
#  DOMINI CANES

By

Victor C Bush

# Chapter 1

Outside, the campus was jammed with yet another student demonstration and the din was growing. I shuffled my notes squaring them in front of me on the lectern and said, "The need to control is a dominating force behind human behavior." I repeated the statement and forty or so second-year sociology students took the hint and wrote in their notebooks.

"I want this statement to be the focus of your research papers on human aggression," I said, raising my voice. "Questions?"

Before I could answer the blonde in the ponytail there was an awful crash. Instinctively I ducked, raising my arm against a shower of broken glass. The rock missed me and bounced across the floor. There were shouts and a lot of scrambling as they fought each other to get away from the windows.

"It's the Arabs," Henry yelled. "I knew they'd start something." His wild hair fanned out beneath his yarmulke as he bent over his girlfriend. I shoved my way through the group that had knotted around them to get a better look. Blood streamed down her face splattering the red cross of her lifeguard sweatshirt.

"The bastards," he kept repeating.

"Calm down, Henry. And hold this." I placed his hand on the pad I had made of my scarf. "Keep it steady," I said, pressing his hand over the wound.

"Can you walk?" She nodded through tears and sobs leaning on Henry more for emotional than physical support.

"Good. You two..." I pushed a couple of the boys in their direction. "The med center. Go!"

They scrambled off too eager to leave. I got up wearily, feeling suddenly drained and re- entered the class to get my things. Jennifer, the blonde in the ponytail, was trying to sneak a look outside from the corner of a window.

"Looks like it might get real ugly, Dr. Milland. I think it's because of what happened in the news."

"What news...?" Of all days, I had to pick this one to oversleep and miss reading the paper.

"Another mosque was bombed. Killed a lot of people."

"My God! That's awful."

She turned away carefully and edged towards the door. "Dr. Milland. About my paper..."

"Uh, Jennifer, isn't it?" She nodded.

"I don't think this is a good time to talk about it. You know my office hours. Right now the best thing you can do is go home." There was another crash outside and we both flinched.

"Go straight home and don't hang around out there with the demonstrators." She stood a moment in the doorway hugging herself, giving me that smug adolescent look then left.

I closed my case and headed for the relative peace of my office.

Lee-Ann, an old friend from my undergrad years, had finally agreed to a lunch date and promised to meet me at my office. She had been an art major and in spite of the differences in our personalities, our friendship had grown over the years. I unlocked the door, leaving it open, put my stuff on Harry's desk and went to the window. The crowd had grown. Still reasonably peaceful, they were, however, attracting a rowdy bunch of hecklers. I could see the two groups beginning to polarize. Jewish students milled about with placards promoting the continuance of peace initiatives while the Arab leader bellowed through a bullhorn demanding justice and swift retaliation for the newest massacre. A few from the Jewish side began to yell and taunt the Islamic students, agitating a crowd already ripe for confrontation.

Campus cops, arrogant in ill-fitting uniforms, began to appear, infiltrating the crowd, their walkie-talkies casting an invisible net. They'd be next to useless if the mob got physical, but since Kent State, the real police have been reluctant to involve themselves in campus disruptions.

I looked at my watch. It was twelve-thirty and Lee-Ann, as usual, was late, so I sat at my desk figuring to organize my calendar for the next few days. Geoff, my ex, was entitled to a few extra days off, and I'd promised to alter my teaching schedule so we could enjoy a long weekend in the mountains. Judging by the din outside, that weekend wouldn't come soon enough, nor would the mountains be remote enough, but I...

"Auntie Sam! Auntie Sam!" I'd been so preoccupied I didn't hear them come in. Sarah ran towards me arms outstretched and threw herself at me, strangling me with a hug. My namesake and goddaughter was a typical six year old. Excitable, energetic, and exuberant.

I pried her arms away from my neck. Her mother stood in the doorway, hands on hips and laughed. In her black cape, Lee-Ann looked ready to leap tall buildings.

"Sam, I should be jealous, I swear..." She came in, undid the gold clasp at her throat and tossed the cape on the coat tree simultaneously instructing her daughter to stop assaulting me.

"Sarah! You know Auntie Sam. Now sit there like a lady." She pointed to the leather club chair by the coat rack.

Sarah obliged, first picking up a copy of Law Review from Harry's desk. Then she yanked off her coat, threw it on the chair and climbed on top of it to read the magazine.

Lee-Ann looked at me and rolled her eyes. "I swear she not only reads everything she can get her hands on but understands it all too."

Sarah ignored us, already engrossed in one of the articles. I laughed imagining her in a courtroom arguing a case against Harry.

Lee-Ann shook her mane of red hair and perched herself on Harry's desk. She was knockout in a green silk dress with a Mandarin collar.

"So? Where do you want to eat?" she asked, making the silk rustle as she swung her long legs. The woman ate everything, enjoyed a good drink, didn't know what the hell Perrier was, stayed out till all hours, hadn't a clue what aerobics were and had the audacity to be about five pounds under her ideal weight.

I shrugged. Never much for lunch anyway. Maybe an apple or yoghurt. Both if I felt reckless. Lee-Ann on the other hand was always famished. The bitch.

"It's my treat, don't forget." Okay, I nodded.

