Then he saw the figure of a Chinese man wearing a general’s uniform rise from a high-backed leather chair and stride past ornate shelves lined with a neat array of leather-bound books. He was tall and thin, his hair raven black except for a matching swatch of white over both temples. The man grinned, approaching Chernayev with arms extended. They hugged briefly, then separated and bowed to each other before the Chinese man’s gaze fell on Middleton.

“And this must be the American.” He extended his hand outward. “I have heard much about you, Mr. Middleton, most of it well before today.”

“Who—”

“—am I? I have many names. Today I am General Zang.”

“My opposite number in the Chinese government,” said Chernayev.

“You mean, military.”

“Same thing,” said Zang. “Retired as well.”

“Somewhat anyway,” the Russian added.

Zang turned again toward Middleton. “We are protectors.”

“Protectors of what?”

Zang shrugged. “Fill in the blank with whatever you choose. Our countries have become much less insular and mutually dependent. You know what the Butterfly Effect is, of course?”

“A butterfly flaps its wings in Boston—”

“And a monsoon sprouts in China,” Zang interrupted, again completing his thought. “Especially appropriate in this case, of course. My Russian friend and I like to think of ourselves as protectors of that mutual dependence. There was a time when we looked on the Western world, rooting for the inevitable fall that would lead to a chaos capable of consuming it. Now we find ourselves dreading that chaos above all else and working to prevent it.”

“Because of that mutual dependence.”

Chernayev said, “Colonel, yes, I have a financial interest in the dam. But this is about far more than money.” He took a pair of cigars from his jacket pocket and handed one to Zang. “Cuban,” he proclaimed. “At least our Communist comrades there are still good for something.”

“Mr. Middleton,” Zang said, still admiring his cigar, “you have spent your career, especially with the Volunteers, fighting the same enemies and battles as we find ourselves fighting now.”

“You just didn’t realize it,” Chernayev added.

“You have fought to preserve order; perhaps not in those words, but that has been the ultimate effect. And you have watched the world change into a much more dangerous place.”

“Because of the butterfly,” Middleton interjected.

“Exactly. We all grew up in an era of clarity where the enemy announced himself by the uniform he wore. Now we wear the same uniform, a business suit, which makes it all the more difficult to spot the enemies among us and all the more easy for them to disturb the delicate balance we’re fighting to preserve.”

“What does this have to do with—”

“—you, your quest, your daughter . . . ”

“My daughter?”