It's a pattern, completely secret, but the outlines are there and I'll recognize them."
"Our researchers are working on everything you wanted. You should have it all within a few days. It will be couriered to you in North Carolina."
"Another compound?"
"No, a mountain retreat consisting of a dozen terribly expensive condominiums in the Great Smokies. You should be quite comfortable at the unknowing taxpayers' expense."
"Hold it!" cried Scofield, his eyes on a scrap of silver metal on the tarmac. He reached down and picked it up.
"It's from the Black Hawk that bombed us to hell," he said, spitting and rubbing the surface with his thumbnail.
"How do you figure?" asked the deputy director of the CIA.
"Our patrols fired back on the second or third pass and blew apart a small section of the fuselage. It couldn't be anything else."
"So?"
"The paint's relatively new. Send this to Sikorsky. Maybe they can trace it to the original aircraft."
"I'm not sure I understand you, Brandon."
"It's part of a maybe-maybe answer-maybe."
"What is?"
"The Black Hawk that bombed and strafed us was a fake, disguised by the Matarese. Find out from Sikorsky who leased or bought an MH-Sixty K Special Operations chopper within the last six weeks."
"I thought you left that world behind."
"Antonia asked questions. One of the RDF gunslingers identified it."
Cameron Pryce and Antonia Scofield had gathered the personal effects of the dead and wounded-a chore the guilt-ridden Scofield could not accept. The unpleasant task finished, they joined Brandon and Frank Shields at the touchdown tarmac, along with Lieutenant Colonel Leslie Montrose.
"We'll be escorted to North Carolina by four F-sixteens, two circling in front, two behind," said the deputy director as the four compounders put what luggage they possessed on board.
The Black Hawk helicopter spiraled off the ground, Shields in the flight deck with the pilot and the flight officer, Scofield seated next to
his wife, and Pryce with Montrose. For the latter two, the first airborne moments were awkward, neither knowing what to say to the other.
Finally, Cameron spoke.
"I'm sorry, truly sorry-about everything."
"So am I," replied the Army officer coolly.
"Would you have allowed Mr. Scofield to kill me?"
"That's a tough question. I thought you were responsible for the air strike ... at the time I probably would have. Men were killed, a lot more wounded. My reaction was pretty violent."
"Mine would have been, too. I can understand that."
"Then why the hell didn't you tell us about your situation?"
"I was told not to, ordered not to."
"By whom? A guy named Thomas Cranston?"
"I knew you'd find out. Yes, Tom Cranston, and with the authority of his boss, the President."
"Why?"
"Because Cranston didn't trust the CIA's ability to thoroughly screen the compound. It turns out he was right, wasn't he?"
"A good friend of mine, who's up in the flight deck right now, is agonizing about that. He's in real pain."
"They're everywhere, Mr. Pryce, whoever they are they're everywhere! And we can't see them, we can't find them!"
"You don't know who they are?"
"I only know the terrible phone calls from places like Cairo and Paris and Istanbul, telling me what will happen to my son! What would you do in my position?"
"Exactly what you did, lady. Go to the top, if you can, not the amorphous, leak-prone middle."
"Cranston told me that there were channels above the intelligence community, or below, if you like, who could make threats no one else could match. I'm a mother, I want my son back! His father died in the service of his country, and I'm all he has left. If I can't have him, I'll die trying, which I'm perfectly willing to do. I'm a soldier, and I know the risks, and I'll go to the last extremity to get what's due me. Which is why, thank God, I was able to go to the top. You're part of a flawed organization, Mr. Pryce, and I'll go around you to get my boy back. My husband and I have given enough!"
"May I make a suggestion?" asked Pryce, letting the emotion of the moment subside.
"I'll listen to any suggestion as long as I believe the person making it is on my side."
"I'm on your side, Colonel. So is Frank Shields, so are the Scofields."
"I'm sure you are, as far as you can be."
"I don't know what that means."
"You have your own agendas, and you have to cover your asses reputations is a gentler way of putting it. I have only one agenda, the safe return of my son."
"Not to contradict you," said Cameron softly, "and I don't mean to, but it seems to me you handled your responsibilities back at the compound extremely well. It was hardly your primary agenda."
"Tom Cranston told Ev Bracket that it might be connected, so between them they got me the assignment."
"Might be connected? That's all you know?"
"Beyond the existence of a terrorist organization whose targets are you and the Scofields, especially Mr. Scofield, we aren't on a need-to know basis regarding specifics."
"You bought that shit?" said Pryce angrily.
"Excuse my language, but it is pure shit-sophistry is the gentler way of putting it."
"I buy that shit, or sophistry, because I believe in the chain of command. I grant you it, too, has its flaws, but it's far more often right than wrong. Information in the hands of the inexpert or inexperienced can be extremely dangerous."
"Give me a specific."
"I think it's encapsulated in that old World War Two poster.
"Loose lips sink ships."
" "Even among those who're skippering those ships?"
"If they should know, they'll know."
"Has it ever occurred to you that if even one captain of a ship isn't informed, he may crash into another vessel?"
"I'm sure such possibilities are always factored.. .. What is your point, Mr. Pryce?"
"You're a major player, Colonel, and you don't have the whole picture-you should have. I'd think you'd demand it, considering Everett Bracket's death, his murder, to be precise. He was your friend, a very close friend. In your place, I'd be terribly sad and angry as hell."
"I mourn in my own way, Mr. Pryce. I lost a husband, remember?
As to anger, believe me, it's there.. .. What was your suggestion? I recall you said you had one."
"And you've just reinforced my argument for your taking it."
"I beg your pardon?"
"The chain of command you're so fond of-it's being misused and abused. A meeting's been arranged between me, the Scofields, and Cranston; Shields insisted on it. But you're not going to be there."
"Oh?" Leslie's eyes reflected her instinctive suspicion and her reluctant acceptance.
"I think you should be," Cameron continued quickly.
"I repeat, you're a major player with a great deal at stake. You should have the whole picture, not just fragments. Sometimes we carry the need-to know maxim too damned far until the left hand isn't sure where the right hand is. Take my word for it, I've been there in the cold. You should be at that meeting."
"There's not much I can do about it," said Montrose in a caustic monotone.
"Undersecretary Cranston made a decision. I'm sure he had his reasons."
"They're famous. He's concerned about your very personal involvement. He thinks you might fold."
"I resent that."
"So do I. What I resent even more is that, de facto, he's eliminating any contributions you might make."
"How could I do that?"
"It would depend on what was said in the calls to you. Were you able to tape any of them?"
"No. The men who spoke to me-different men-said they had equipment that could detect such devices, and if they were activated, the consequences would be severe. However, every conversation was indelibly printed
on my mind and in a notebook back in a safe in my house."
"Does Cranston have that notebook, or copies of the pages?"
"No, I simply gave him summaries."
"He was satisfied with that?"
"It's what he asked for."
"He's not only famous, he's an idiot," said Pryce.
"I think he's a very brilliant and caring man."
"He may be both, but he's also an idiot. And how can you say that?