"Thought we'd try the dining room at the Ritz. If it's okay for ..."

"I know... if it's okay for a prime minister's wife, then it's good enough for Lee-Ann."

We both laughed. She had a thing about politicians, especially the wives who bellied up to the public trough.

"Sounds good," I said hoping to head her off from a harangue on the excesses of politicians. Mind you, Lee-Ann knew how to part with her money. She'd been widowed when Bill had been had been killed in an auto crash on a dangerous stretch along 9-C. The police determined he'd been hit from behind and forced off the road by a drunk driver. According to their report, glass and plastic fragments littered the road. The skid marks, which the report said were abnormally long, led to the spot where he had crashed through the road barrier and down into a ravine. His car had struck a large boulder and erupted in flames burning Bill beyond recognition. I remember thinking at the time that the autopsy was redundant, but bureaucracy makes no effort to spare human suffering. Lee-Ann was still trying to cope with the enormity of the tragedy. After the medical expenses were paid, she was stony broke. Harry, my office mate, suggested the name of a good ambulance chaser and the rest is history. Lee-Ann sued and won a helluva settlement. Abusing the money, I guessed, was her way of getting back, but I wondered if it didn't serve instead to continually remind her of the enormous loss she hadn't yet come to terms with. And I could tell too when she was going through a particularly rough spot. She'd spend like crazy. Renovating her apartment. New clothes. A newer Mercedes. Trips abroad. Four years later, and she wore the loss as if it had occurred yesterday.

"Okay. Let's go. I'm starved! Come on Sarah."

Sarah didn't budge.

"Sarah..."

She looked up and smiled, a large gap where the tooth fairy had made a purchase.

"Sa-rah."

"Okay." She slid forward, her little red corduroy skirt riding up to show pink panties decorated with the Flintstones.

"Can I keep the magazine?"

"Give me a break, Sarah," Lee-Ann answered and reached for the magazine and dropped her purse kicking it under the desk as she struggled to retrieve it.

"It's okay. I'm sure Harry would be pleased to let you borrow it. I'll tell him you have it in case he wants it back."

"Thanks, Auntie Sam." She handed me her coat and I helped her into it, avoiding Lee-Ann's gaze. She managed her own buttons except for the collar. When I finished fastening my own coat she grabbed my hand and hauled me towards the door, letting go just long enough for me to lock it. That done she took a firm grip on my hand, and I knew from experience she'd hang on until we got to wherever we were going.

With each step she tugged, and with each tug I could hear another second tick away on my biological clock. I swallowed hard and pushed away maternal thoughts that interfered with career plans but also firmly established strong feelings of guilt.

Sarah walked between us, hanging on to our hands and swinging her legs to avoid the cracks in the sidewalk. When Lee-Ann tired of having her shoulder wrenched from its socket, she uttered a sharp, "Enough!"

Sarah switched places, putting me in the middle and sulked for all of ten seconds.

The hotel wasn't very far and for an October day the sun was strong but with a brisk wind that made my eyes water. Montreal was a beautiful city, the McGill campus spectacularly awash in the autumn gold tumbling down from Mount Royal.

There was a pretty good crowd in the dining room, but Lee-Ann had reserved ahead, so from office to table had taken not more than twenty minutes. The waiter, in a tight fitting black vest elaborately embroidered in gold braid, was charmed by Sarah and made a show of seating us immediately at a quiet table commanding a view of the dining room.

I didn't bother with the menu having decided to settle for the Chef's Salad. Lee-Ann, on the other hand, would eat like a longshoreman.

"How about some wine?" she asked. "A bottle of Blue Nun?"

"Not for me, thanks. Just some Perrier."

"Shit! You're a lot of fun aren't you?" But before she could insult me further, Sarah took my part.

"Mother!" she said peering over the top of the menu, "Don't be so vulgar!" Then to me without skipping a breath, "Auntie Sam, wouldn't you like to try the Sole Almandine? There's a little heart beside it on the menu."

Sarah, embarrassed by the stares drawn by our laughter, hid behind her menu.

"You know, Sam? If it wasn't for this... this little imp, I don't think I would have made it." She tousled the child's hair.

"Oh, Mother. You really can be tedious." They bantered with each other more like old friends rather than mother and daughter. Sarah was six, going on sixty.

We ate and chatted. Sarah ignored us, having finished her cucumber sandwich (would you believe?) And was again studying for the bar, never having been told it was impolite to read at the dinner table. Occasionally, I noticed, she used the magazine as a cover to spy on the other diners. At one point her eyes went wide and she tugged on my sleeve.

"Auntie Sam," she whispered.

"What?" I whispered back.

"That man...No! Don't look. The one with the small head.

I sneaked a quick look and stifled a laugh. A young Adonis type, obviously on steroids was involved with a very large salad.

"What about him?"

"I saw him take money out of the lady's purse."

I looked over again. The lady, who had to be at least thirty years older than her friend was returning from the salad bar.

"Sarah, I've told you not to make up such nonsense about other people." To me she added, "Your God-daughter has your imagination. Remember that episode with..."

"Lee-Ann! Don't you dare."

"It's a good story. Don't you think Sarah would enjoy hearing it?"

"Lee-Ann!" I admonished and looked at Sarah.

