"And to the crash of the 747 commuter plane in Los Angeles some months back. American investigators attributed its explosion after takeoff to a spark in the conductive wiring inside its center fuel tank. This was true. But the cause of the spark remained undetermined in official reports, and the abrupt retirement of a senior FBI official who publicly speculated that it might have been a microwave pulse was swept under the agency's very large carpet." Kuhl paused. "Again, I am convinced beyond doubt that Ilkanovitch's claim of responsibility is genuine ... and Havoc is many, many times more effective than the ground-based device that ignited the fuel tank. Imagine the destruction of not a single plane, but of dozens with the targeting of a major airport's air traffic control system. Imagine the chaos that would arise from the total disruption of civil electronic systems and communications grids in a city such as New York or London. Havoc will achieve superb results. It will make the entire world hostage to our demands."

DeVane looked at him.

"Tell me what you've learned about Gordian's proposed reinforcement of the Cosmodrome."

"It's as we foresaw. My intelligence is that he's succeeded in convincing the officials at Baikonur to let him provide additional security. Much of the support is being brought over from the UpLink ground station in Kaliningrad, though he is drawing upon other assets as well ... all meant to prevent anything from interfering with the shuttle's launch."

"So he is playing into our hands. Without being aware of our true goal, thinking we mean to cripple the ISS program, his security measures will be misdirected."

"Exactly."

DeVane looked at him another moment, then nodded.

"Good enough," he said. "You have sufficient manpower in Kazakhstan to implement our strike?"

"Yes," Kuhl replied. "With added elements leaving from our base in the Pantanal tomorrow night."

"Those men will be transporting the device, I take it?"

"Yes."

"Then let us be expeditious and move within a few days," DeVane said.

"Yes."

DeVane turned over his last three cards and nodded with satisfaction, his smile lengthening, his lips parting slightly to show his small, white front teeth.

"Aces, Siegfried," he said, "We're all aces."

As the sun was setting in Bolivia it was blazing an ascendant track through the Kazakhstan sky halfway around the world, where the latest stream of UpLink helicopters and transport planes had begun to arrive at the military airfield in Leninsk, some twenty miles south of the Baikonur Cosmodrome.

His hand visored over his eyes to shield it from the desert brightness, Yuri Petrov stood looking out at the tarmac as a wide-bellied Lockheed transport made its final approach. He scowled. Perhaps he ought to feel something like gratitude for the assistance he was receiving from UpLink, but instead he felt ... what? Outrage was more than he could muster these days, and he had worn indignation on his back for so long it was like an old, threadbare shirt. How could it be otherwise?