From behind, headlights found the former diplomat. Donald turned and shielded his eyes as a jeep approached.

"Communing with the stars?" General Schneider said, climbing from the passenger's side. He walked over, an imposing silhouette.

"No, General. With my muse."

"You should have told me where you were going. If you didn't light up, we'd be searching till daylight."

"I haven't changed my mind, if that's what you've come about."

"No. I've got a message for you from your boss."

Donald felt his insides constrict. He hoped that the General hadn't gone to the White House.

General Schneider told him what Herbert had said, and Donald felt an enormous weight lift from his shoulders. Not only was there the satisfaction of his and Kim Hwan's initial hunch having been correct, but there was every chance that now this brushfire could be stamped out.

Strangely enough, he thought, he wasn't surprised about Major Lee. When they had met earlier, there was something in his eye, in the last glance he gave, that wasn't quite right. There was intelligence, but also an edge-- suspicion, perhaps, or maybe contempt.

"I won't pretend that I'm happy with this," Schneider concluded, "but I won't stand in your way now."

"Were you going to before?"

"I was leaning strongly in that direction, yes. I still plan to go on record as being opposed to conciliation, but it takes all kinds to make a world." Schneider headed back to the car. "Get in. I'll give you a ride back."

"I think I'll walk. Clear the head a bit."

Schneider didn't look back as he climbed into the jeep. His orderly swung it around and drove off, dust and diesel fumes hanging in their wake.

Donald walked after them, puffing with contentment, knowing that Soonji would be surprised and proud of how things had gone.

As he walked, he felt a prick at the back of his neck. He reached back to scratch it, touched steel, and froze.

"Ambassador Donald," said a familiar voice as the knife traced a sharp path from his nape to just beneath his chin.

Donald felt a trickle of blood slip down his neck and under the knot of his tie as he saw Major Lee's face burning a dull red in the glow of the pipe.

CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

Tuesday, 5:30 P.M., Op-Center

As Ann Farris entered Matt Stoll's office, the operations Support Officer snickered.

"Gee, folks," Stoll said, "don't put too much pressure on me or anything."

Paul Hood was sitting on a small leather couch in the back of the room. There was a twenty-five-inch TV screen in the ceiling and a video-game console on a shelf, and Stoll retired to the well-worn piece of furniture whenever he needed to relax and think.

"Not trying to pressure you," Hood said. "Just want to know the instant you get the satellites back."

"We'll be quiet," Ann said as she sat down. She looked at Hood, her eyes full of sadness. "Paul, I can't lie to you. We're going to get murdered on this, even if we're right."