"Okay," she laughed. "Take it easy."

"Mother! Tell me. Please!"

"I'm afraid, you'll have to wait a few years, Sarah."

"Oh, you two. It's not fair." She went back to the magazine, ignoring us again for the umteenth time.

"You know," Lee-Ann said, reaching for another roll, "Steroids Stanley does have a small head. They say there's an inverse proportion between the size of a man's head and his, uh, you-know-what."

Without looking up from her magazine, Sarah piped in, "Prolonged use of steroids causes the testicles to atrophy."

"Jesus, Sarah. What are you reading anyway? I swear Sam, your Goddaughter is from another planet. I don't know what I'm going to do with her, she's too young for a convent."

We spent the best part of an hour and a half talking and laughing, getting caught up on all kinds of news, which for Lee-Ann centered on quizzing me about my relationship with men -read Geoff.

"I'm not really thinking of getting married again," I said.

"Well, if you ask me..." she didn't finish the sentence.

"I'm sorry," she added. "I know it's none of my business. But for two divorced people you have to admit you spend a lot of time together. I don't know what your problem is. Tall, Hellenistic good looks..... that reddish blond hair..."

"You're right. It isn't any of your business. Besides our relationship is purely... purely..."

"Don't say platonic."

"I was going to say professional."

"Shit, that's worse than platonic!" She laughed.

I gave her my look that said it was time for a subject change, and gratefully she took the hint. So after discussing the state of my father's health and his interest in collecting art we'd exhausted all of our small-talk and when she started playing with the napkin, knotting the corners, I knew it was time to go.

"No you don't," she said when I signaled the waiter. "This is my treat, remember."

So, while she was paying the bill Sarah and I went for our coats.

"I love you Auntie Sam." I had bent down to button her collar and she planted a kiss on my cheek.

"I love you too," I said, and squeezed her.

"Can I come and sleep over again soon? When Geoff is there. He promised to teach me to play poker."

"Poker!" I shook my head and laughed.

"What's so funny?" she asked taking her cape from me.

"Your daughter the card shark". She gave me a puzzled look and said, 'Never mind. I don't think I want to know."

We left the restaurant and I felt a pang of regret that our visit was almost over. I'd miss them, especially Sarah, and I made a mental note to have her sleep over soon. Hell, I could use a poker lesson myself.

We took our time walking back, staying on the south side of Sherbrooke Street to avoid the university gates- those stone pillars that seemed the focus of every campus disruption. Any protest, for any cause, the demonstrators clotted the entrance which inevitably tied-up traffic not only on campus but generally along Sherbrooke Street for blocks in either direction. This time, at least, they weren't rampaging to have condom dispensers installed in all the johns.

We crossed at the corner and continued north on University keeping to the high school side of the street. My office was on the ground floor in the back of the engineering building and faced the grounds.

"Let me walk you to your car," I said taking a firmer hold of Sarah's hand. The Beemie, she said, was parked in the lot at the top of the hill.

"That crowd sounds real ugly, Sam. Maybe you should go straight home yourself."

"Yes, Mother. I don't like it. Why are all those people shouting?"

Lee-Ann ignored the question and quickened her pace.

"Mother..."

"I'll explain at home. Come on now." She looked at me. Lee-Ann hated crowds, wouldn't even watch a parade.

"Okay," I said, "maybe you're right."

"I can drop you...?"

"Don't be silly. I can walk home faster than you can drive around the block. But thanks."

"Okay. I'll call you. Bye." She gave me a weak smile and headed off up the hill. Sarah watched me from over her shoulder and waved. She tripped and Lee-Ann gave her arm a yank. Ouch, I thought, and chuckled when I heard an exasperated, "Mother!"

I hesitated before crossing Milton, figuring I might go back to my office -papers that needed grading were beginning to pile up- but I had to admit the crowd was intimidating, a lot noisier than the run-of-the-mill college demonstration. Lee-Ann and Sarah were a quarter block ahead of me, about half way to the parking lot behind the stadium. I watched Lee-Ann scurry nervously, Sarah in tow, and wondered why she hadn't parked in front of my condo on Aylmer and walked over. I switched my purse to my other hand and started to cross; the papers would have to wait. As I stepped off the curb I heard a sharp yell and the sounds of people running. I turned, startled.

Across the street, four Hassid were tearing up the hill, their black coats flapping, hands holding their flat hats. The fourth one was just careening out of the campus and losing ground to his three friends. Behind him the crowd flowed, spilling into the street headed by what had to be students from the Islamic Union. The Hassid were strung out single file now and the space between them growing. The Sons of Islam were in close pursuit and gaining. I swore, clutched my case firmly intending to get between them, but my skirt put paid to the idea of my playing international mediator.

By now the Hassid were pretty close to Lee-Ann and Sarah having crossed University diagonally. Lee-Ann stopped and looked back. A man about to cross the street, thought better of it and turned back disappearing between the buildings and the stadium. From a hundred yards I swear I could see the horror on her face as the mob surged towards them.

"Move!" I yelled. "Lee-Ann. Run!" I waved frantically and started up the hill. Suddenly there was a staccato of sharp cracks. More screams. The crowd dissolved, the Islamic contingent suddenly camouflaged, lost in the dispersing crowd. I picked up my pace. Ahead of me the four Hassid lay splattered like ink blots in the street.

