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WHITE HOUSE

It was not yet 7:00 A.M. on the east coast, and already Robert Coleman looked tired. He had been up since five. “OK. Let’s go over this thing one more time.” The President got up from his chair and began pacing in a large circle around the couch. “First of all, what was she doing there?”

“I think that’s obvious,” Stark said. “Especially given Kirby’s involve­ment. She was trying to cut some sort of deal with him for TPL. That’s how I see it.”

“So you think she knew.”

Stark responded with skepticism. “About our intentions regarding Imtech? That we were planning to use access to TPL as a bargaining tool? I don’t see how… Mind you. She’s very sharp.”

Coleman rolled his head in Stark’s direction. “Hardly very sharp last night though, was she?”

Stark remained expressionless in the face of his boss’s pointless remark.

“And this terrorist group. Definitely Mexican in origin?”

“Appears that way. But we’ll need some hard evidence before we issue a statement to that effect. With a possible change of power in Mexico in the next twenty-four hours… Well, we’re looking at a potentially explosive situation.”

“Explosive,” Coleman said, glancing uncertainly at Stark.

His chief of staff studied the black leather binding of the folder in his lap. Choosing his words carefully he said, “It would be comforting to know that the individuals who orchestrated last night’s attack were just members of some radical left wing group of maniacs who acted entirely within the limits of their own capability.”

“But?”

“But somehow they knew where and when to find her. They were well-armed, well-trained, and — ”

“How do we know they were well-trained?”

“Because we have eight of Montoya’s personal bodyguards lying on steel gurneys in the San Diego Coroner’s Office. Not to mention that they somehow managed to waltz freely across the border — and presumably had every intention of going back the same way — despite it having supposedly been shut tighter than a frog’s butt for over a year now… Chief.”

Coleman pretended not to notice Stark’s somewhat florid assessment of the situation. He continued to walk, his hands joined behind his back.

“So we conclude they had help… Who do we expect to be appointed in Montoya’s absence?”

“The obvious candidate would be Fernando Lopez de Gomara. Mon­toya handpicked him herself as her replacement. If she were to die prema­turely he would automatically be expected to assume charge. On the other hand I would not have pegged him for this sort of thing.”

“Why not?”

“He seems to be genuine friends with Montoya. She went out of her way to groom him for the position. Elections were delayed this year but it’s just a matter of months. Why turn around and stick a knife in her back now? What does he have to gain from it?”

Coleman’s intercom buzzed.

He went over and leaned across his desk. “Didn’t I ask not to be disturbed?”

“I’m sorry, sir,” his secretary said through the intercom. “It’s Mr. Moss. He says he needs to speak with you. Urgently.” Harry Moss was Cole­man’s National Security Advisor.

“Have him wait. I need a couple more minutes here.” Coleman took his finger off the intercom button. “If not Gomara, then who else might have wanted her dead?”

“Sergio Solano.”

Coleman didn’t look any the wiser.

“Her Attorney General,” Stark said. “It’s an odd situation. Montoya was forced to appoint him even though he’s a member of the ousted P.R.I. Their relationship has always had a strained quality to it. I’d say there’s some bad blood there.”

“Why did she appoint him?”

“His brother is General Mario Solano. He was instrumental in Mon­toya’s campaign to rebuild the military from ground up. Mario’s shown remarkable loyalty to her. But he did lobby for his brother when the former A.G. was killed in a boating accident two years ago. Since then Montoya has been forced to tolerate Sergio in order to retain her influence over the military with Mario.”

The President dropped into his chair. “You think this Solano is capable of pulling off what happened last night?”

“If Solano can beat out de Gomara for the presidency it would put the P.R.I. back in power. And given the stalled nature of her administration of late, a lot of people might support that.” A thought occurred to Stark and he clicked his fingers. “Especially if Montoya failed to make good on her promises to have the border reopened. She can’t do that if she never makes it here, can she?”

Coleman nodded slowly in agreement. “Maybe. But what if Montoya is still alive?”

“Then that would really ruin the attorney general’s plans, wouldn’t it? Presuming we can find her. And that means finding the Kirbys.”

