He held a copy of the Los Angeles Times and waved it in the face of the older man.

“Are you responsible for this?”

Devereaux examined the broadsheet with the detachment of an entomologist surveying a mildly interesting larva. The front page was largely occupied by a picture and the banner headline “Hell on Rodeo.” The photo was of a restaurant that had been reduced to carnage by streams of bullets from two machine pistols.

Among the seven dead, said the text, were four now identified as major underworld figures, one passerby who had been leaving as the gunmen entered and two waiters.

“Personally, no,” said Devereaux.

“Well, there are a lot of people in this town who think otherwise.”

“Your point, Mr. Silver?”

“My point, Mr. Devereaux, is that your goddamn Project Cobra seems to have achieved a form of underworld civil war that is turning this country into the kind of charnel house that we have seen in northern Mexico for the past decade. And it has got to stop.”

“May we cut to the chase?”

“Please do.”

“Almost two years ago, our mutual commander in chief asked me, quite specifically, whether it would be possible to destroy the cocaine industry and trade, both of which were clearly out of control and had become a nationwide scourge. I replied, after intensive study, that it would be possible if certain conditions were fulfilled and at certain cost—hopefully short-term.”

“But you never mentioned the streets of three hundred cities running with blood. You asked for two billion dollars and you got that.”

“Which was the financial cost only.”

“You never mentioned the civil-outrage cost.”

“Because you never asked. Look, this country spends fourteen billion dollars a year via a dozen official agencies and gets nowhere. Why? Because the cocaine industry in the U.S. alone, never mind Europe, is worth four times that. Did you really think the creators of cocaine would switch to jelly beans if we asked them? Did you really think the American gangs, among the most vicious in the world, would move into candy bars without a fight?”

“That is no reason for our country being turned into a war zone.”

“Yes, it is. Ninety percent of those dying are psychos to the point of being almost clinically insane. The few tragic casualties caught in the cross fire are less than the traffic dead during the Fourth of July weekend.”

“But look what the hell you’ve done. We always kept our psychos and sickos down in the sewers, down in the gutters. You have put them on Main Street. That is where John Q. Citizen lives, and John has a vote. This is an election year. In eight months the man down this hall is going to ask the people to trust him with their country for another four years. And I do not intend, Mr. Goddamn Devereaux, that they will refuse him that request because they dare not leave their homes.”

As usual, his voice had risen to a shout. Beyond the door, more-junior ears strained to hear. Inside the room, only one of the two men retained an icy and contemptuous calm.

“They won’t,” he said. “We are within one month of witnessing the virtual self-destruction of American gangland, or, at any rate, its shattering for a generation. When that becomes clear, I believe the people will recognize what a burden has been lifted from them.”

Paul Devereaux was not a politician. Jonathan Silver was. He knew that, in politics, what is real is not important. The important is what appears to be real to the gullible. And what appears to be real is purveyed by the media and purchased by the gullible. He shook his head and jabbed at the front page.

“This cannot go on. No matter what may be the eventual benefits. This has to stop, no matter what the price.”

He took a single sheet of paper that had been facedown on his desk and thrust it at the retired spy.

“Do you know what this is?”

“You will doubtless be delighted to tell me.”

“It is a Presidential Executive Order. Are you going to disobey it?”

“Unlike you, Mr. Silver, I have served several commanders in chief and never disobeyed one yet.”

The snub caused the chief of staff to turn a mottled red.

“Well, good. That is very good. Because this PEO orders you to stand down. Project Cobra is over. Terminated. Discontinued. Effective this hour. You will return to your headquarters and dismantle it. Is that plain?”

“As rock crystal.”

Paul Devereaux, the Cobra, folded the paper and slipped it into his jacket pocket, turned on his heel and left. He ordered his driver to take him to the drab warehouse in Anacostia, where, on the top floor, he showed the PEO to a stunned Cal Dexter.

“But we were so close.”

“Not close enough. And you were right. Our great nation can kill up to a million abroad, but not one percent of that figure of its own gangsters without sustaining a fainting fit.

“I have to leave the details, as ever, to you. Call in the two Q-ships. Donate the Balmoral to the British Navy and the Chesapeake to our own SEALs. Maybe they can use it for training. Call back the two Global Hawks; return them to the USAF. With my thanks. I have no doubt their amazing technology is the way of the future. But not ours. We are paid off. Can I leave all this in your hands? Even down to the cast-off clothes on the lower floors that can now go to the homeless?”

“And you? Can I reach you at home?”

The Cobra thought for a while.

