Ambassador Rudolph Kenner sighed as he hung up the phone. Two hours wasted.

Last night -- and it was still "last night" now in the U.S. -- the Secretary of Defense had suddenly discovered she was going to have to testify to the Senate Budget Committee on military ties with the nations of the former Soviet Union, and how much those ties were going to cost over the next decade. The SecDef felt sure some cuts were going to be necessary, and wanted to preempt Senate action by recommending some in her testimony. So, acting through the State Department, she had summoned each ambassador in the region to a conference call to begin at 6 a.m., in Kenner's time zone. He'd been awakened from a sound sleep at 5 o'clock in the morning, on the first day of what was supposed to be a week off, by a phone call ordering him to the secure communications phone, dubbed SeCom, in his embassy to take the conference call. Every ambassador would need to be prepared to justify any ongoing programs and suggest any cuts that might be possible. For Kenner, the most frustrating part of the exercise was that he didn't really have anything to contribute. The deal for modernizing the Irkhetnian Air Force was done, ceremoniously signed weeks ago by all parties concerned at General Perelenko's office in the Ministry of Defense. It was all in the pipeline, too late to cancel or cut. Nothing else in the way of military cooperation between the U.S. and Irkhetnia was on the immediate horizon, and Kenner would have thought the SecDef would know that. Kenner's presence as a participant in the conference call was completely unnecessary, yet duty dictated he had to be there, in the SeCom, the closet-like room attached to his office at the embassy, for two hours while other ambassadors either fought for their own pet programs or threw them under the bus.

Kenner normally loved taking part in high-level discussions on the business of governing the United States. But this was a matter of interfering with his vacation. He tried to rein in his irritation. It's over now, with only a couple of hours lost, he reminded himself. I can still be at the dacha later this morning. Catch some fish, have them for dinner with that nice white wine.

Kenner had mixed feelings, one of them a mild form of gratitude, about having had to start this day with a pointless phone call at 6 a.m. The former Soviet states occupied various time zones, with Irkhetnia about as far west as they came. He was grateful the State Department hadn't summoned him from home any earlier than they had, and he suspected they had waited until a nearly-reasonable hour, just for him. Nevertheless, it was far from his favorite way to begin the first day of what was supposed to be time for himself.

Heaving another sigh, he closed up the SeCom room and reentered his office proper. The rest of the staff, he thought, looking at his clock, should just be arriving now. He had left a note on the desk of Janice Melton, his secretary, telling her he was in the SeCom, rather than at his dacha, but that he was not to be disturbed for any reason.

As he straightened some papers on his desk that had all been put away yesterday and picked up his coat, his ears told him the staff already had a problem they were dealing with. The SeCom was soundproof, but his office was not. He was annoyed to hear a loud discussion going on just outside his door. A woman seemed to be pleading for something. He supposed she was a U.S. citizen complaining about some unreasonable search and seizure by the local government, and he never had much patience for that kind of thing. He wondered what she had said to get past the outer offices.

Whatever it was she'd said, he suddenly realized in surprise, she'd said it in Russian. Not a U.S. citizen? he wondered.

He could clearly hear, in Russian, "I have to speak to the ambassador!"

He had a stray thought about staying in his office until whatever it was blew over -- David Branch, whose office was adjacent to Kenner's, was good at this kind of thing. Kenner could hear David speaking in his halting but serviceable Russian, trying to calm the woman. But undignified hiding out in his office wasn't Kenner's way of doing things. I'll just say a few words to the lady, he told himself, let her know she's been listened to, and send her on her way. That's usually all they want anyway.

He opened his door. Edita, the Irkhet typist who occupied the outermost office of the suite as receptionist, said to him in her accented English, "I'm sorry, sir. I told her she couldn't come in, but she just walked in anyway."

The shouting woman, dressed like a local, spun towards Kenner, speaking quickly in Russian. "You're the ambassador, right?"