"No! No, God, no!"

She had fallen on top of Sarah. But too late.

Sarah lay there as if asleep. Her rosy cheeks flushed from fresh air and good health. Her eyes closed, long red lashes still. Red pigtails framed an angel's face.

Sarah lay there as if asleep, her life a red stain in the street. Another sacrifice in the name of Allah or Yahweh or Baal or whatever the hell he was called today.

# Chapter 2

The hospital was at the top of University.

The ambulance barreled straight down the hill, the wrong way on this one-way street, lights flashing and siren screaming. It skidded sideways mounting the sidewalk. In seconds the medics had Sarah in the ambulance and secured to the stretcher reversing direction for the return trip. Another ambulance had taken the four Hassid to the Jewish General; there had been a severe car crash on the Bonaventure Expressway and the Royal Victoria couldn't handle any more casualties.

Lee-Ann was hysterical.

I tried to calm her as she lay across her baby.

"Sarah!" she sobbed. "Don't die. Oh God. Sarah, Sarah. Please God don't let my baby die."

The jolt when we stopped threw me against a metal overhang opening a cut over my left eye. Medics hauled out the gurney wheeling it up the ramp with nurses and doctors trailing, calling orders. We followed but were stopped by a security guard.

"Sorry, Miss. You can't go in there." He put his hand on her arm to restrain her.

"My baby! Let me go!" I shouldered my way between them and steered Lee-Ann towards the waiting room.

God, what a nightmare. Twenty minutes ago we were laughing and joking. I hugged her, holding her tightly, afraid she'd try to get into the trauma center. She sagged suddenly, clutching her stomach, but I got her into a chair before she collapsed.

"Lee-Ann." She didn't respond. "Lee-Ann," I repeated and shook her arm. She stared blankly at the floor. Her arm slid off her lap and hung limply.

"Lee-Ann!" I looked around frantically and shouted to the security guard engrossed in a paper back in his glass both.

"Get a doctor. Someone. A nurse." He looked up, startled, and then picked up his phone. Seconds later a young black woman, stethoscope draped over her shoulder came over. She took one look at Lee-Ann, felt for her pulse at her neck then yelled, "Gurney!" Two orderlies hoisted her up, the doctor turned a crank to lower her head and simultaneously placed a pillow to elevate her feet. They whisked her towards the double doors of the trauma center, the doctor shouting, "Two units of O negative-Stat!"

I looked about for a phone then strode over to the receptionist's desk.

"Yes?" an indifferent volunteer asked.

"I'd like to use your phone, please. It's urgent."

"Sorry, Miss. It's for emergencies." This couldn't be happening.

"This is an emergency, and the only pay phone is in use." I pointed across the room.

"Sorry. Only for staff." She continued doctoring her coffee, one eye on her Better Homes and Gardens. I was about to challenge her, when the security guard came over. He was about fifty-five or sixty, his hair cropped to a short grey stubble over a broad, pink face pocked with old acne scars.

"You can use mine", he said softly, and inclined his head to the glass cage.

'Thank you."

"Dial nine first," he said, holding the door. "I hope the little girl makes it." He stepped outside and turned his back to give me some privacy.

I dialed nine, then my father's number. A nasally voice answered.

"Psychiatry. Dr. Milland's office."

"Hi. Ruthie? It's Sam. Can you put me through to my father?"

"Oh, hi, Sam. Let me check. He should be free, hang on a sec."

She plugged me into a local radio station and just as I was about to get the weather news he answered.

"Dad?"

"Yes, Sammy. How are you dear? I was about to call you myself and ask..."

"Dad. Something terrible has happened."

"Are you okay, Sammy?"

"Yes, I'm fine, Dad. It's not me."

I told him.

"Don't move. I'll be right there. Two minutes."

His office was across the street at the Neuro. In five minutes he was striding through the doors rushing towards me.

I filled him in the best I could. He kept patting my hand, calming me, encouraging me to take my time, cry if I needed to. When I had wound down he said:

"Will you be okay for a minute? I want to talk to the doctors."

"I'm fine", I said fighting tears. "No, I'm not fine. But I'll be okay, now that you're here."

He got up and went towards the door that said 'authorized personnel only'. At the door he paused and came back, reached into his pocket and gave me a handful of change.

"I know it's God awful, but get yourself something from the machine. Hot chocolate. Coffee if you put sugar in it."

I sat in the cracked vinyl chair and stared at the faded safety posters scotch taped to the walls, and sipped what remotely passed for hot chocolate. It coated my mouth and left a scummy film on the inside of the paper cup. About twenty minutes later he returned. His shoulders sagged and all of his sixty-seven years showed in his face. He sat down beside me and took my hand.

"I'm really sorry, Sammy. Sarah didn't make it."

I knew it the moment I saw her on the sidewalk. Nothing could have survived the savage butchery, but hearing the horror of that reality from my father, destroyed the one shred of hope in me praying for a miracle.

"What about Lee-Ann?" I sobbed.

"They're prepping her for surgery now. She's lost a lot of blood."

"What happened? She wasn't shot...She wasn't even bleeding."

