By Order of the President (Presidential Agent 1)

“How do you know?” Kennedy asked, almost openly suspicious.

Well, what the hell, he used to be an FBI agent; good cops check.

“I’ll admit it’s circumstantial. Two guys from Somalia, mullahs, were in Philadelphia at a Muslim temple. The Philadelphia cops—their counterterrorism people—took their pictures and gave them to the FBI to run. The FBI ran them and hit. They were legally in the States to go to flight school. We have confirmation from Spartan.”

“So there is a Philadelphia connection,” Pevsner said.

“Circumstantial or not, that sounds solid,” Kennedy said. “The one thing the bureau is good at is making IDs. They can do that with a computer; no original thought required.” He paused as if gathering his thoughts and then went on: “And, knowing this, it would be reasonable to assume several more things. They may not know how close we are to them, but they know we’re looking for the airplane. So how would intelligent pilots get a 727 to Philadelphia?”

“It’s your off-the-wall scenario, Howard. You tell me.”

Kennedy had just opened his mouth to speak when there was a faint musical rendition of the opening bars of Strauss’s Weiner Blut. Pevsner took a cellular telephone from his trousers pocket. He spoke in Russian.

“Yes?—

“TI? That’s all he got—

“Call him back and make sure that’s all he got.”

He punched the END key and put the telephone back in his pocket and looked between Castillo and Kennedy.

“I’m making up my mind whether I should tell you what that was,” Pevsner said. “I’m concerned that Charley might act impulsively.”

Everyone waited while he made up his mind. It took no longer than thirty seconds, but it seemed longer.

“The pilot of an aircraft that had to make an unscheduled stop—a warning light on the instrument panel suggested a hydraulic pressure problem—at El Vigia,” Pevsner said, finally, “reports that while the problem was being attended to he happened to see a 727 aircraft in a hangar. Registration numbers and other painting were going on. Unfortunately, all he could see was the TI prefix. He said it was still dark.”

“Damn!” Charley said. “What’s ‘TI’ mean?”

“And that they were pulling masking tape from freshly painted red, white, and blue stripes on the vertical stabilizer, ” Pevsner added.

“When was this?” Charley asked.

“About four hours ago,” Pevsner said. “He had to wait until he got to Bolivia—La Paz—before he could call.”

“TI is the Costa Rican registration suffix,” Colonel Torine said. “This pilot, Mr. Dondiemo . . .”

“If you call me ‘Mister,’ ” Pevsner said with a smile, “I’ll think you’re suggesting I call you ‘Colonel.’ ”

“Not at all, sir. Alex. How reliable is this pilot? Does he work for you?”

“He flies for an air cargo company with which I have a certain relationship. All of their pilots are reliable. As a matter of fact, now that I think about it, this one’s an American.”

“So they’re painting red, white, and blue stripes on the vertical stabilizer of a Costa Rican 727, so what?” Charley said.

“El Vigra is not a maintenance facility, Charley,” Kennedy said. “But if you want to change an airplane’s identity without anybody seeing you or asking questions . . .”

“Okay,” Castillo said, looking out the window at the ocean view then turning to the others, “let’s go with our 727 now flying Costa Rican colors. How does that fit in with your off-the-wall scenario?”

“I think it fits in very nicely, now that I’ve a moment to think,” Kennedy said. “Okay, let’s pick up the scenario . . .”

He stopped when Sergeant Sherman, trailed by the large East European Charley thought of as the guy who suckered me in the men’s room came into the apartment.

“Pretty soon, Major,” Sherman said as he sat down at the table where he’d put the control box and the special laptop computer. He plugged in the tan cable.

“One possibility, Charley,” Kennedy went on, “that you might wish to consider is that these people are going to substitute the airplane they’ve stolen for an airplane that can approach Philadelphia without causing suspicion; an airplane that routinely goes to Philadelphia.”

“Jesus,” Charley said.