"Close all your bank accounts and transfer online," Brij told Akhil. "Keep an open ticket ready, and as soon as you smell trouble you can leave by the time they reach you."

"Yeah... . OK, Papaji."

ANJUMAN HOTEL, AGRA, INDIA

Seven thousand miles away, a thin Indian drug agent with a rust-colored goatee perched over a laptop in a sweaty hotel room not far from the Taj Mahal.

The room's thick walls and tiny windows shielded the wire man from the blare of National Highway 2, a road so frenetic even cows gave way to its traffic.

Through headphones, the Indian Narcotics Control Bureau agent listened to a replay of the Bansals' father-son call. Then the wire man listened again to confirm what he had heard: "Start taking precautions... keep an open ticket... as soon as you smell trouble..."

Across the room, his boss and his boss' boss stood next to an agent from America's DEA. The stakeout, two blocks from Brij Bansal's upscale home, was the culmination of a 13-month global dragnet. The wire man knew this bust represented his country's biggest Internet pharmacy crackdown, and its biggest case with the Americans.

With a series of synchronized sweeps coordinated from Philadelphia, Indian and U.S. agents hoped to arrest 17 people worldwide and seize bank accounts from 11 countries.

This was what the wire man had been waiting for.

Over six months on the wire, he had come to know the Bansals. Despite the time difference - when it was day here, it was night in Philadelphia - father and son spoke daily. True, they talked about the son's schooling and the father's bad heart. But mostly they talked business: supply, demand, stock, delivery, debt, profit.

The wire man had also eavesdropped on the father's calls with his New Delhi courier. Again and again, Brij reminded the courier to use phony return addresses on the packages he shipped to the United States. Several times, Brij remarked that he was paying the courier six times the going rate, a fee for which he expected loyalty and secrecy.

In a way, the wire man felt sorry for the Bansals. Except for their crimes, they were educated, productive, respected members of society. It would be sad to see them yanked from their homes in handcuffs.

That inglorious end, he believed, lay hours away.

LANCASTER, PA.

Lynn, a 35-year-old mother who had not worked since a 2000 car accident, logged on to a familiar Web site, meds-warehouse.net.

Her doctor had prescribed Ambien in the past, but he was retired now, and insurance no longer covered the sleeping medication.

She ordered 30 tabs with her credit card.

The person at meds-warehouse.net did not require a prescription, nor did he have any medical training. He didn't even understand the purpose of half the drugs he sold.

After validating Lynn's credit card, the Web site operator entered the order onto an Excel spreadsheet, one of 24 Ambien orders this day - orders from Little Rock, Ark.; Hattiesburg, Miss.; Plano, Texas; Wichita, Kan.; and Philadelphia.