"No, she wasn't shot. But she must've been struck by something. Maybe when she fell. The scan showed a ruptured spleen."

"Will she be okay?"

"I'm sure. She'll lose her spleen, but it's an organ we can live without."

"My, God, Dad, it's Sarah she can't live without. Sarah was her life."

"I know, Sammy."

"An hour ago she told me she couldn't have made it after Bill died if it wasn't for Sarah. And now... She has nothing to live for."

"Well, that's where her friends come in. She's really going to need you."

"God, I've enough guilt already."

"Guilt? Whatever for?"

"It's my fault. It was my idea we meet for lunch. If it hadn't been for me, Sarah would be still be alive." I lost it at this point and cried uncontrollably.

"Oh, Sammy. Sammy." He put his arms around me.

"Sammy. Don't do this to yourself. No way you're responsible."

"I'd been after her for weeks to meet me for lunch. And Sarah is so grown up, you know? She loves going out with big people. God, Dad. I feel so awful. The last thing she said was that she wanted to sleep over. That Geoff had promised to teach her to play poker." I laughed in spite of myself. "Jesus. Poker. Not Old Maid. Or Asshole. _No_ , Sarah wants to learn poker. A six year old card-shark, would you believe?" I stopped crying and pulled the paisley hanky from his lapel pocket and wiped my eyes, resisting the urge to blow my nose.

"When can I see her?"

"Not today. The best thing you can do is go home."

"I'd rather stay. In case something develops."

"Develops. What's to develop? After the surgery, she'll be in recovery. They won't let you see her. Besides the surgery is pretty much routine."

"So is going to lunch." He ignored my remark.

"The best thing you can do, Sammy, is go home." He stood back and looked at me at arm's length, then brushed my hair away from the cut. "The bleeding has stopped but it could use a stitch. Does it hurt, I could give you something?"

"Dad! I'll put a Band-Aid on it."

"Okay, okay. I was just asking. Sometimes we need something to help us over the rough spots. No shame you know. It's not a sign of weakness."

"I know that. But I'll be okay. Promise. I don't want my senses dulled. Not when Lee-Ann might need me."

"You're right. Absolutely. Look. I want you to go home. And take a cab.

"It's ten minutes..."

"Please, Sammy. Here." He took his wallet from the inside pocket of his cashmere jacket and gave me two fives, thrusting them into my hand. "Go. Go. I'll stay a bit," he said looking at his watch, "I'm not without a few privileges, you know. Anything develops," he stressed the word, "I'll call you right away."

'Thanks, Dad." I leaned down and kissed him on the cheek.

I went out and waved to a cabby smoking with his buddies at the stand uphill from the entrance. He threw the butt into the street and scrambled behind the wheel of his cab as if afraid one of the other men would tear off and get to me first. His short hair was dyed blond with a decidedly orange cast to it. Bits stuck out unevenly giving him a moth-eaten look. I hoped he liked his work. When I gave him my address his eyebrows shot up.

"Aylmer is only two blocks over, so don't drive me across the city."

"Pardon, Madame?"

"J'ai dit," I replied in my accented French, "ne faites pas le tour de ville. Aylmer n'est pas loin."

I saw his smirk in the mirror. He didn't tour the city, but he did his best to provide me with the roller coaster special. He lurched to a stop in front of my door damn near throwing me into the front seat and smirked again. I gave him one of the tens and waved away the change - not much more than a dollar, but more than he deserved. What the hell, he could put it put it towards a decent haircut. His smirk must have been permanently stuck on his face because it was there when he peeled away hardly giving me time to slam the door.

I climbed the stone steps to my home and realized I had no keys. Damn. Neither my father nor I were the type to hide a spare in a flowerpot, and we were not intimate enough with our neighbours to have swapped keys for emergencies. So I plopped down on the top step and brooded. The wind was picking up and I shivered. Clouds, dark and angry, tumbled and roiled, threatening an early snowfall. The wind gusted. I shivered again, then got up and headed up to Pine, walking briskly to keep warm. At the corner I turned towards University, another block and I'd be back at the hospital.

Looking south from the intersection I could see where it had happened. Cops were still on the scene, cruiser lights flashing eerily out of sync, their offset rhythm hypnotic. Every few seconds they'd flash in unison, then resume their erratic pattern.

I walked slowly down the hill. The crackle of police babble on the car radios grew louder. That, the flashing, and the waning afternoon light created a surreal setting that I knew too well was not a dream. I stopped a few feet from the spot. The bloody stain was outlined in white chalk. Further down, four more shapes, similarly contained as if to keep the blood from spreading. Yellow 'do-not-cross' tape cordoned the kill-zone.

"Sam!" I jumped.

"Sam! What are you doing here?" He'd approached me from behind one of the cruisers and I hadn't seen him.

"Geoff!"

"Not like you to play the ghoulish voyeur." He managed a grim chuckle.

"Geoff, I uh, was sort of involved."

"Involved! What do you mean?" He took his hands out of his trench coat pockets. He stood below me, but in spite of the steepness of the hill I still had to look up into his face.

"I was down there." I pointed to Milton. "I saw the four boys get shot and up here is where... is where..." I couldn't say it.

