Janson sat in the second-floor study, staring at a yellow pad. Janson’s eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep; a headache pounded behind his eyes. He had been in scrambler communication with the surviving members of the Mobius Program. None was sanguine, or even pretended to be.

If Novak were arriving in the country, how would he do so? What were the chances that border control would alert them of his arrival? An advisory had gone out to every airport, private and public, in the country. Airport officials were notified that because of “credible threats” to Peter Novak’s life, it was crucial to report his whereabouts to a special security task force coordinated by the U.S. State Department and devoted to the protection of foreign dignitaries.

He phoned Derek Collins, who was on Phipps Island, where the size of the National Guard contingent had been tripled. In the background he heard the jangle of a dog’s collar.

“Gotta say, Butch has really taken to this place,” Collins said. “Hell, the sorry-ass mutt’s actually growing on me. With all that’s been happening, it’s kind of relaxing having him around. Of course, the workmen who were here yesterday fixing things up didn’t exactly take to him—he kept looking at them like they were food. But I bet you’re calling for a status report on other matters.”

“What’s the word?”

“The good news is, the cobra’s en route—we’re pretty sure, anyway. The bad news is, Nell Pearson’s body was discovered yesterday. The Mrs. Novak of record. Supposedly a suicide. Slit her wrists in her bathtub. So that thread’s been snipped off.”

“Christ,” said Janson. “Think she was murdered?”

“Naw, it was a ‘cry for help.’ Of course she was fucking murdered. But nobody will ever be able to prove it.”

“What a goddamn waste,” Janson said. There was lead in his voice.

“Moving right along,” Collins said bleakly, “nobody’s sighted Puma. Zip, nada, nothing. Four reports of look-alikes, quickly falsified. The fact is, our guy might not be arriving from overseas—he might already be in the country. And he’d find it child’s play to arrive incognito. This is a large, populous country with more than five hundred international airports. Our borders are inherently porous. I don’t have to tell you that.”

“This isn’t a time to talk about impossibilities, Derek,” the operative said.

“Thanks for the pep talk, coach. You think every damn one of us isn’t working balls-out on this? None of us knows who’s going to get killed next. If you want to talk about impossibilities, though, you’ll be interested in the latest thinking around Foggy Bottom.”

Five minutes later, Janson hung up with an unsettled feeling.