“For a week, maybe. Then I may have to travel. Just loose ends. Nothing important.”

It enabled him to acknowledge with grave courtesy the deferential salutations of the peons and their shawl-shrouded wives. It enabled him to beam at the awestruck, barefoot children. It allowed him to drop a donation into the collection plate that would keep the parish priest for months.

When he agreed to talk with the man from America who wished to see him, he chose the church but arrived massively protected. It was the suggestion of the American that they meet in the house of the God whom they both worshipped and under the Catholic Rite to which they both subscribed. It was the strangest request he had ever received, but its simple ingenuity intrigued him.

The Colombian hidalgo was there first. The building had been swept by his security team, and the priest sent packing. Diego Esteban dipped two fingers in the font, crossed himself and approached the altar. He chose the front row of pews, knelt, bowed his head and prayed.

When he straightened, he heard the old sun-bleached door behind him creak, felt a gust of hot air from outside, then noted the thud of the closing. He knew he had men in the shadows, guns drawn. It was a sacrilege, but he could confess and be forgiven. A dead man cannot confess.

The visitor approached from behind and took a place also in the front pew, six feet away. He also crossed himself. The Don glanced sideways. An American, lean, of similar age, calm-faced, ascetic in an impeccable cream suit.

“Señor?”

“Don Diego Esteban?”

“It is I.”

“Paul Devereaux, of Washington. Thank you for receiving me.”

“I have heard rumors. Vague talk, nothing more. But insistent. Rumors of a man they call the ‘Cobra.’ ”

“A foolish nickname. But I must own to it.”

“Your Spanish is excellent. Permit me a question.”

“Of course.”

“Why should I not have you killed? I have a hundred men outside.”

“Ah, and I only my helicopter pilot. But I believe I have something that was once yours and which I may be able to return. If we can reach a concordat. Which I cannot do if I am dead.”

“I know what you have done to me, Señor Cobra. You have done me extreme damage. But I have done nothing to harm you. Why did you do what you did?”

“Because my country asked me.”

“And now?”

“All my life, I have served two masters. My God and my country. My God has never betrayed me.”

“But your country has?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because it is no longer the country to which I swore loyalty as a young man. It has become corrupt and venal, weak and yet arrogant, dedicated to the obese and the stupid. It is not my country anymore. The bond is broken, the fealty gone.”

“I never gave such loyalty to any country, even this one. Because countries are governed by men, and often the least deserving of them. I also have two masters. My God and my wealth.”

“And for the second, Don Diego, you have killed many times.”

Devereaux had no doubt that the man a few feet away from him, beneath the veneer and the grace, was a psychopath and supremely dangerous.

“And you, Señor Cobra, you have killed for your country? Many times?”

“Of course. So perhaps we are similar after all.”

Psychopaths must be flattered. Devereaux knew the comparison would flatter the cocaine lord. Comparing greed for money with patriotism would not offend.

“Perhaps we are, señor. How much of my property do you retain?”

“One hundred fifty tons.”

“The amount missing is three times that.”

“Most is taken by either customs, coast guards or navies and now incinerated. Some is at the bottom of the sea. The last quarter is with me.”

“In safekeeping?”

“Very safe. And the war against you is over.”

“Ah. That was the betrayal.”

“You are very perceptive, Don Diego.”

The Don considered the tonnage. With jungle production at full flow, maritime interceptions cut back to a trickle, air shipments able to resume, he could start again. He would need an immediate tonnage to bridge the gap, to appease the wolves, to end the war. One hundred and fifty tons would be just enough.

“And your price, señor?”

“I shall have to retire at last. But far away. A villa by the sea. In the sun. With my books. And officially dead. That does not come cheaply. One billion U.S. dollars, if you please.”

“My property is in a ship?”

“Yes.”

“And you can give me the numbers of the bank accounts?”

“Yes. Can you give me the port of destination?”

“Of course.”

“And your response, Don Diego?”

“I think, señor, we have our concordat. You will leave here safely. Exchange the details with my secretary outside. And now I wish to pray alone. ¡Vaya con Dios, señor!”

Paul Devereaux rose, crossed himself and left the church. An hour later, he was back at the Malambo air base, where his Grumman returned him to Washington. In a walled compound a hundred yards from where the executive jet turned onto the runway for takeoff, the operating crew of the Global Hawk code-named Michelle had been told they would be stood down in a week and be returned in a pair of C-5 heavy-lift freighters to Nevada.

