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come cheaply. Fair, yes. Cheap? No.”
    “It can cost everything I— we —own, so long as it gets my husband back in my bed, healthy and safe.”
    “It’s not quite that simple,” Aida said. “You know it’s possible one—maybe more than one—of your own children is in on this. You can’t let them . . . ”
    “Why do you think I insisted on meeting here ,” Mrs. Ayala said. “I already know that much. Make your call.”
    “Okay,” Aida agreed. “It will be a couple of days, though. I’ve got to gather some information first. Hopefully, too, the people who’ve grabbed Lucio will identify themselves and make an initial ransom demand. The more solid information on the threat that I can pass on to my contact the more likely they’ll take the contract.”

CHAPTER THREE

    Happy, peaceful Philippines . . .
    —Anonymous, “Damn, damn, damn the Filipinos”

    “Lawyers, Guns, and Money” (SCIF), Camp Fulton, Guyana

    Officially it was called “the SCIF,” the Special Compartmentalized Information Facility. Despite the name, it never had seen and in all probability never would see anything officially classified as “Special Compartmentalized Information,” since the regiment and corporation didn’t use the designation and the combat units the United States rotated through Camp Fulton would never reveal anything that deeply classified in what amounted to a foreign installation.
    Even so, it looked like a SCIF, with thick concrete roof and walls, half buried under ground, covered with jungle growth, and impervious to electronic penetration. It was also surrounded by barbed wire and permanently guarded, inside and out. And, if it never held any official special compartmented information, it held all the regiment’s and corporation’s secrets. These tended to fluctuate around legal work, procurement, sales, and contracting, which is to say, money. Hence the unofficial but common name, “Lawyers, Guns, and Money.”
    Before the visitor hit any of those offices, however, down a narrow side corridor leading from the wide central one, was the office of Ralph Boxer, retired Air Force two star, and de facto chief of staff for M Day, Incorporated.
    In that office, on the wall behind Boxer’s desk, was a poster, a copy of the famous painting by Leutze of “Washington Crossing the Delaware.” The caption underneath said, “Americans. We will cross an icy river to kill you in your sleep. On Christmas.” Beneath the poster, sitting at his desk, Boxer, an older man, grayed but not balding, spoke into a telephone.
    “You finally ready to take me up on that offer, Aida?” asked Ralph Boxer, Executive Officer and practical Chief of Staff of M Day, Incorporated.
    “Not hardly,” answered the voice on the phone. The English was accented, but crisp and clear. “Ralph . . . I’ve got a problem . . . I think we’ve got a problem . . . that’s pretty much in your line of work.”
    “Are you on a secure line?” Boxer asked.
    “No, but I bought a throwaway cell phone and enough credits to call you. You’ll have to call me back before we get cut off. No one’s tracking this one, if that’s your concern.”
    Boxer thought, She’s never been given to panic . . . but there’s something that sounds a lot like panic in her voice. “Your number’s not showing on my caller ID,” he said. “Give it to me; I’ll call you back directly.”

    “I’ll bring it to the boss and the regimental council,” Boxer agreed, “but I’ve got to tell you, honey, that I’m going to recommend against. We’ve got a problem here—coming soon, too—that no amount of money can buy us out of. Frankly, we can’t spare—at least we can’t be sure of being able to spare—the force.
    “And, no, I’m not just setting this up to drive a harder bargain.”
    The voice on the other end didn’t answer for a minute. When Aida spoke, she said, “Well . . . ask your boss to consider the amount of trouble there’ll be for you and