“You’re sure about that?” Coleman had a worried look about him that Stark couldn’t immediately account for.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Christ, Leon! This is the guy my wife’s supposed to have been sup­porting all these years. And now we’re saying, hey, maybe this guy is part of a conspiracy to overthrow the government of a neighbor of ours. Tell me if I’m being paranoid, but this worries me just a little.” Coleman was clearly restraining himself. He had every right to be worried. “Just how sure are we that the FBI is chasing the right guy? Because, by Jove, we’re going to look like a bunch of fools if it turns out he’s got nothing to do with this!”

“That’s true,” Stark conceded. “But consider the evidence. If Kirby isn’t at least partly responsible, he has certainly done a remarkable job of implicating himself, nonetheless. First of all, he makes contact with Mon­toya in Geneva. Then he arranges to have her come to San Diego on the presumption that by doing so she’s going to be able to tap into TPL at the source.”

Coleman raised his eyebrows.

“Speculation, I admit. But reasonable under the circumstances… He then goes out to the airport to meet her. Tells her his wife has had an acci­dent, and gets her to accompany him to Mercy Hospital. We know this from statements given by the surviving member of Montoya’s entourage. But when they arrive at the hospital Kirby’s wife is apparently nowhere to be found. And that’s when our trigger happy friends come out of nowhere.”

“I have to agree it doesn’t look good so far,” Coleman said.

“It gets better. Somehow Kirby makes it out of there unharmed, despite being in the thick of the action. Then he’s seen following Montoya and the guy who nabbed her out of the parking lot. Everyone naturally assumes he’s giving chase…”

“Whereas you think he might simply have been making his escape?”

Stark spread his hands noncommittally.

“And this Kirby ends up killing the other guy?” Coleman said, still reluctant to believe the picture being presented to him. “For what reason? And where is Montoya? Why didn’t they just kill her outright? Why bother to kidnap her?”

Stark collected his black folder and stood up. “I guess we’ll find out when we catch him. Preliminary FBI forensics indicate that he did handle the gun that fired the bullet retrieved from the body discovered at the Olympic Training Center. They found the gun in a nearby lake early this morning.”

The President let out a heavy sigh. “What a mess.” He leaned forward and reached for the intercom. “Send Mr. Moss in now, would you?”

Stark went to leave.

“Stay.”

The door to the Oval Office opened and Coleman’s National Security Advisor walked in quickly, shutting the door behind him.

“What is it, Harry?”

Moss glanced at Stark. “It’s good that you’re here, Leon.” He turned to meet the President’s eyes. “Sir, we may have a situation developing in the Gulf of Mexico. USS Reagan reports an F 22 downed by a missile while investigating a Mayday from an oil rig off the coast of Mexico. It was one of ours. From what we’ve been able to determine, a platoon-sized unit of armed soldiers boarded it at five this morning.” He didn’t have to add that they had been Mexican soldiers. “Their radio operator managed to get off a brief Mayday before contact was lost.”

“Christ. And the pilot?”

“Dead, sir. A Captain Kristin Miller.”

Coleman looked blank for a second. “Kristin? Good God. A woman?”

“Seems so.”

“Anyone else injured?”

“So far she’s the only confirmed casualty. A second pilot managed to escape without incident. But we may have a hostage situation on our hands. Reagan reports unsuccessful attempts to make contact with seven other drilling platforms operating under international charter in that area. We’re trying to get a response from Mexico City. But so far, nobody’s taking responsibility for this.”

“Somebody will,” Stark noted. “You can’t take out a U.S. plane and expect not to have to deal with the consequences.”

“What in the hell do they think they’re playing at?” Coleman wondered incredulously. “They must be mad. Don’t they know who they’re dealing with?”

“I think we’d have to assume they understand at least that much,” Moss answered.

“I agree,” Stark said. “Which means we probably don’t know what we’re up against just yet.”

Moss nodded. “And I for one don’t think we should be waiting around to find out.”