The two Q-ships began to steam for home, the British-manned Balmoral to Lyme Bay, Dorset, the Chesapeake for Newport News. The British expressed their gratitude for the gift of the Balmoral, which they thought might be useful against Somali pirates.

The two UAV-operating bases recalled their Global Hawks for transfer back to the States but kept the enormous amount of data they had acquired on Broad Area Marine Surveillance, which would certainly play a role in the future, replacing far more expensive and manpower-intensive spy planes.

The prisoners, all 117 of them, were brought back from Eagle Island, Chagos Archipelago, in a long-range C-130 of the USAF. Each was allowed to send a brief message to his ecstatic family who thought he was lost at sea.

The bank accounts, almost exhausted, were reduced to a single one to cover any last-minute payments, and the communications network run out of the Anacostia warehouse was scaled down and brought in-house to be operated along with his computers by Jeremy Bishop. Then Paul Devereaux reappeared. He expressed himself well satisfied, and drew Cal Dexter to one side.

“Have you ever heard of Spindrift Cay?” he asked. “Well, it is a tiny island, barely more than a coral atoll, in the Bahamas. One of the so-called out islands. Uninhabited except for a small detachment of U.S. Marines ostensibly camping there on some form of survival exercise.

“The center of the cay has a small forest of palm trees under which there are rows and rows of bales. You can guess what they contain. It has to be destroyed, all one hundred fifty tons of it. I am entrusting the job to you. Have you any idea of the value of those bales?”

“I think I can guess. Several billion dollars.”

“You’re right. I need someone I can trust absolutely to do it. The cans of gasoline have been on-site for many weeks. Your best way in is by floatplane out of Nassau. Please go and do what has to be done.”

Cal Dexter had seen many things but never a billion-dollar hill, let alone destroyed it. Even one single bale, stashed in a large suitcase, meant rich for life. He flew commercial, Washington to Nassau, and checked into the Paradise Island Hotel. An inquiry at reception and a quick phone call secured him a floatplane for the dawn of the next day.

It was over a hundred miles, and the flight took an hour. In March the weather was warm, and the sea its usual impossible aquamarine between the islands, limpid pale over the sandbars. The destination was so remote, his pilot had to check the GPS system twice to confirm he had the right atoll.

An hour after dawn, he banked and pointed.

“That’s it, mister,” he shouted. Dexter looked down. It ought to have been in a tourist postcard rather than what it was. Less than one square kilometer inside, with a reef that enclosed a lagoon accessed by a single cut in the coral. A dark clump of palms at the center gave no hint of the deadly treasure stored beneath the fronds.

Jutting out of one shining white beach was a ramshackle jetty where presumably the supply boat docked. As he watched, two figures emerged from a camouflage-tented camp beneath the palms along the shore and stared upward. The floatplane wheeled, lost power and drifted down to the water.

“Drop me off at the jetty,” said Dexter.

“Not even going to get your feet wet?” grinned the pilot.

“Maybe later.”

Dexter got out, stepped onto the float and thence to the jetty. He ducked under the wing and found himself facing a ramrod-straight master sergeant. The guardian of the island had a Marine behind him, and both men wore sidearms.

“Your business here, sir?”

The courtesy was impeccable, the meaning unmistakable. You had better have a good reason for being here or go not one foot farther down this dock. For reply, Dexter took a folded letter from his jacket’s inside pocket.

“Please read this very carefully, Master Sergeant, and note the signature.”

The veteran Marine stiffened as he read, and only years of self-discipline kept him from expressing his amazement. He had seen the portrait of his commander in chief many times, but never thought to see the handwritten signature of the President of the United States. Dexter held out his hand for the letter.

“So, Master Sergeant, we both serve the same c in c. My name is Dexter, I am from the Pentagon. No matter. That letter trumps me, you, even the Secretary of Defense. And it requires your cooperation. Do I have it, mister?”

The Marine was at attention, staring over Dexter’s head at the horizon.

“Yes, sir,” he barked.

The pilot had been chartered for the day. He found a shady place under the wing over the jetty and settled down to wait. Dexter and the Marine walked back down the jetty to the beach. There were twelve tough, sun-darkened young men who for weeks had fished, swum, listened to radios, read paperbacks and kept themselves in shape with ferocious daily exercise.

Dexter noted the jerrycans of gasoline stored in the shade and headed toward the trees. The clump covered no more than two acres, and there was a walkway cut through the center. On either side were the bales, shaded by palms. They were stacked in low, cube-shaped blocks, about one hundred of them, about one and half tons each, the yield of nine months at sea by two covert raiders.

“Do you know what these are?” asked Dexter.

