The hours raced by as Herbert sat in his little cubicle in the heart of the plane. As the engine roared and the sky brightened, Herbert consumed data as if he were a pigeon at an outdoor bake sale. He flitted from file to file, snagging a crumb of information here, another there. Everything Herbert read confirmed his initial suspicion: that this kind of trade was something in which a man like Darling would involve himself.

After the intelligence chief finished an initial read, he sat back in his wheelchair. “So how do we find out for certain whether you’re behind this disgusting little transaction?” he wondered aloud.

They would continue to look for the people who had actually made the presumed trade. But Herbert knew they might not find the radioactive bread crumbs they were looking for. Already, one boat had been destroyed and another had vanished. For all they knew, they could be dealing with submarines or aircraft as well. Perhaps the materials had been dropped somewhere else for pickup at some later date. The canvas of possibilities was huge.

“No,” he said. “Lowell had the right idea.”

They had to go after Jervis Darling himself. Directly and quietly. If he had been in a movie, Herbert would have put on thick glasses and pretended to be a paleontologist with a rare fossil to sell. FNO Loh would be his assistant. Darling would be suspicious, of course, and quiz them about dinosaur genera. Herbert would have boned up on his prehistoric animals, and what he did not know, his erudite aide would. They would win Darling’s confidence.

But this was real, and they needed a quick, comprehensive solution. One that would identify Darling as a participant. It would also, he hoped, stop the trafficking itself.

As the TR-1 banked into the light of the new day, Herbert saw a flash of orange on his computer monitor. A moment later he felt the delightful heat of the sun on the back of his neck.

And he got an idea. One that would not require him to pronounce pachycephalosaurus.

THIRTY-SEVEN - Washington, D.C. Friday, 7:44 P.M.

THIRTY-SEVEN

Washington, D.C. Friday, 7:44 P.M.

Paul Hood stepped into the parking lot. It was a dreary and overcast evening, but the cool air tasted sweet. It always did after he spent a day in Op-Center’s windowless, forced-air underground offices. He walked to his new Toyota Maxim for the forty-five-minute drive to his apartment. An apartment that was as empty as hell without the sounds of video games and ringing phones and the distinctive thumping of Alexander holding the handrail and wall and leaping down half a flight of stairs. But it was feeling a little more like home now. As much as leaving dirty shirts on the couch or renting the DVDs you wanted to see or eating chicken salad directly from Styrofoam take-out trays could make a place feel like home.