Coleman was up and moving again. “If you have a plan then let me hear it. Because I want this thing resolved fast.” He banged his fist on the desk. “A woman for chrissakes!”

EL CENTRO

He woke staring at a brick wall. Standing over him in the alley was a disheveled figure blocking the sun.

Kirby blinked, still groggy, his right cheek pressed against the concrete. The old wino leaned down and brought his yellow-bearded face in close. A fish-like stench clung to the old man and his sour breath sent Kirby scrambling to sit up. He put his hands to his head and closed his eyes. His head throbbed. So did his back. He vaguely remembered the fall from the previous night, but nothing since then. He didn’t know where he was, or how long he’d been there, and when he went to check his watch he found it missing.

The wino tried to put his dirty hand inside Kirby’s sweater, but Kirby pushed him away and stood up. He felt for his wallet. It was gone. So were his keys. The old man wandered away cussing to himself.

Kirby looked about, trying to take stock of his situation. It was early morning sometime, and he seemed to be somewhere on the outskirts of the city. With his head and back aching he walked to the end of the alley where he could see a main road, though there was little sign of any traffic.

When he got there he looked around — saw a few shops, most of them not yet open for business. Across the street was a diner with the lights on and a pink neon sign over its door that read All American Cafe.

Kirby crossed the road.

A middle-aged woman stood behind the counter in a yellow apron watching him as he came in. Above her on the wall was a plate-shaped clock with the hours marked off in pink plastic numerals, from which he could see that it was eight fifteen.

Kirby said he was lost. He asked her where he was.

The woman gave him a strange look.

“How many miles to town?” he asked.

She returned him a wry smile, as though the joke were on him. “Honey,” she said, “if this ain’t it you really are lost.”

Kirby patted his empty pockets. “I think I was mugged… Can I use a phone?”

“Local call?”

He nodded. “San Diego. Please. It’s urgent.” He stepped toward her.

“Mister, that ain’t no local call. If you want to call someone here in El Centro then I’ll consider it, but — ”

“El Centro?”

Kirby turned and looked back out the window at the street. Where was El Centro?

“You said you were mugged?”

Absently, Kirby felt for his wallet again. “How far from San Diego am I?”

The woman started around the counter. “You seem a bit confused. Why don’t you sit down and I’ll fix you a cup of coffee. After that we can sort out where you want to go.”

Kirby allowed himself to be led to a seat. He could do with a moment to think. “San Diego?” he reminded her as she headed back to the kitchen.

“You’re about ninety miles east of there,” she said disappearing into the back.

While she was gone he noticed an unread copy of the morning paper on the counter. He got back up and opened it out, expecting to see that the events of the previous evening had made it into the morning edition.

They had. The upper half front page of the L.A. Times showed the scene of mayhem outside Mercy after Kirby had left the hospital. A dozen police and fire department vehicles were clustered around the base of the hospital while flames leaped into the air from the upper floors of the building. Underneath the picture were three separate photographs of Montoya, Ramirez, and Kirby himself. His was a cropped version of the photo taken on the steps of the United Nations building. The headline read “Mexican President Kidnapped in San Diego!”

Kirby quickly skimmed the story. Ramirez was dead. So were eight bodyguards and five of the ‘terrorists,’ as the paper described them. The identity of the group responsible for the attack was not yet known. A source close to the investigation claimed that — due to the fire on the sev­enth floor — identification of the bodily remains would take some time.

A minivan, believed to have been used by the group, had been recov­ered at the hospital and hauled off by the FBI for analysis. The rest of the story described how the only surviving gunman had managed to escape with Montoya by driving off in one of her cars. Kirby was reported to have given chase. A description of the cars was given and the public was re­minded of Kirby’s recent appearance in the news the week before, as the ‘discoverer of a cure for AIDS.’ The story ended with his departure from the hospital parking lot. According to the paper, both he and Montoya were still missing.

But I spoke to Anders, he thought. He knew where I was. Surely the police had tracked Montoya as far as the Olympic Training Center. Why wasn’t that mentioned? And what was he doing there in El Centro? All Kirby could remember was landing on his back on the gymnasium floor, then waking up in the alley across the street.