“No, sir,” said the master sergeant. Don’t ask, don’t tell; though in a slightly different context.

“Documents. Old records. But ultra-sensitive. That is why the President does not want them ever to fall into the hands of our country’s enemies. The Oval Office has decided they have to be destroyed. Hence, the gasoline. Please ask the men to haul up the cans and soak every pile.”

The mention of his country’s enemies was more than enough for the master sergeant. He shouted, “Yes, sir,” and strode back to the beach.

Dexter strolled slowly up the alley between the palms. He had seen a few bales since the previous March but never anything like this. Behind him the Marines had appeared, each toting a large can, and began dousing each pile of bales. Dexter had never seen cocaine burn, but he was told it was quite flammable if given a starter blaze with accelerant.

He had for many years carried a small Swiss Army-type penknife on his key chain, and as he was traveling on an official government passport it had not been confiscated at Dulles International. Out of curiosity, he opened the short blade and jabbed it into the nearest bale. Might as well, he thought. He had never tasted it before and probably never would again.

The short blade went through the buckram wrapping, through the tough polyethylene and into the powder. It came out with a knob of white dust on the end. He had his back to the Marines down the alley. They could not see what the “documents” contained.

He sucked the white blob off the point of his knife. Ran it around his mouth until the powder, dissolving in saliva, reached the taste buds. He was surprised. He knew the taste after all.

He approached another bale and did the same. But a bigger cut and a bigger sample. And another, and another. As a young man out of the Army, back from Vietnam, studying law at Fordham, New York, he had paid for his tuition with a series of menial jobs. One was in a pastry shop. He knew baking soda very well.

He made ten other incisions in different bales before they were doused and the powerful stench of gasoline took over. Then he walked thoughtfully back to the beach. He drew up an empty canister, sat on it and stared out to sea. Thirty minutes later, the master sergeant was at his side, towering over him.

“Job done, sir.”

“Torch it,” said Dexter.

He heard the barked orders of “Stand clear ” and the dull whump as the vaporizing fuel took flame and smoke rose from the palm grove. January is the time of winds in the Bahamas, and a stiff breeze turned the first flames into a blowtorch.

He turned to see the palms and their hidden contents consumed by flames. On the dock the floatplane pilot was on his feet, watching openmouthed. The dozen Marines were also staring at their handiwork.

“Tell me, Master Sergeant . . .”

“Sir?”

“How did the bales of documents reach you here?”

“By boat, sir.”

“All in one cargo, one at a time?”

“No, sir. At least a dozen visits. Over the weeks we’ve been here.”

“Same vessel each time?”

“Yes, sir. Same one.”

Of course. There had to be another vessel. The fleet auxiliaries that had replenished the SEALs and the British SBS at sea had removed trash and prisoners. They had delivered food and fuel. But the confiscated cargoes did not go back to Gibraltar or Virginia. The Cobra needed the labels, batch numbers and identification codes to fool the cartel. So these trophies he had kept. Apparently here.

“What kind of ship?”

“A small one, sir. Tramp steamer.”

“Nationality?”

“Don’t know, sir. She had a flag at the stern. Like two commas. One red, one blue. And her crew were Asian.”

“Name?”

The master sergeant’s brow furrowed as he tried to recall. Then he turned.

“Angelo!”

He had to shout over the noise of the flames. One of the Marines turned and trotted over.

“What was the name of the tramp steamer that brought the bales here?”

“Sea Spirit, sir. Saw it on her stern. New white paint.”

“And under her name?”

“Under it, sir?”

“The port of registration is usually under the name at the stern.”

“Oh, yes. Poo-something.”

“Pusan?”

“That was it, yes, sir. Pusan. That all, sir?”

Dexter nodded. Marine Angelo trotted off. Dexter rose and went down to the end of the jetty where he could be alone and maybe pick up reception on his cell phone. He was glad it had been on charge all night. To his gratitude and relief, the ever-faithful Jeremy Bishop was at his bank of computers, almost the last facility Project Cobra had left.

“Can that motorized sardine can of yours translate into Korean?” asked Dexter. The reply was a clear as a bell.

“Any language in the world, if I put in the right program. Where are you?”

“Never mind. The only communication I have is this cell. What is the Korean for Sea Spirit or Spirit of the Sea? And don’t waste my battery.”

“I’ll call you back.”

It was two minutes later that the phone rang.

“Got a pen and paper?”

“Never mind. Just say it.”

“Okay. The words are Hae Shin. That’s aitch-aay . . .”

