"Guy Rivas," he murmured.

Gerhart said nothing.  He took Nichols by the arm and helped him to

another room that was comfortably  shed with soft chairs and a coffee

urn.  He poured a cup of coffee and handed it to Nichols.

"I'll be back in a minute."

Nichols sat there as if in a nightmare, shocked by the sick sight in the

other room.  He could not bring himself to grips with the reality of

Rivas's horrible death.

Gerhail came back carrying an attached case.  He set it on a low table.

"This was dropped off at the mail reception room. The body skin was

tightly folded inside.  At first I thought it was the work of some

psycho.  Then I made a thorough search and found a miniature tape

recorder mounted beneath the interior lining."

"You played it?"

"Lot of good it did.  Sounds like a conversation between two men in some

kind of code."

"How did you trace Rivas to me?"

"Rivas's government ID card had been placed inside his flayed skin.

Whoever murdered him wanted to make sure we'd put a make on the remains.

I went to Rivas's office and interrogated his secretary.  I wormed it

out of her that he met with you and the President for two hours before

leaving for the airport and a flight to an unknown destination.  I

thought it unusual that his own secretary didn't know his destination,

so I reckoned he'd been sent on a classified mission.  That's why I

contacted you first."

Nichols looked at him narrowly.  "You say there's a conversation on the

tape?"

Gerhart nodded gravely.  "That and Rivas's screams as he was cut apart."

Nichols closed his eyes, trying to force the vision from his mind.

"His next of kin will have to be notified," Gerhart continued.  "He have

a wife?"

"And four kids."

"You know him well?"

"Guy Rivas was a nice man, One of the few people with integrity I've met

since coming to Washington.  We worked together on several diplomatic

missions."

for the first time Gerhart's stony face went soft.  "I'm sorry.  "

Nichols didn't hear him.  His eyes slowly turned bitter and cold.  The

nightmarelike expression had gone.  He no longer tasted the vomit or

felt sickened by the horror.  The brutal savagery inflicted on someone

close to him had triggered a floodgate of anger, anger such as Nichols

had never known before.

The professor whose scope of power was limited to the walls of a

classroom no longer existed.  In his place was a man close to the

President, one of a small elite group of Washington power brokers with

the muscle to shape events or create havoc around the globe.

By whatever means and power that were his in the White House, with or

without Presidential favor or official sanction, Nichols was set on

avenging the murder of Rivas.  Topiltzin had to die.

The small Beechcraft executive jet touched down with a faint squeal from