All that remained was the single exotic piece of classified military equipment. Victor Shevchenko, the inventor of the virtual cathode oscillator, had been reluctant to part with one of them, but relented when Bryson let him know that there was no statute of limitations on violations of U.S. national security law. That, and fifty thousand dollars wired into the scientist-entrepreneur’s Grand Caymans account, was enough to twist his arm.

  By the time Bryson returned to the Four Seasons, Elena had purchased what she needed. She had even downloaded a U.S. geological-survey topographical map of the national forestland abutting Manning’s estate.

  After he explained what he had observed on his visit to the area surrounding the Manning estate, she asked, “Wouldn’t it be much simpler for you to get in as a caterer, or maybe a florist?”

  “I don’t think so. I’ve thought it over, and my calculation is that the florists are probably accompanied in, they do their work, and they’re accompanied out. Even assuming I could somehow enter with them, which I wouldn’t count on, it would be next to impossible for me to disappear into the house—to not leave with the others—without putting the whole place on alert.”

  “But the caterers—they come in, they stay throughout the festivities …”

  “The caterers may well turn out to be useful to me. But from what little I’ve read about Manning’s security paranoia, we can assume that all of the caterer’s employees are going to be background-investigated, photographed and fingerprinted, and issued electronic security passes only upon arrival. Getting into the house as a caterer will be next to impossible. I’ve rented a boat; it’s the only way to get up on shore.”

  “But … but then what? I’m sure he has the front lawn protected!”

  “No question about it. But from everything I can tell, it’s the least secure entry point. Now, what have you learned about the security system link between Manning’s house and Systematix?”

  “I’m going to need a van,” she said.

  Outside of Seattle the U.S. Department of Agriculture maintains a garage facility where the Seattle-area employees of the U.S. Forest Service kept their government vehicles. In the adjacent open-air parking lot were several small green trucks marked with the forest service pine-tree shield. The security was virtually nonexistent.

  Bryson drove Elena into the woods adjoining the Manning property. She was attired in green pants and shirt purchased at an army-navy surplus store, the closest thing they could get to a U.S. Forest Service uniform on such short notice.

  Four hours remained before their strike time of nine o’clock P.M.

  They walked through the forest near the high-security chain-link fence that marked the boundary of Manning’s estate, careful to keep back far enough from the cameras and the pressure-detection alarm system next to the fence. Elena was looking for a buried fiber-optic cable that ran from the Manning mansion through a small area of the national forest.

  She knew it was there. Manning’s house was approximately three miles from Systematix headquarters, the communications linked by fiber-optic cable. During the construction of the house, Manning’s contractor had filed an official request with the U.S. Department of Agriculture for an easement to run just twenty feet of fiber-optic line between his house and the public road. The form, which was a matter of public record and easily obtained on-line, mentioned one detail that especially intrigued Elena: the need to put down a device called an optical repeater. This was a box that served in effect as an amplifier, to boost the signal along the way, since there was always some leakage over long distances.

  A repeater could easily be tapped into, if you knew what you were doing. Most did not; Elena most certainly did.

  The only question was: where was the line?

  A few minutes later she punched out a Seattle telephone number for the contractor listed in the easement request, the one who had installed the miles of cable.

  “Mr. Manzanelli? My name is Nadya; I’m calling from the U.S. Geological Survey. We’re taking soil samples to test for acidification, and we want to make sure we don’t accidentally cut any fiber-optic cable out here … .”

  When she explained what section of the national forest she was digging in, the contractor replied, “Jesus Christ, come on! Doesn’t anyone there remember the hassle you folks gave us over digging the trench through government land?”

  “I’m sorry, sir, I’m not familiar—”

  “Goddamned Forest Service wouldn’t permit it, and Mr. Manning was willing to kick in half a million bucks for new plantings and everything! But no—we had to run an above-ground conduit right along the fence!”

  “Sir, I’m terribly sorry to hear that—I’m sure our new administrator would happily have granted Mr. Manning’s request.”

  “You have any idea what kind of money Manning pays in property taxes alone?”

  “At least there’s no chance of our severing one of Mr. Manning’s lines. Next time you speak with him, you tell him that all of us here at the U.S. Geological Survey appreciate what he’s done for the country.”

  She disconnected the call and turned to Bryson. “Good news. We’ve just saved ourselves more than three hours.”

  At shortly after four o’clock P.M., Bryson was notified by Pacific Air Freight that a delivery had been received at the Seattle-Tacoma Airport. There was a problem, however: it could not be trucked into Seattle until the next morning.

  “You gotta be kiddin’ me,” Bryson roared into the phone. “I need it at the quality-control lab tonight, and I got a fifty-thousand-dollar contract ridin’ on it!”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but if there’s anything we can do to help you out in the meantime …”

  At a few minutes before six o’clock, Bryson pulled the rented U-Haul van into the Pacific Air Freight terminal at the airport, where the thousand-pound machine was loaded onto the van by means of a hoist and the assistance of three apologetic employees.