He decided not to stick around for the cup of coffee. He left the shop. He could call San Diego collect at the nearest pay phone. First he would try Mercy, to see how Cassie was doing. He remembered that Anders had said she was all right. Then he would call the police.

Half a block from the shop he spotted a phone on the other side of the street. It was at the corner of an intersection.

Kirby crossed the street.

He dialed the operator. Just around the corner from him an open-back truck was parked outside an appliance store. Two men were unloading large cardboard boxes from the truck and wheeling them inside. Kirby could see televisions through the store window, some of them turned on.

“City and listing?”

Kirby recognized the CBS news logo as it flashed onto the screen.

“Sorry, I’ll have to get back to you.”

He hung up and went over to the store. A CBS special news report was coming onto the TV sets in the window. He tried to go in.

“They don’t open till nine,” one of the deliverymen said testily.

Kirby was forced to watch from the pavement as Montoya’s face ap­peared on screen. Under it were the words “President’s Whereabouts?”

The sound on all the sets was turned down. An anchorwoman appeared, followed shortly by footage of a corpse being removed from a building in a black plastic body bag. It was a night-time scene with shots of a vehicle from the San Diego Coroner’s Office in the background. The next shot showed the camera panning across the top of a gateway arch, identifying the location as the Arco training facility out at the lake.

But who was in the bag? It could not have been Montoya. They were still looking for her.

Had the gunman he’d fought with the night before been killed in their fall from the catwalk? It was possible. But if that was the case, who was responsible for bringing him out here?

A chill went up his spine as two faces appeared on screen. One was his — the same photo that had appeared in the paper. The other showed Cassie. An 888 number was displayed along with the words “FBI Hotline.”

Kirby’s stomach felt like a ball of ice. He hurried back to the phone on the corner and dialed the number he had seen on the screen. As he waited he glanced around the street. Seeing Cassie’s face on TV had unnerved him. He could understand if the FBI was seeking his whereabouts, but why had Cassie’s picture been shown?

Someone came on the line. “You have reached an official FBI informa­tion processing center. If you have information regarding — ”

“I need to speak to — ”

“ — the whereabouts of the following persons please stay on the line.” It was a recording.

As a description of Montoya played out, a police car appeared at the end of the street. Kirby watched it speed along the road toward him. Slowly, he dropped the receiver. The car skidded to a halt outside the diner where he had just been. Two uniformed officers leaped out and drew their weapons as they approached the entrance. Then somebody stuck his head out the back window of the police car. It looked like the wino Kirby had seen in the alley.

Kirby stared in disbelief as the officers disappeared into the cafe. Why were their weapons drawn? Seeing them like that gave him a real bad feeling about just what their intentions might be.

He changed his mind. He was suddenly not that keen about being picked up. Not by the local police force of some tiny hick town. His in­stincts told him to get out of there, and to do it fast.

Doors slammed behind him. The engine of the delivery truck turned over.

Kirby didn’t hesitate. He reached the back of the truck just as it was pulling away. It wasn’t easy jumping in. But he managed to hoist himself over the retaining board, and soon he was lying on his back, staring up at the sky, listening to the sound of the engine as the truck moved away down the road.

DAMAGE CONTROL

Stark stood next to the cameraman. He watched like a concerned parent as the makeup artist applied powder to the President’s face with a fine-haired brush. The chief of staff glanced nervously at a nearby TV monitor.

“How does he look?”

“Picture perfect,” the cameraman replied.

Stark’s concern was that Coleman would appear tired. His boss had managed little sleep since learning of Montoya’s abduction. And then he’d risen at five that morning just to be sure the proper people were doing whatever it took to find her. “What I want to know,” the President had repeatedly yelled over the phone to the heads of a half dozen separate law-enforcement agencies, “is how we could lose her in a goddamn place like San Diego. It’s practically a beach town. You get your people down there and you find her!”