He nodded patiently, having just emerged from a door that said "Ambassador" in English, Russian, and Irkhet.

"You're the man I have to see! This one won't listen to me!" She gestured at David. "I know where Rachel Preston is!"

Kenner drew a blank for a moment, then it came back to him. American citizen, missing in Germany. With her friend, Amanda... something. Forrest, Amanda Forrest. Months ago. There had been a thousand false reports of their whereabouts at the time, though none of them here. Kenner quirked a small smile at David.

David smiled back and shrugged, and said in English, "Our first Elvis sighting. Irkhetnia joins the rest of the world." He inclined his head towards the door. "I know you're trying to get out of here, Rudy. I can handle this."

Kenner smiled back. "Thanks." He headed for the door between inner and outer office, as David told the woman, in Russian, "Please, if you would give a statement for this lady here," he indicated Janice, "We can look into it later."

The woman turned to follow Kenner's progress, and shouted, "You saw her! She was a statue in the president's office at the People's House!"

Kenner took two more steps, and his hand grasped the doorknob, during which time he heard David's monumental effort to choke back a laugh. Then he froze.

He couldn't possibly have heard that correctly. His ears were messing with him.

He turned towards the woman slowly. "Could you say that again?"

The woman's tension seemed to drain off just slightly. She took a deep breath. "When you went to see the president, and you were in his office, you saw statues there. You thought they were statues. One of them was Rachel Preston. Not a statue of her. The real one!"

Kenner tried to think how this woman could know about the statues he'd seen. He had passed along, to David, to the State Department, to anyone who needed to know, the substance of the meeting with President Gerov and General Perelenko.

But he had never had occasion to mention the statues.

If this was a joke, he couldn't imagine who was making it. This wasn't Anatoly Perelenko's style of humor. And certainly not Dimitri Gerov's.

Kenner tried to sort through the multitude of questions crowding into his mind. "You're saying... she just stood there, not moving, the whole time I was there? Why would she do that?"

The woman held out, in a shaking hand, a rumpled sheet of paper she had been waving, while demanding to see the ambassador. "This will explain everything. You'll see."

In a daze, Kenner took the paper, and began reading. After the first few sentences, he leaned against the edge of a nearby desk for support.

He looked at the woman. "Who is Raisa?"

The woman held her hand over her chest, closed her eyes, took several deep breaths, at last making progress in coming down from her adrenaline rush. "Raisa Grozneva. She is my cousin. An army nurse. I didn't know until I got this that she was working in the People's House. Like it says in there," she pointed at the paper, "She helps take care of Rachel Preston and the other girl."

Kenner noticed there was writing in a couple of small areas on the back side of the paper. "And you're Tatyana Grozneva? This came addressed to you?"

Tatyana nodded. "Yes, sir. I'm a cook, downstairs. That's how I could get in here. A boy who works in the kitchen at the People's House brought it to me at home last night." She smiled. "I gave him the five dollars."

Kenner snorted, and looked back through the letter again. "Would you leave this with me?"

"Of course, sir. That's the whole point, you're supposed to have it."

He turned to his secretary. "Janice, can you bring up a picture of Rachel Preston on your screen?"

"Yes, sir." She tapped at her keyboard a moment.

Kenner and Branch both leaned closer to look at the image on the screen, Branch not knowing what he was looking for.

Kenner drew in a sharp breath. He recalled thinking how beautiful the face was for the taller statue, and admiring the ability of the artist to have done such fine work in marble. The face had made a sufficient impression on him that now, seeing the image on his screen and mentally editing out the long hair and flesh tones, he knew he was seeing that same face again. His thoughts that evening while regarding the statues returned to him in greater detail. He remembered thinking the artist had chosen to make the taller one larger than life for some reason -- it must have been at least six feet tall.

His eye wandered away from the face on the screen and he found he was reading a physical description beside it, giving Rachel Preston's height, weight, hair color, eye color...

Height: 6' 0".

His mouth fell open slightly.