"Jesus, Sam." He looked around and steered me to the patrol car helping me into the back seat. "You shouldn't be here. Bad enough I have to stand in the muck."

"Geoff. I've just come back from the hospital. It was Lee-Ann and Sarah."

"What do you mean, Lee-Ann and Sarah? What are you talking about? Sam!"

"We were walking back from the hotel. Where we had lunch. They were walking up to get the car when it happened. She's dead. Lee-Ann is okay, but Sarah got shot. She's dead, Geoff.

"My God, Sam. I had no idea. The call came about a student disturbance. A shooting. I had no idea." He looked out of the window at the spot where they'd fallen, then turned to me, his face ashen.

"Those bastards. Those bastards", he repeated.

"They were just walking up the hill to the car. The demonstrators had become noisy and Lee-Ann gets nervous in crowds. They were just trying to reach the car before anything happened. One minute earlier and Sarah would be alive. _One_ goddam minute!"

He took my hand "I'm sorry, Sam. I don't know what to say. I'm so sorry. Bad enough these radicals kill each other, but why the hell do people have to get caught in the crossfire? But you might be able to help nail whoever did this."

"What do you mean..?"

"You seem to be our only witness."

"There was a whole mob of witnesses, Geoff!"

"I'm talking reliable witnesses. By the time the cops got here, the crowd had scattered and the injured had been removed. I gather you were in the ambulance with Lee-Ann and..."

"Yes." I brushed my hair back and winced. A few strands had stuck to the dried blood.

He tilted my head to the light. "You're hurt!"

"I'll survive."

"Looks like it could take a couple of stitches." He gently brushed away the strands trying to tuck them behind my ear.

"It's Lee-Ann I'm worried about." I checked my watch. "My father is at the hospital and found out that she has a ruptured spleen. She's probably still in surgery."

"You said she was okay."

"I just meant she wasn't shot. Apparently she hurt herself falling. I don't know, Geoff," I said impatiently. "She hit the curb or something. Anyway they're cutting her up. Jesus."

"I don't want to seem insensitive. But like I said. So far you're the only witness apart from the demonstrators. We'll need a statement."

"Well, I don't see how I can help. I really didn't see anything. And I sure as hell can't identify whoever did the shooting."

"I know that. All the same. You never know what you might remember. Anyway, let's get you home first. But before it gets much later I'll need you to answer some questions. Do you think you can handle it?"

"Why not." I said resignedly. "Answering questions will be the easy part."

"Fine. I'll send someone over."

Because of the one-way streets, both the ride in the taxi, and now with Geoff in his unmarked car took longer than walking as we had to drive several blocks out of our way before reaching Aylmer from the right direction.

My father's Jag was in front of the building; unlike me he rarely walked, except to go to the corner store for his cigars. His idea of exercise was checking out the produce stalls at the Atwater Market. We were neighbours in the same building, his half the mirror image in the semi-detached Victorian style townhouse we co-owned. My section was a gift from him when he decided it was time I paid my share of the taxes.

The blind was up in his consulting room window so he wasn't with a patient. Geoff rang the bell. He'd hardly taken his thumb from the buzzer when the door opened.

"Geoff!", he said, surprised. "Come in, come in. Please." I took off my coat and dropped it on the hall chair under the baroque mirror, the gilt putti somber in the dim light. My purse was on the little table beside the chair and my case beneath it. Geoff sauntered in, his hands in the pockets of his open trench coat. I could read his mood by the way he dressed. That, and the way he chewed TUMS. When distressed by a case, he lived in his coat, shedding his armour only when the onslaught of misery and inhumanity slowly abated. A really bad case and the coat was buttoned tight.

My father was setting the kitchen table with mugs and spoons. I could smell the aroma of his favourite coffee, a blend he claimed the Van Houttes concocted expressly for him.

"Sit." he commanded. "Maria made baklava. We all need an energy boost."

Geoff finally took off the coat, placing it on the back of his chair, the tails dragging the floor. He sat down across from me, undid his collar and loosened the knot on his tie. My father stood against the counter, mug in hand. He looked like a short, fatter version of the actor, Ray Milland. I was the first to break the silence and said:

"How's Lee-Ann?"

"I spoke with her surgeon. Rose says she's going to be fine. At least physically."

"Is that the black woman? The one who examined her initially?"

"Yes, that's Rose Evans. She was the surgeon on duty. Young but very good. Very bright."

"What do you mean," Geoff asked, "at least physically?"

"She'll pull through the surgery. That's not a problem. But emotionally... I don't know." He shook his head. "Remember when Bill died?"

"She barely coped." I said. "Only managed to pull herself together because of the baby. Now she's alone."

"No family?" Geoff asked.

"No. Lee-Ann lost her parents ages ago. We were in college. Her mother died during her freshman year and her father just after graduation."

"Any siblings?" My father, the doctor.

"Nope. Just her. An only child." I almost said, 'like me', but that wasn't quite true.

"I'm afraid she'll give up. She won't fight. Now that there's no one depending on her."

Geoff sipped his coffee, muttering oaths under his breath again. He put his mug down abruptly sloshing coffee on the table.

"You feel up to coming to the station? Or would you rather I had someone come here?" He was making an even bigger mess trying to wipe up the spill.