  Within an hour he drove the van deep into the thickly forested area next to the Manning property, a hundred yards from the green forest-service truck. He backed the van up so that its tail end faced the chain-link perimeter fence, though far enough away that it would not be detected by the security cameras. He slid the van door up and then positioned the machinery so that it had a direct line-of-sight to the Manning compound. The numerous trees and dense foliage that blanketed Manning’s property and concealed his estate were no problem at all. Quite the opposite: they helped camouflage the Russian scientist’s device.

  Then he took a knapsack full of small round disks, each one connected to a firing pod that would detonate when it received a signal from a wireless transmitter. He hiked almost a quarter of a mile through the woods, back toward the main road. Then, strolling along the property line, out of sight of the cameras and removed from the pressure-triggered intrusion-detection system, he began tossing the disks over the fence, one by one, each separated from the other by approximately two hundred feet. The cartridges were small enough that they would attract no notice. If anyone happened to be monitoring the cameras—which was unlikely; the cameras were mostly there to provide a set of eyes in case one of the perimeter alarms went off—he would see nothing more than a blur, something presumably dropped by a bird, perhaps an insect. Nothing worth a second look.

  Inside the cargo bay of the green forest-service truck, Elena quickly assembled her tools. Her laptop was now connected to the optical repeater by means of a twenty-foot cable that ran undetectably under the truck, concealed by dirt and leaves, and right to the junction box. She had a tap in place, at first just listening and watching, not transmitting anything. She had come prepared with loads of software, both commercial and specially written for the occasion. She did what was called a “stealth scan” to fingerprint the system, see what sort of intrusion-detection software was present; and she inserted a prewritten script designed to overload the system with an unexpectedly large quantity of data—create a buffer overflow. Then she ran a network packet sniffer to map out the systems on the security network, to find out what kind of network traffic was being sent and received, what the basic organization looked like.

  Within the space of a few seconds she “owned the box,” as the hackers liked to say. Though she was no hacker, she had long ago made it a point to learn the hacker’s trade, just as a good field operative would learn the burglar’s methods, the safecracker’s techniques.

  The training had paid off. She was in.

  The fourteen-foot aluminum fishing boat was powered by a quiet, forty-horsepower Evinrude outboard motor. Bryson moved quickly across the lake, buffeted gently by the swells. The sound was minimal, carried away from the Manning property by a prevailing wind. As soon as he saw the string of bright orange barrier floats that demarcated the protected waters before Manning’s dock and front lawn, he reduced speed and then cut the engine, which coughed and died. Theoretically he could have charged the line of floats, but he had to assume, even if he didn’t know for sure, that Manning had some sort of security in place to detect the approach of intruder craft.

  Even from here he could see the mansion, illuminated by floodlights, low-slung and hugging the hillside. Most of it was underground, making the structure appear more modest than it actually was. He dropped anchor, mindful of keeping the skiff in place as an escape option, if he was so fortunate as to be able to escape. He had told Elena, assured her, that his plan provided for a way out, but it was not true; he wondered if she secretly suspected it. He would win and survive, or he would lose and be killed. There was nothing in between.

  Quickly, he began to assemble his equipment. Although he needed to travel as light as possible, he also had to provide for dozens of different obstacles that he simply could not foresee, which meant a range of equipment. It would be unfortunate to blow the entire operation for want of the right lockpick set. His tactical vest was heavy with various weapons, neatly folded clothing, and other objects, all sealed in plastic.

  He radioed Elena on the secure two-way communicator.

  “How’s it going?”

  “Good.” Her voice was strong and clear, sounding upbeat. “The eyes are open.”

  She had succeeded in penetrating the video surveillance feed through the fiber-optic line. “How far can the eyes see?” Bryson asked.

  “Uh, there are clear areas and areas that are not so clear.”

  “What’s not so clear?”

  “Private, residential areas and the like. They seem to be monitored locally.” She meant that the cameras in the nonpublic parts of the house were watched not at Systematix headquarters but within Manning’s house itself. Manning obviously wanted at least some semblance of privacy.

  “That’s unfortunate.”

  “True. But there is some good news. There are some good reruns on TV.” She had located yesterday’s video feed and had figured out how to pipe it back to the video monitoring system so that it appeared to be today’s!

  “That’s excellent news. But wait until after stage one is completed. All right, now I’ll be back in touch after I’ve gone for a swim.”

  The lightweight black Nomex bodysuit he preferred for infiltrating the residence was water absorbent, so he wore a scuba wetsuit over it. He felt overheated, but the cold lake water would soon cool him down. Over the tac vest he now fastened his inflatable BC, or buoyancy compensator, which was already strapped to the tank, adjusted the quick-release buckles, adjusted the weight belt, donned his silicone dive mask, put the second-stage regulator into his mouth. After a quick double-check of his equipment, he knelt on the side of the boat and plunged in, headfirst.