A thought intruded on him with sudden clarity, founded in his distaste for Dimitri Gerov. No, the thought ran, getting a girl to come here with a bizarre story about some statue I'd seen weeks ago is not Gerov's type of humor. Gerov's style would be to show me a missing American disguised as a statue.

Kenner straightened and looked at the wall for several minutes. Everyone else in the room looked at him, silently.

At last he said, in Russian, the one language understood by everyone in the room, "I need to make some phone calls. Miss Grozneva, I may need to ask you some more questions. Could you wait right here? Do you want anything to eat?"

Tatyana brightened. "Could I get a hamburger? We cook those downstairs."

Kenner always avoided having Janice do domestic chores, such as fetching coffee. So he looked at David. "Can you see to that?"

David finally managed to speak. In English: "Rudy? What the hell is going on?"

In that same language, Kenner responded, "Big stuff, David. I'll fill you in, but I have to make calls."

Uncertainly, Tatyana said. "A beer, maybe?"

Backing towards his office door, Kenner gestured at David and swept his finger towards Tatyana. "Beer her, David."

As he pulled the door to the communications room closed, Kenner finalized the thought he had begun while reading the letter.

His duty was to call the State Department and pass along what he had learned. If they believed him, they would be shocked into action, of course. But what passed for action, in the great federal bureaucracy, was called inertia in any other context.

There would be discussions, first in the State Department, and then, probably within a day or so, in the Oval Office. That would be action taking place at light speed, in comparison with the usual flow of decision-making. The president, with the Secretary of State, the Secretary of Defense, the National Security Advisor, probably the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, perhaps others, including political advisors to reflect on how any decision would play with the American public... They would all weigh in, probably with differing strategies, all well thought out and presented. Or not. The discussions would go on for a few days. Apparently an innocent Irkhet girl would die in the meantime, but Rachel Preston would be the priority. There was also the question of the whereabouts of Amanda Forrest, the "Mandiy" mentioned in Raisa Grozneva's letter. She might be the new girl arriving at the People's House in a few days. Or might not. Since Preston had been at a women's prison, presumably Forrest was there now. It seemed a reasonable assumption, at least. Should they wait until she had arrived at the People's House? After the girl Anya was dead? That would be simplest -- but how would they know whether she had arrived? Another discussion that would probably last a day or two. Through all of this process, America's Irkhetnian ambassador would be ordered to wait, pending further orders.

If they believed him.

If they didn't believe him, then activity on the other side of the world would proceed much more slowly, if indeed it moved at all. But the orders given to him would be the same: wait. Do nothing.

Rudolph Kenner didn't want to see anyone die. Least of all Anya, the Irkhet. He knew he had seen her, as the other statue. The one he'd thought was meant to be a child, but with adult breasts, an odd choice by the artist. She had looked so small and innocent, a girl who had never imagined hurting anyone. Kenner still thought of her as "the child."

He knew that as soon as he contacted the State Department, the entire situation would be out of his hands, regardless of whether his report was believed or not.

He had another option. He had begun considering it within the first minute of analyzing the problem. It had the advantage of not only potentially saving an innocent life, but also possibly bringing about what he considered a very positive outcome whose benefits went far beyond the welfare of a single Irkhet girl.

What he was considering doing would get him reprimanded, or perhaps even recalled. But he remembered what Joe Morrison, his earliest mentor at the State Department, had said to him once: "In some situations, it's easier to get forgiveness than permission." Kenner took that to mean: If it's important, and pressing, and you're sure of the right thing to do, then do it. Don't stop and ask if it's okay.

He worried about what would happen if his involvement became publicly known. But, he realized, if he followed through on the plan slowly germinating in his mind, the nature of the situation made it impossible for him to sit back invisibly and pull strings. Some of what needed to be done required a power that only he could provide, and only by being visibly on the scene.

What a contrast this makes, he mused, with how relaxing today was supposed to have been.