Since then the crisis seemed to have mushroomed into a global affair. Not only had they lost a pilot in the vicinity of the U.S.-owned Trident, the autonomy of several other drilling platforms was now in doubt. A Japanese oil consortium had reported losing contact with a natural gas production facility it operated in the Gulf of Mexico. Norsk Hydro of Norway had not heard from one of its oil platforms. Nor had Petrobas of Brazil, Saudi Arabia’s Aramco, and British Petroleum. When Coleman went on TV he wouldn’t need to convince only the American public that he was in control of the situation — the eyes governments all around the world would be focused upon him. Which was why Stark’s own eyes flittered madly about the scene before him. He felt a tremendous pressure to make sure nothing was overlooked. If Coleman looked good, and sounded good, then so did the country. It was that simple.

Stark felt the need to remind himself that his apprehension was really misplaced. After all, he had witnessed many times the minor miracle that took place whenever Coleman stepped in front of a camera. Like his most successful forebears, the President was possessed a curiously well-developed ability to make people see what he wanted them to see. Cole­man was what his National Security Advisor, Harry Moss, had aptly described as a “mood engineer.” It was the reason he was in office.

Stark’s eyes were glued to the monitor as the Special Report graphic dis­solved from the screen. He wanted to see what the public was seeing, even though Coleman was standing directly in front of him.

Without smiling, the President stared into the camera. He appeared concerned, yet confident. And he looked fully rested, Stark was happy to note.

“My fellow Americans,” the President began. “Last night in the city of San Diego our nation became the unwilling host to a barbarous act of political terrorism, the likes of which have never before been witnessed this side of the Mexican border.”

Already Coleman was hinting at the origin of the attack.

“While on route to Washington to begin a welcome series of informal exchanges between our two countries, the rightfully elected representative of the Mexican people and nine of her aides were the subject of a vicious and cowardly attack.”

Stark’s choice of words ‘rightfully elected’ was meant to reinforce in the minds of astute observers the possibility of political sabotage from within the ranks of the Mexican government. Even though the President’s speech had been carefully designed to leave clues like an unobtrusive trail of bread crumbs, the message was clear enough. This is not due to any fault of our own, he was telling them.

“Yesterday evening, upon learning of the abduction of President Mon­toya, and the senseless death of her chief of staff, Miguel Ramirez, at the hands of hooded assassins, we shared in the shock and the outrage of the Mexican people. Even as a search was being mounted by local authorities to find the President, this office, acting through the Justice Department’s Federal Bureau of Investigation, was in the process of launching an inves­tigative and recovery effort of a scale unprecedented in our nation’s his­tory. To the citizens of Mexico in this time of mourning and confusion, and on behalf of the American people, this government hereby pledges to take every possible measure to find the President, and bring swiftly to justice those responsible for these unconscionable crimes against your country.”

Good, Stark thought. Very good. The President shows his sympathies to the Mexican people, pledges his commitment to finding Montoya and striking a blow against terrorism, and then…

A hand bearing a sheet of paper appeared on-screen to the President’s right. Coleman appeared to be caught by surprise and leaned sideways to confer with someone. A few seconds later the cameraman seemed to have decided that the disappearance of the President’s head off the edge of the screen, and the vacuous blue-curtained background which supplanted it, warranted a pan to the left to inform the nation of the reason for the delay. Now the camera revealed Coleman conversing outside audio range with his National Security Advisor. Stark held his breath as Coleman’s attention alternated between the sheet of paper he had been handed and a distant spot in the room as Moss whispered in his ear.

The President’s expression turned grim.

You’ve just been given bad news, Stark thought, going over the scripted sequence of events in his head. You’re stunned.

Coleman exchanged words with Moss. He shut his eyes, opened them. Took a deep breath and let it out again. Every signal he sent to the camera said, I am not receiving good news. Prepare yourself.

Stark felt himself charged with energy. The mild deception unfolding before him had been his idea. Moss had had to be coaxed, but he’d gone along with it in the end.

Coleman returned to the podium, the camera tightening on his head. He stared at the sheet of paper in his hands, and appeared to be choosing his words carefully. When he looked up he said, “Just a moment ago I was handed a statement from Admiral Davis, Commander-in-Chief of the Atlantic Fleet.”