  There was a splash, and he was floating on the surface of the lake. He looked around, oriented himself, and started deflating his vest. He sank slowly beneath the surface of the water, which was cold and crystalline. As he descended, he noticed that the water became steadily muddier and more opaque. He stopped to equalize the air pressure, felt his ears pop. When he had reached a depth of about sixty feet, it was hard to see much farther than ten or twenty feet ahead. This was not good; he would have to proceed carefully, slowly. Feeling weightless, he began swimming in the direction of the shore.

  He listened for the distinctive, bass-toned moan of sonar, but he heard only silence—which was reassuring in one sense, nerve-racking in another: there had to be some sort of security system in place.

  And then he saw it.

  There, floating no more than ten feet ahead of him, swaying in the water like some marine predator. Netting.

  But no mere netting. An underwater alarmed security barrier. Webbing with fiber-optic mesh woven into the structure, linked fiber-optic panels that formed alarm zones, sensors connected to electronic control units via optical fiber-communications cables. This was an intrusion-detection system of unusual sophistication, used to protect military marine installations.

  The Aquamesh was rigged to a series of buoys and anchored to the lakebed by means of weights. He could not swim through it, of course; nor could he cut or tear it without setting off the alarm. He deflated his BC until he was standing on the lakebed, then approached it, examined it. He had in fact set something like this up in Sri Lanka, and he knew that false alarms were not uncommon. It was prone to chafing and breaking, since water is constantly moving, and underwater creatures, whether fish or crabs, might wriggle through, get caught, even nip into the cables. It was not a perfect system by any means.

  But he could not take the chance of setting it off. Manning’s security personnel would be on heightened alert tonight, of all nights. They were likely to respond to any alarms.

  He found that he was breathing shallowly, a reaction to fear, and this was causing him to feel unpleasantly short of breath, as if he could not fill his lungs; he felt a momentary panic. He closed his eyes for a moment, forced himself to be calm until his breathing became steady.

  This is designed for boats, for underwater craft, he remembered. Not for divers, not swimmers.

  He settled to his knees, inspected the sinkers that held the netting down. The lake floor was silt, a soft muddy sediment that yielded as soon as he touched it. He pushed at the silt, then began digging with his fingers, his hands cupped like spades. A cloud arose all around him, turning the water opaque. Swiftly, and with remarkable ease, he had dug an elongated trench beneath the bottom of the mesh, through which he was able to half wriggle, half slither. As he passed by, the movement of the water rippled the sensor net. But that could not possibly be enough to set it off: the water in the lake was always moving.

  He was on the other side now: in Manning’s water. He listened again for the lowing of an active sonar system, but he still heard nothing.

  And if I’m wrong?

  If I’m wrong, he thought, I’ll know soon enough. Speculation would do no good now. He swam onward with single-minded determination until he approached the pilings beneath the dock, mossy with algae. Maneuvering around to the far side of the dock, where he knew the boathouse was situated, he came closer and closer, the water increasingly shallow; now his feet touched bottom, the surface of the lake just two feet above. He deflated his vest completely, walking across the lake floor until his head emerged from the water and he was directly beneath the dock. He removed his mask, listened, peered around as far as he could see, and was satisfied that there was no one in sight; then he unbuckled the BC vest and attached tank of air and hoses, placing the scuba gear securely on a broad support beam. There he hoped it would remain in case he needed it again.

  If I’m so lucky.

  Then he grabbed the side of the dock and lifted himself up.

  The boathouse blocked his view of the house; it also served to conceal him from anyone who happened to be looking out the front windows. The lawn was dark, the only illumination spilling onto the grass nearest the house from the tall arched windows. Sitting on the edge of the dock, he took off the tac vest, peeled off the wetsuit, and put the vest back on over the black Nomex bodysuit. One by one he removed the weapons and other instruments from the vest, pulled them out of their plastic bags, and replaced them. He crawled the length of the dock and got to his feet in front of the boathouse. It was dark, seemingly empty. If he had miscalculated, he had the snub-nosed .45 handy in one of the front pockets of his vest. He pulled it out and gripped it as he walked toward the main expanse of lawn.

  So far, so good. But there was more to come, much more, and the security precautions would no doubt intensify as he approached the residence itself. He could not allow himself to relax his vigilance. He took out a black knit balaclava and pulled it down over his face. From another pocket of the utility vest he took the Metascope, the night-vision monocular that detected infrared light, and put it to his right eye.

  He saw the beams at once.

  The lawn was crisscrossed with them, motion-detector beam sensors, probably connected to infrared cameras. Anyone walking across the front lawn would break a beam and trigger the alarm.

  But they went no lower than approximately three feet, in order to keep from being set off by small animals.

  Dogs?

  It was possible. It was, in fact, likely that there were guard dogs as well, though he had not heard or seen any.

  The Metascope came with a head-mount assembly, allowing hands-free operation. He would need his hands free. He strapped the monocular on, the eyecup securely in place. Now he would be able to traverse the lawn while evading the infrared beams.

  But as he dropped to his hands and knees, crawling under the level of the lowest beam, he heard something that made him freeze.