America

Feeding gas slowly, braking as he approached the corner, he tried to ignore the swelling howl of the siren.

Around the building. Straight ahead was the stop sign for this little street, then across the access road, the traffic light on Lee Highway, which was of course inoperative. That meant stop, yield, and go. He slowed for the stop sign, ensured that no one was coming, then moved forward to the edge of the highway intersection. Braked to a complete stop.

Siren loud, very loud.

He looked left… a large truck was almost stopped, barely moving.

The siren!

Matheny twisted the wheel to the right to turn to the inside northbound lane, took his foot off the brake, and fed gas.

He never saw the ambulance that was passing the large truck in the far right lane, doing at least thirty miles an hour. The right front bumper of the ambulance hit the Ford in the driver's door and snapped Matheny's head back. His body was half out of the seat when the combined inertia of the two vehicles caromed the Ford into a light pole. The impact snapped Matheny forward and threw him toward the windshield on the passenger side of the car. His head smacked into the windshield, breaking his neck. He died instantly.

Myron Matheny had forgotten to fasten his seat belt.

Jake Grafton was watching the ambulance crew load Maurice Jadot's body when a senior police officer came over to tell him about the accident victim two blocks away. 'It was the assassin, we think. He had a silenced pistol on him, and this was in the car.' He held out a photo. 'This is you, isn't it?'

It was one of Jake's file photos, perhaps a copy of one from his personnel file. 'It's me.'

'Your photo, not this other fellow, Mr. Jadot.'

'Umm.'

'One assumes he missed.'

'Apparently.'

'When you're finished here, how about stopping at the morgue and seeing if you can identify him? In this heat, without cold storage, we'll have to start the autopsy in just a few hours.' The officer gave him the address.

'Give me a few minutes, then I'll be along.'

Janos Ilin found himself looking into the cold eyes of Jake Grafton. The admiral had a smear of blood on his forehead, but the eyes looked like they were frozen. Behind him a doctor was working on the wounded police officer, trying to save her while the other officer herded spectators away, trying to give them some room.

Grafton held up his hands in front of Ilin. They had Jadot's blood on them.

'You think this is all a game, do you?' The admiral wiped his hands on the front of Ilin's shirt. 'More than six hundred people dead. Jadot is another. This isn't ink on paper in a Moscow file, this is real blood!'

'I did not kill him!' Ilin said angrily, roughly pushing away Grafton's hands.

'Stolen submarines, spies, lies… it's all a game to you, isn't it?' Grafton pressed fiercely. He grabbed a double handful of Ilin's coat and pulled him up short. 'Why don't you stop the fucking games and tell me the goddamn truth?'

'I've told you the truth,' Ilin protested, grabbing Grafton's wrists.

'No you haven't! You've lied to me. And now, by God, I want the truth!' Grafton shook him like a dog shaking a snake, then pushed him away.

Ilin almost fell. 'What lie?' he asked.

Keeping his hands to himself, Grafton moved closer. 'You didn't learn about the Blackbeard team from the SVR. That was a lie.'

Ilin adjusted his tie, straightened his coat. His face was expressionless.

'I've been checking. Those people were all held incommunicado. You didn't go to Connecticut to chat up one of them.'

Ilin straightened his shirt.

'Someone else told you about the Blackbeard team, then perhaps you told DeGarmo. He went to that party, all right. The Federal Protective Service provided a bodyguard. An American betrayed the team to the SVR. Either DeGarmo or someone else. It's entirely possible that you didn't talk to DeGarmo during the party, that he knew you already knew.'

Janos Ilin helped himself to a cigarette. He lit it, blew out smoke, then met Jake Grafton's steady gaze.

'Six hundred people dead, a stolen submarine,' Jake continued, insistent.

'DeGarmo didn't know I knew,' Ilin replied coolly. 'I could see it in his eyes.'

'Then who?'

'I can't tell you. The identity of that person is a state secret.'

'Your state.'

'Indeed. My state! That is the only state I'm interested in.'

Jake weighed his words before he spoke again. 'The problem is that you keep lying to me. The SVR didn't send you here to keep these three Europeans company. That was not a good lie. You could have done better.'

Ilin's eyes narrowed. 'I have underestimated you,' he said.

Jake Grafton was not to be denied. 'I think your bosses are worried that EuroSpace is going to get its hands on the SuperAegis satellite. You're here to make sure that doesn't happen.'

Ilin dropped his cigarette and stepped on it. 'They sent me here to watch you. They were worried that you Americans weren't smart enough to handle it.'

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The mood was somber at the office that afternoon after Jadot's death. Jake changed from his bloody uniform into his jogging clothes. Two secretaries and one of the junior officers went into the women's room and cried, several of the men felt like crying but didn't, so finally Jake Grafton sent everyone home except Tarkington and Carmellini, who were working on DeGarmo's hard drives.

The boss, General Blevins, was in Florida, huddled with the techies. The software gurus were narrowing down the possibilities of what might have gone wrong with the SuperAegis rocket. Blevins had brought in more experts from Space Command and felt he had to be present while the experts consulted.

Jake walked through the empty office, fingering this and that, trying to put the pieces of the puzzle together.

Washington, the dead city!

The newspapers were back in production, somehow, and people had proudly carried in copies this morning. A small symbol of normal life had returned, and welcome it was. The papers were full of predictions about when power and telephone service would be restored, when life would be 'back to normal.'

Normal.

And they were full of speculation about Kolnikov, America, and Tomahawk missiles. 'Where is Kolnikov?' screamed one banner headline. If only Kolnikov had known. With a good lawyer and the right public relations firm, the Russian skipper could probably beat the rap and sell a book for millions, perhaps even get a movie sale. Add in a highly publicized relationship with a naughty pop singer or starlet. . well, the possibilities boggled the imagination.

The question, though, was a good one. Where was Kolnikov?

Jake was drinking coffee and thinking about possible answers to that question when Krautkramer, the FBI special agent in charge,

came in.

Krautkramer told him more than he wanted to know about Myron Matheny. He grunted occasionally as he listened to the FBI agent, but he had no questions. When Krautkramer ran down, Jake said, 'Tell me about Peter Kerr.'

'The missing NASA specialist? What do you want to know?'