way as he stared down at the file again. “We seem to have lost four men. John Knox Morrison and Kevin Morton were shot down in some kind of chalet at the top of a mountain near Palm Springs. The other two seem to have been hit within the last hour at…it says here ‘the Dinosaur Memorial.’ Is that possible?”

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