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him. Rines had not taken the instructions lightly.
    Cronus. The Russians were pulling another Cronus operation. Trotter wanted to be in on it. Had to be.
    Because Cronus was the reason he’d been born. Fighting it was the only thing that could make his life worthwhile.

Chapter Four
    “W AKE UP,” TROTTER SAID . “We’re landing.”
    “I’m not asleep,” Joe Albright told him.
    “I know, you were watching me through slitted eyes, waiting for me to make my move. Whatever the hell that might be.”
    “Listen, Trotter. This started out as a routine day. They told me to find you and escort you to Washington. That’s all they told me. I don’t know who you are, except that you’re not wanted for anything, and I don’t want to know who you are. And I really don’t need you pulling my chain.”
    That last sentence, at least, was one hundred percent true. Joe Albright was thirty years old. He was smart, honest, educated and good-looking. He dressed conservatively. He did not smoke, drink, use drugs, or mess inordinately with women. He was an expert shot, and he was an expert in Caribbean languages and cultures.
    He had, as far as he could tell, a great future with the FBI, especially since he was black. He didn’t want to be favored because of his race; he was sure he didn’t need any favoritism. He just wanted to be noticed. And that was fairly certain. Black guys were still thin on the ground in the Bureau.
    Trotter could represent an opportunity or a problem, Albright wasn’t sure which. Because despite what he’d told his—what? Companion? Prisoner?—the message from Washington had contained considerably more information than just a statement of the job. They told him to identify himself to Trotter very clearly, not, for example, to drop a hand on his shoulder and say, “Hey, buddy, come with me.” That, it turned out, had been good advice. Albright should have passed the advice along to the dentist. He’d heard the man telling the receptionist how poorly Trotter had taken a sudden surprise.
    But Washington had told him something else—not to tell anybody else at his regional office.
    That’s where the problem/opportunity business came in. Because the only reason Albright could see to keep this secret from his boss was that it was something the boss shouldn’t be allowed to know. Did that mean trouble at the office? Was this Trotter a witness or something? Or was this all a scam? Maybe Trotter was escorting him to D.C., and the interrogations were going to start with him.
    On the other hand, maybe the powers had decided Joe was the clean man in a world of dirt and were going to give him a central role in the housecleaning.
    Trotter was no help at all. For a guy who’d been pulled out of a dentist’s chair and brought three thousand miles to see a top federal law-enforcement official, Trotter was something beyond calm. He acted like a man starting off on a fishing trip. For a guy who was goosey enough to come near to breaking a man’s bones for startling him, Trotter was a surprisingly serene traveler.
    Joe tried to figure out what it was about Trotter that had gotten things moving so quietly on such a high level. He was about Joe’s age, tall, about six-one, and in good shape without getting militant about it. That was another thing. They had given him nineteen descriptions for the guy when they sent Albright out to look for him. The only thing that didn’t vary was the height. His hair was listed as anything from sandy to black. He might weigh anything from 175 to 240 pounds. He wore glasses, or he didn’t. His eyes were blue, or they were green or gray, but most likely they were brown. If he was wearing glasses, as he was now, they’d most likely be brown. As they were now. He might be brash or timid, living well or poorly, alone or with a woman.
    So, Joe wondered, if this guy was such a chameleon, how did the Bureau in Washington have his address? Joe was tempted to ask him, but it was against