"I just want to get home," I said testily.

"What's this...?" my father asked.

"Just routine, Gregor. So far Sam is our only witness and we need her account of what went down. Time is crucial. The sooner we gather the facts, the better our chances..."

"Look, you two. Do I have time before the inquisition? I want to wash and change. I feel dirty and I'm covered in blood."

"Good idea. Put you in a better frame of mind.

"There's nothing wrong with my frame of mind! You guys are beginning to... to piss me off. Sometimes..." They both looked at me, stunned, and I felt foolish.

"I'm sorry, Sam. I only meant..."

"No," I said. "It's me. It's just.... Oh shit!" I looked away, staring at the wall, trying desperately not to cry. Before they could start their mother-hen act I said, " I just need a bit of time alone. Okay? I need to shower and put on some clean clothes. Okay? Give me an hour or so. Okay? Is that too much to ask for?"

I got up and headed towards the door.

"You left your purse and case in the ambulance, Sammy. They're in the hall."

"I see them. Thanks." I left them mumbling and shaking their heads, discussing no doubt how best to handle a hysterical female.

I showered and changed into a denim shirt and jeans and put on my Reebok's. When the doorbell rang, I looked at my watch. A quarter to five. Ninety minutes to the second I was willing to bet, since our little coffee break. I answered and let Geoff and the inquisitor in.

To my surprise Joan was with him. We'd met a while back on another case. Geoff had felt that I needed a bodyguard and Joan had filled the position.

"Come in," I told them. Geoff made himself at home and hung up his coat and I took Joan's suede jacket. By the time I had put it in closet Geoff had shown her into the living room and installed himself on the sofa. Mind you, neither one was a stranger in my home.

"Do you mind," she said after we were settled, "if I tape our conversation?"

"Not at all."

She set the device on the coffee table and tugged at the hem of her western-cut dress, before settling back on the sofa. She started the session by asking me, for the record, to state my full name, occupation and address.

"Start from- oh... start from your lecture. Wasn't the demonstration already in full swing?"

"Yes," I answered, "it was." I went through it all, from the rock throwing and Henry's reaction to his girl friend's injury- no I didn't remember her name, but okay they'd talk to Henry. I told them of meeting Lee-Ann and Sarah in my office and going for lunch. I described the walk and Sarah's games, and how bright, if precocious, she was for a six year old.

"Do you want to take a break?"

"No. Let's just get it over with."

"What about the actual shooting? Do you remember seeing anyone fire those shots? Anyone with a gun, a weapon."

I had played down this part, almost skipping over it.

"No, I didn't see any shooting. I heard shooting- as I've already told Geoff. I heard the goddam shots, then all hell broke loose. Jesus."

"I'm sorry, Sam. I know it's hard. But it's the only way we can get a handle on what went down."

"Well, Joan, I'm sorry too. I told you I wouldn't be much help. It happened too fast, and I wasn't taking note of what people were doing. Shit. A mob was chasing four Jews. Arabs, I think, who the hell else? At least the ones in front looked like Arabs, but they weren't wearing signs proclaiming their ethnicity, you know. The four Jews, just boys, for Christ's sake. Scholars. Students who took their studies seriously. They were running scared as hell. Seconds later they were dead." I'd worked myself up again and my emotions took over.

Joan, cool and professional, let me wind down before saying, "Well, that should do it. One more thing. As far as you can recall, were any of your students in the, ah, group?"

"Joan." I said, trying to contain my frustration, "I saw no weapons, recognized no one. It was a crowd. A mob. A mean, ugly group who killed five innocent people."

"Maybe not, Sam." He shifted uncomfortably on the sofa and crossed his feet. It was a mystery how the hell he kept his shoes so goddam shiny.

"And what the hell, is that supposed to mean?" I had lost my patience. "They were hardly out of their teens. Kids. And the mob too. I'll bet there were very few who had seen their twenty-first birthday." I made a conscious effort to keep my voice down.

"I'm sure you're right," she said. "But in that group. You can be sure there were a few hard-core professionals. Terrorists. Bent on retaliation and revenge for the massacre in the mosque. And maybe- just maybe- those four Jews they killed were not exactly what they seemed to be."

"What are you talking about?"

Geoff slouched in the sofa, his arms folded across his chest, his long legs stretched straight out in front of him. An odd way, I thought, to command attention, but it worked. He butt in and said:

"Joan's with the anti-terrorist squad. Specifically she's attached to a unit monitoring activity by PLO sympathizers. And of course the Jewish element too."

Joan added, "We don't believe this was a random act. Sadly, Sarah and Lee-Ann were in the way, but we're pretty sure the four Jews were specifically targeted. This demonstration and the murders, were planned. We can't prove it -not yet. But we're working on the assumption that this was deliberate. Specific in its intent, specific in its execution. No pun intended.

"I'm saying," she went on, "that we're seeing a lot of unrest on many campuses. Since that massacre in Hebron the violence has escalated. Not only in the Middle East. Here too."

"Like those Jews who were killed in New York?" I said.

"The ones on the Brooklyn Bridge. In the van?"

I nodded.