“I know how it is spelled. Can you look up a tramp steamer? Small. Named either Hae Shin or Sea Spirit. South Korean, registered Port of Pusan.”

“Back in two minutes.” The phone went dead. He was as good as his word. Two minutes later, Bishop was back.

“Got her. Five thousand tons, general-cargo freighter. Name: Sea Spirit. Name registered this year. What about her?”

“Where is she right now?”

“Hold on.”

High over Anacostia district, Jeremy Bishop tapped furiously. Then he spoke.

“She does not seem to have a managing agent and she does not file. Anything. She could be anywhere. Hold on. The captain has an e-mail listing.”

“Raise him and ask him where he is. Map reference. Course and speed.”

More delays. The cell was running down.

“I raised him by e-mail. Put the questions. He declines to say. Asks who you are.”

“Say, this is the Cobra.”

Pause.

“He is very polite, but insists he needs what he called ‘authority word.’ ”

“He means ‘password.’ Tell him ‘HAE-SHIN.’”

Bishop came back, impressed.

“How did you know that? I have what you wanted. Care to note it?”

“I have no goddamn maps here. Just tell me where the hell he is.”

“Keep your hair on. One hundred miles east of Barbados, steaming 270 degrees, ten knots. Shall I thank the captain of the Sea Spirit?”

“Yes. Then ask if we have a Navy warship between Barbados and Colombia.”

“I’ll call you back.”

East of Barbados, steaming due west. Through the Windward chain, past the Dutch Antilles and straight into Colombian waters. So far south, there was no way the Korean trafficker was coming back to the Bahamas. She had taken her last cargo off the Balmoral where she had been told. Three hundred miles; thirty hours. Tomorrow afternoon. Jeremy Bishop came back.

“Nope. There is nothing in the Caribbean.”

“Is that Brazilian major still in the Cape Verde Islands?”

“As it happens, yes. His pupils are due for graduation in two days, so it was agreed that he could see that through, then retire and bring the airplane with him. But the two American comms people have been withdrawn. They’re back stateside.”

“Can you raise him for me? Any which way?”

“I can e-mail him or text on his cell.”

“Then do both. I want his phone number, and I want him to be on it to take my call in two hours exactly. I have to go. I’ll call you from my hotel room in a hundred minutes. Just have the number I need. Ciao.”

He walked back to the floatplane. On the island the flames were flickering and dying. Most of the palms were scorched stumps. Ecologically, it was a crime. He waved a salutation to the Marines onshore and climbed into his seat.

“Nassau Harbor, please. As fast as we can.”

He was seated in his hotel room within ninety minutes and called Bishop ten after that.

“I have it,” said the cheerful voice from Washington, and dictated a number. Without waiting for the time rendezvous, Dexter called. A voice answered at once.

“Major João Mendoza?”

“Yes.”

“We met at Scampton, and I have been the one controlling your missions these past several months. First, I want to offer my sincere thanks and congratulations. Second, may I ask a question?”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember what the bastards did to your kid brother?”

There was a long pause. If he took offense, he could just hang up. The deep voice came back.

“I remember very well. Why?”

“Do you know how many grams it took to kill your brother?”

“Just a few. Maybe ten. Again, why?”

“There is a target out there which I cannot reach. But you can. It is carrying one hundred fifty tons of pure. Enough to kill your brother one hundred million times. It is a ship. Will you sink it for me?”

“Place and range from Fogo?”

“We have no overhead drone left. No Americans on your base. No guiding voice from Nevada. You would have to navigate yourself.”

“When I flew for Brazil, we had single-seat fighters. That was what we did. Give me the location of the target.”

Midday in Nassau. Midday in Barbados. Flying west with the sun. Takeoff, and 2,100 miles, four hours. Close to the speed of sound. Still daylight at 4 p.m. Six hours at ten knots for the Hae Shin.

“Forty nautical miles east of Barbados.”

“I will not be able to get back.”

“Land locally. Bridgetown, Barbados. St. Lucia. Trinidad. I will fix the formalities.”

“Give me the exact map reference. Degree minute, second, north of the equator, west of Greenwich.”

Dexter gave him the name of the ship, description, flag she would be flying and the map reference, adjusted for six hours’ cruising due west.

“Can you do it?” insisted Dexter. “No navigator, no radio guidance, no direction finder. Maximum range. Can you do it?”

For the first time, he seemed to have affronted the Brazilian.

“Senhor, I have my plane, I have my GPS, I have my eyes, I have the sun. I am a flier. It is what I do.”

And the phone went down.