The President’s earlier look of calm commitment in the face of crisis now gave way to a visible expression of disbelief and just-contained anger. Standing beside the TV camera, Stark watched approvingly as Coleman lowered his eyes to read. His boss was a chameleon. A bright lizard adapting with ease to an ever-changing background of color.

“Earlier this morning,” he began — and in doing so deliberately ob­scured the question of exactly when it had happened, which was actually over five hours ago now, but played better if it appeared he’d just found out about it — “an F-22 flown by a pilot of the U.S. Navy was diverted to the Gulf of Mexico in response to a call for help from a United States oil-recovery platform operating under charter in the region. Approximately one hour later, while performing a visual flyby to investigate the possible occupation of the rig by Mexican soldiers, at least three surface-to-air missiles were launched without warning against the responding aircraft…”

Coleman raised his eyes and looked into the camera with complete neutrality, as if he were rekindling some almost forgotten memory of the past. “Carrier USS Reagan confirms the F-22 was shot down over the Campeche Sea. The pilot is not believed to have had time to eject from her aircraft.”

Coleman did not play up the fact that it was a woman pilot who had been lost. Stark had been clear on that. “Let them dwell upon it themselves…”

The President went on to condemn the actions of those responsible for the incident and demanded an immediate explanation from the Mexican government. He made it clear that unless Mexico City fronted up to its actions the U.S. would be “forced to respond to the situation.” The Presi­dent’s speech ended there, having achieved the intended effect. Those who had seen it televised live — who had initially been moved by Mexico’s plight and were concerned for the fate of its missing leader — were now aghast at the actions of their southern neighbors.

In less than a minute, phones were ringing across the capital.

Kirby stood at the side of the road trying to hitch a ride. He had jumped from the delivery truck when it slowed at the eastbound entrance to the I-8 freeway. He was headed in the other direction, back to San Diego.

Finally a brown utility vehicle slowed down and pulled over to the side of the road. The driver turned out to be a seventy-year-old horse breeder on his way to San Diego to visit his granddaughter in hospital.

“Do you mind if I listen to the news?” Kirby asked, gesturing at the radio.

“I’m not sure it even works. But you can try if you like.”

Kirby fiddled with the radio. His fingers slipped on the dial, but finally he got a music station. He twisted the dial again, stopping when he heard a newscaster’s voice. The reception was so bad he could barely hear the words. The signal kept going in and out along the road.

“…on the lookout for two missing persons this morning,” — a hissing buzz — “… pair may be able to help the FBI with their investigation into the bloody kidnapping of — ” The radio faded, then came back up, “ — Diego early yesterday evening, after it was revealed that the wife of the man who apparently gave chase from,” — a hissing buzz again — “… has also disappeared.” The newscast faded away for a second time.

Who had disappeared? Cassie?

“Really should do something about that one day,” the owner said look­ing down at his radio. It came back on again.

“…and his wife Cassie are now wanted for questioning in connection with the kidnapping, after the body of one of the men responsible for Montoya’s disappearance was discovered at the San Diego U.S. Olympic Training Center, after a tip-off from an anonymous source. Police say the whereabouts of President Montoya is still unknown. Richard and Cassie Kirby are described as…”

Kirby switched the radio off.

How could she be missing? The last time he’d seen her, she had been confined to a hospital bed. Rawley had been with her. How could she have simply disappeared?

Kirby rubbed at his eyes. He looked away from the old man, trying desperately to make sense of it all. But instead, he felt overwhelmed.

Through a pitted window the desert flowed past in a blur.

Finally, he realized the old man was talking to him, and turned his way.

“I said, that’s the hospital where my granddaughter is. Mercy. I’m going there to see if she’s OK. That’s where those people were killed last night.”

Kirby gazed at him, glad for the distraction.

“What floor?” he said.

“Huh?”

“What floor is your granddaughter on?”

“Ah… Four. Why?” The old man glanced at Kirby.

“I’m sure she’s OK,” Kirby said. He stared down the road and thought about his wife. “She’ll be fine.”

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