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cower. Let him have his ego trip.”
    Lia stared at the Korean officer; the lieutenant stared back. Finally he started to smile and then laugh. He raised his head, looking at the guards. Lia, though still angry, began to relax.
    “I’m sorry,” she said. She launched into the standard apology again, blaming the stress of travel for her rude behavior.
    The lieutenant nodded. The documents, he said, were good, but she had neglected to get a stamp.
    “Then that must be taken care of,” said Lia, relieved that finally they had come to the endgame. “How much is the fee?” she asked in Chinese. “I understand that it is very important to pay properly for the trouble a visitor brings.”
    As the Art Room translator began giving her the words in Korean, Lia saw the shadow of one of the guards moving from the corner of her eye. She started to spin toward him and was caught off-guard by the hard shock of the other man’s fist against the other side of her head.
    Her breath caught in her throat as she fell forward, fists flailing but catching nothing but air. She tried to get up but lost her balance and spun down toward the floor, pummeled into a cocoon of numbness.

5

    The autumn air had a slight chill to it, and Dean zipped his windbreaker as he walked along the lake, feigning interest in the nearby pelicans. Buckingham Palace lay almost directly ahead, though the park’s trees and rolling terrain hid it from view. His interest in the palace was in keeping with his cover; to authenticate the person he was supposed to meet—and vice versa—he had to ask about the palace and its tours. The contact was to give the hours for tours backward : 5:30 to 9:30.
    Karr was somewhere behind him, a hundred or so yards away, wandering around the park near the lake. St. James Park was once a marshland, and despite its well-kept gardens and elaborate lawns, it did not take all that much imagination to picture the park wild. Tourists and office workers lolled through it, pausing to stare at the birds or admire the flowers, then wandering off nonchalantly, as if they had no cares in the world. Dean tried willing himself into a similar mind-set; his mission was a simple one and could have been accomplished by a clerk at the embassy—or so Karr said. All they had to do was meet a messenger, get something from him, and bring it home.
    They had no idea what they were getting and only the vaguest description of the man: He would wear a brown beret and would stand at the crown of the bridge for a moment before descending to meet them ten yards “farther on” from the base. They would then authenticate each other with the prearranged phrase.
    Simple enough. But in his short stint with Desk Three, Dean had learned that nothing associated with the NSA was simple. Dean gazed at the water, then turned abruptly and began walking. He glanced at his watch; he was right on time.
    Two small girls ran past him. They must be schoolgirls, he thought, then wondered why they were out of school in the middle of the day. A middle-aged woman followed. She looked as if she were going to say something to him; he smiled. He didn’t know if his contact would be male or female, but he doubted he or she would have children along. That might be the ultimate cover for a spy, Dean thought—kids.
    The path before him was empty. He turned back toward the pond, stooping low to see one of the brightly colored birds. He had to make contact along this side of the path and wanted to stay within a fifty-yard stretch where it was easy for Karr to watch him. So he became a bird-watcher, inordinately interested in the red feathers of the nearby fowl.
    When he rose there were more people ahead. He strolled forward slowly, forcing a smile on his face.
    Come on, he thought to himself. Come on.

    Tommy Karr rubbed his chin as he leaned against the iron fence, watching Dean from the corner of his eye. Their contact was running at least five minutes late. Delays were an inevitable