He shrugged and took a deep breath. He knew the person to call, and it wasn't anyone at the State Department. He lifted the handset of a telephone he hadn't used before, and paused before pushing the phone's single button. It was a matter, now, of exactly what to say.

He punched the button. He hoped Anatoly was in his office.

General Anatoly Perelenko, in the middle of giving his aide instructions about housing for a newly relocated brigade, was startled by the ringing of a phone on his desk -- startled by the fact that it was a phone that had not rung before except during testing. It was a direct line from the U.S. ambassador's office, its signal scrambled in transit and unscrambled by a small computer chip within the device.

Without displaying undue concern, he told his aide he would continue with him later, and that he'd been expecting an important call, which he had not.

Alone now, he picked up the receiver. The quiet voice at the other end said in English, "Anatoly Igorevich, I hope you are well."

It wasn't unusual that Ambassador Kenner was speaking to Perelenko in English. They often used that language, and Perelenko relished the chance to practice. But in combination with the fact that Kenner was calling on the secure phone, it seemed likely to Perelenko that Kenner was trying to make sure their conversation was not overheard by anyone who could understand it. Rudy, thought Perelenko, was correct in assuming that no one immediately outside Perelenko's door spoke English. Perelenko responded in the same language, "Well enough, Rudy. But surprised."

"Not as much as you're going to be. Anatoly..." There was a long pause. "We've played a lot of poker. I know you're a careful player, just like you're careful in all other things." Another pause. "We've talked sometimes about your dreams of what Irkhetnia could be." Perelenko knew Kenner was referring to the possibility of an open, democratic state. "Do you love your country enough that you would be willing to put all your chips in the pot? As a player would say it, are you ready to go all in?"

Perelenko frowned. It wasn't like Rudy to dance around an issue. He said slowly, "It would depend on the cards I am holding, Rudy."

At the other end of the line, the ambassador snorted. "I'll give you the cards, Anatoly. But you have to be the one to play them. You'll understand why when I finish."

"This sounds like a long story. Can I take notes?"

"You'd probably better. Obviously, make sure they're never seen. Destroy them when you're sure you've memorized them."

Perelenko leaned forward, depressed a button on his intercom, and said, "Absolutely no calls, no visitors. If anyone comes to see me with an appointment, cancel, apologize, reschedule."

The voice came back, "Yes, sir."

He unplugged the intercom, drew a notepad into his lap, sat back with a pen poised, and said, "Go ahead, Rudy."

"I'll say it in Russian. I'll be reading from something that's in Russian, so that will be easier. You can ask questions in English if you want."

Yes, thought Perelenko, he is indeed concerned with eavesdroppers. "Listening."

Perelenko hung up the phone. Dear God in Heaven, he thought, in English, a phrase he had often heard Americans use.

His heart was beating fast, but slowing as he began planning details. Planning always calmed him.

Rudy, he knew, was a very intelligent man, but occasionally endearingly naive about how things work in an authoritarian setting. He hadn't grown up in one, and his position protected him from the worst effects of such a society now. He hadn't thought to insist that Perelenko make use of men he could count on to be loyal to him, General Perelenko, and not to Dimitri Gerov, if their interests should come into opposition.

Luckily for Rudy, Perelenko had thought about such things, far in advance of the need for them.

Over the years, Perelenko had recruited a special cadre of troops who, upon being called to action on his behalf, would report directly to him -- the rest of the time they occupied various positions in the army in different divisions, different companies, with different commanders. Once a month they assembled for two days for special training, conducted by him. There was nothing secret about the training, and nothing even especially unusual about it. It had never raised any comment.

What was unusual was the backgrounds of the men. They had been chosen, by General Perelenko himself, according to their responses on a long questionnaire, or more specifically to their response to one question on it: Has any close friend or family member been arrested, or otherwise disappeared, whose whereabouts are now unknown to you?

