"These bullies can't yell at the stars, so they yell at you," he said. "I wouldn't worry about it."

"I won't, Mr. Buba," Jody lied, smiling. She picked up the clipboard hanging on the side of the trailer. Attached to it was a list of the scenes to be shot that day which detailed the props needed for every scene. "If that's the worst thing that happens while I'm here, I'll survive."

Mr. Buba smiled back at Jody as she climbed the steps. She would have killed right now for a smoke, but it wasn't permitted in the trailer and there wasn't time to stand around on the outside. She had to admit she'd have killed right now for even less. For instance, just to get Hollis out of her hair.

Upon reaching the doorway, Jody stopped suddenly and peered into the distance.

"Mr. Buba," she said, "I think I saw someone moving around in the woods."

The guard rose on the balls of his feet and looked over. "Where?"

"About a quarter of a mile away. They aren't in the shot yet, but I'd hate to be them if they ruin one of Lankford's takes."

"I agree," Buba said as he pulled the walkie-talkie from its belt-strap. "I don't know how they could have gotten through, but I'll have someone check on it."

As he radioed in the report, Jody returned to the trailer. She tried to forget about Lankford and his snit as she re-entered a darker world, a world where the tyrants carried weapons, not shooting scripts, and attacked nations instead of interns.

CHAPTER TWO

Thursday, 9:50 A.M.,

Hamburg, Germany

Paul Hood awoke with a start as the big jet thumped down on runway two at the Hamburg International Airport.

No-! yelled something deep inside of him.

His head resting against the sun-warmed shade, Hood kept his eyes shut and tried to hold onto the dream.

Just a moment longer.

But the engines screamed to slow the aircraft, and their roar blew the remnants of dream away. A moment later, Hood wasn't even sure what the dream had been, except that it had been deeply satisfying. With a silent oath, Hood opened his eyes, stretched his arms and legs, and surrendered to reality.

The lean, forty-three-year-old Director of Op-Center was stiff and sore after eight hours in the coach seat. At Op-Center, flights like these were called "shorts"-- not because that was where they hurt, though they did, and not because the flights were short. They'd gotten the name because they fell short of the thirteen-hour barrier, the minimum flight-time requirement for a government official to buy a spacious business-class seat. Bob Herbert believed that Japan and the Middle East received so much attention from the U.S. government because trade negotiators and diplomats liked flying in style. He predicted that the day twenty-four-hour flights earned officials a first-class seat, Australia would become the next trade or political battleground.