Perelenko supposed that many men had answered "No" because they believed their loyalty might be questioned otherwise. Of the men with the best records, with spotless recommendations from superiors, and showing superior abilities and skills, who were honest enough to answer "Yes" on the missing-person question, he conducted a personal interview of them, not revealing to them that they were being interviewed because of that answer. Speaking with them personally, he included, among other queries, a question related to the vanished relative or friend, watching carefully as they answered to determine, to the extent he could, their feelings about the occurrence. The ones who seemed to have a personal anger about the arrest of a loved one -- those were the ones he accepted into the cadre. It now had a little over a hundred members.

He had his staff look into the arrests and disappearances that concerned the men. He had no access to records of political prisoners -- the president held such information very closely, and did not believe those records should be of concern to anyone with no need for them, including General Perelenko -- but in four cases, the staff had discovered that the missing person in question had been guilty of a minor property crime and then, as often happened in an unwieldy bureaucracy, had somehow become lost in the system. The staff then tracked down those four lost criminals, three men, one woman, and Perelenko had managed to win their releases from custody. The news of those releases had spread, with some subtle nudges from Perelenko, through the cadre. The men now regarded General Perelenko as a man who would fight on their behalf, occasionally winning, always trying. The men, in return, were fiercely determined to fight for him. Perelenko was as sure as he could be that these one-hundred-plus men would stand with him in any situation; that he represented, to them, the Irkhetnia they were committed to defend.

Perelenko drafted a signal to go out to all units, ordering the men of his cadre to assemble, in formal dress uniforms, with weapons in good repair and ready for use, in front of the motor pool no later than eleven hundred hours.

While waiting on the activity that first signal had stirred up all around the camp, he sent a second signal requesting two large busses. ("Busses, sir?" "Yes, I want busses.") He didn't want his men arriving at the People's House in armored personnel carriers. That would cause premature alarm.

Then he called back Ambassador Kenner. He wanted to make absolutely sure he was understanding Rudy correctly. Rudy had assured him that, if Rachel Preston was found, alive or dead, Perelenko would have the backing of the United States government for any action he undertook. He wanted to hear Rudy promise that one more time.

Dimitri Gerov made token efforts through the morning to maintain the appearance of staying busy with messages, though concentrating on conference-call meetings on his computer was beyond him. He wanted Preston and Simonina to hear him conducting business as usual, with no evident concern for the life-threatening activity occurring just meters away. It was eleven-thirty now; the waterline had reached the level of Simonina's navel. He debated whether to have a lunch delivered to the outer offices so he could eat it here, or dine elsewhere. He decided on the former, knowing he would regret missing a minute of Simonina's slow-motion execution. As he reached for the intercom button, it startled him by buzzing. "Yes?"

"Mr. President, the American Ambassador wishes to speak to you."

"Go ahead, put him on."

"He's not on the phone, sir. He's in the building."

The president frowned. That's very odd, he thought. He came over from the embassy, without checking to see if I was even in my office, let alone had time free to talk to him? Well, the president thought, obviously he can't come in here. "I will call him on my mobile phone. I trust he didn't forget his own, in his haste to come visit."

"Yes, sir."

The president pulled his mobile out of his pocket, thumbed down to Ambassador Kenner in his contact list, and sent the call.

Kenner answered promptly. "Yes, Mr. President?"

"I must apologize, Mr. Ambassador, after you've gone to the trouble of coming here. I'm afraid I'm quite busy just now, but I can have my staff make an appointment for you first thing tomorrow."

"I apologize as well, Mr. President, but this is something that can't wait. The contract for the fighter jets is in trouble."

Gerov shook his head. "But we signed that. It's all done."

"Apparently there is trouble about it in the Senate. I believe we can save it, but we must talk immediately."

The president ground his teeth, silently. After a pause, he said, "Very well. Obviously General Perelenko should be involved as well. I will order a limousine. I invite you to ride with me to the general's headquarters, and we can all discuss it there."

"I'm with General Perelenko now, Mr. President." Gerov blinked. If Perelenko is there too, he thought, why wasn't I told that? The ambassador continued, "We're both standing not fifty meters from where you're sitting. Time is short. If I may come down to your office, I believe we can clear this up quickly."

"I... Meeting in my office would not be necessary. There is a conference room that is closer to where you are now. I will have my staff open it for you, and I can be there in minutes."

Rudy Kenner would have laughed, if the situation were not so serious. The president's reluctance, even his pauses, were telling Kenner everything he wanted to know.

Okay, Rudy, he told himself. Firm voice. Put the full power of the government of the United States behind it. "Mr. President: We can meet now, in your office," he said, putting special emphasis on the last three words, "Or we can watch the contract be voided by Senate action."

Shit, the president thought. Shit, shit. And on further reflection: Shit!

Does he know? a voice inside him demanded. Could he somehow know?

The president closed his eyes, his mind spinning. Either the man knows, he thought, or he doesn't. If he doesn't, refusing to meet him here will stir up suspicions that weren't there before, and that may be just as bad as him already knowing.

The president worked to keep his voice steady. "Very well, Mr. Ambassador. But I will require five... make that ten minutes. There are sensitive documents on my desk. I will need time to put them all away."

"Ten minutes will be fine, Mr. President."

The president squeezed his eyes shut as he ended the call. He rose from his desk, went to the door to the nurses' ward, and yanked it open.

He heard a collection of gasps from inside the private rooms. One of the nurses, what was her name, Veronika, stood in her doorway gaping at him, her face a mask of fear.

He pointed behind him into his office. "I need the big mannequin out of there. Bring her in here." He swept his arm in a gesture, as if bringing the woman in through the door were a difficult concept that needed to be illustrated. "And bring a bedsheet. The largest one in here."

The other nurses were standing in their doorways as well now, looking stunned. They didn't move until he snapped, "Now!"

The nurses all started to run for the office door. Raisa tapped the other two on their shoulders. "I'll find a sheet." They nodded and hurried on.

Zlata and Veronika, of course, found Rachel exactly where they had left her. Zlata wondered where the patch on her back had come from, but decided that wasn't important now. Veronika, already almost breathless, managed to gasp out, "Should we straighten her out? Easier to carry?"

Zlata shook her head. "Just pick her up like this. We might need to put her back. And don't tip her. We want the candy bowl to stay in her lap." On opposite sides of Rachel, each put a hand under Rachel's thigh and another on her back to steady her, lifted her up, and carried her through the door.

Raisa had taken a clean sheet for her bed from her drawer. She unfolded it. "Will this be big enough, sir?"

He examined it critically. "I believe so. What's her problem?" He was looking into Larisa's room.

Raisa looked in, shocked to see Larisa completely motionless on her bed, curled up in a fetal position. She was fairly sure Larisa didn't take naps that way. This really doesn't look good, she thought. "I'm not sure, sir. We haven't heard anything from her since we came back to our rooms."

He shrugged, dismissing the subject, and went back to his office, signaling for Raisa to follow. The others came in behind her after depositing Rachel on the cot.

"Do you want us to move... the smaller one, too?" That came from Zlata.

"No," he snapped. "I don't want her dripping water all over the floor. Just cover her up." He gestured at Raisa, holding the sheet.

Raisa quickly shook out the sheet, and the others helped her drape it over the water-tank assembly. It was big enough to cover it completely.

"Now go back. Wait..." The president listened for a moment. The sound of dribbling water was clearly audible. He threw off the sheet, located the cap for the water pipe and screwed it on, stopping the flow. He gestured at the nurses. "Put it back."

They re-draped the sheet, and hurried out in response to another impatient gesture.

Alone now, the president sat in the soft chair behind his big desk, dabbed at his forehead with a tissue, and took several deep breaths. As his heart rate approached normal, he leaned forward and pressed the button on his intercom. "The ambassador and the general may come down now."