"Well, yes. They weren't part of an organized plot. But I'd bet a good part of the farm that we're in the middle of something major. And with international implications." She had shut off the machine and sat back, relaxed, in the corner of the sofa, one arm draped along the back. I saw Geoff eyeing her great legs. He looked embarrassed when he saw I'd noticed.

You'd never peg Joan for a cop in a million years. She was petite, a bit shorter than I, but as well developed. And to add insult to injury, she was pretty, her face clean and smooth with an oriental look, a Filipina and about ten years my junior. They called her Ninja. She was a martial arts expert and trained to kill.

Geoff shifted again, not used to being inactive for so long, crossing and uncrossing his legs trying to get comfortable.

"Is that it?" I asked.

"Yes, I think this should do it." She reached for the recorder and stowed it in her handbag. "But... if you think of anything.."

"Don't worry. If I do I'll get back to you."

We followed her to the vestibule. Geoff hung back, obviously not planning to leave just yet. She took her jacket and I showed her out. Geoff had returned to the living room and was pacing, his hands in the pockets of his grey flannels. Go ahead, pace. It's good for the rug.

"Okay, Geoff. My turn. What's eating you?"

"Huh? Oh, nothing really. You know."

We'd been divorced now a bit over three years after a marriage that had lasted six and a half. Our careers -actually my career- had gotten in the way of our relationship. Getting my master's and then my doctorate, -although I would never have admitted it at the time- was my priority. He'd respected my goals, but it had cost him his health and his own career almost. Although smart, with a university degree, and top of his class at the police academy, Geoff had started drinking, gained a lot of weight and lost interest in the pursuit of his own goals. So we got divorced. No animosity, no acrimony, just no marriage. Without me, he got himself back on track. Now, three years later, we were friends. And occasional lovers too, as we tested the strength of our commitment to each other.

I gave him my 'that's bullshit' look and he said:

"Okay. You're right. I'm concerned about you. I know how close you were to Lee-Ann. And how much you loved Sarah. I'm worried you're detaching yourself."

"Geoff..."

"What I mean, Sam..." He came over to me. It looked like I was about to get hugged again and I wasn't in the mood.

"What I mean," he repeated, "is...is... Shit! I not sure what I mean. I'm just afraid you'll build a wall around yourself because of this."

He saw me tense, stepped back and went to stand by the window. He knew me, more than I cared to admit. Only since Joan had played bodyguard was I overcoming my aversion to physical contact. I could even manage the hugs and two-cheek kisses that yuppiedom expected. My therapist said it stemmed from the dreams I used to have, and still do on occasion. Dreams about my brother.

When I was about four, he disappeared. He was seven at the time, and had supposedly drowned in the lake our property fronted. Foul play had not been ruled out and my mother had been suspected. Although I was too young to understand all that went on, I did remember my father's anguish. He went through absolute hell. My mother had never been charged but ended up committed to a mental institution where she died, her spirit broken, wracked by guilt no doubt, for believing she had been a negligent mother.

My father is a pillar. Always was as far as I can recall. But who knew how he suffered. He told me once, that you never give up hope for the return of a lost child. Intellectually you know he's dead. But until you know for sure, absolutely for sure, you can never mourn, never know real peace. It's been almost thirty years.

My dream was my burden. Something about hats. Wearing them. My brother taking them off, putting them on. Apparently at the time of the tragedy I was entertained by the rescue workers. To keep me distracted they would let me wear their hats. And according to my therapist, my feelings of being smothered by close physical contact are a manifestation of my dream. The hats, designed to protect the wearer, had given me an aversion to physical contact. I'm still in therapy and keeping this a secret from Geoff and my father only adds to the burden. Oddly enough, I like hats.

"Don't worry, Geoff. I won't go catatonic on you."

"I just want you to know I'm here for you.

Jesus, he was going to make a liar of me. He came over and put his arms around me and I worked at relaxing. In spite of all the human misery he waded through, he wasn't callused or indifferent to suffering; if anything, it made him more sensitive to the needs of others.

I tried to relax and enjoy the closeness, the tight physical contact. I took a couple of deep breaths using the techniques I'd been taught. I could lose myself completely when we were in bed. But this wasn't sex. Sex, I could handle. A hug represented a greater sense of vulnerability. Losing my virginity had been less traumatic. Jesus, and my own father a shrink.

"Look," he said, releasing me. "I've got to get back to the office. This case is going to be a twenty-four hour a day job." He retrieved his coat and he kissed me good-bye and left. Before I got back to the kitchen the phone rang. My father. He must spend a lot of time with his ear to the wall.

"Yes, Dad?"

"Sammy. Have you eaten?"

"You know I haven't. Besides, food is the last thing on my mind."

"Well get your skinny ass over here. Maria's made _Chicken -in-the-Pot_. One whiff and you'll change your mind."

"Thanks. I'm on my way." I hung up and laughed, quite resigned to the fact that it was an impossibility to keep anything from him. Mind you, Maria kept him pretty well informed. Thea Maria was the old Greek lady that served as his cook and quasi housekeeper, and occasionally came over to cook for me or tidy up. I say old, but I couldn't guess her age; she could be anywhere from her late fifties to early or mid seventies. She was quick on her feet but if you judged age on the basis of looks, Maria could easily be seventy-five. She was scary to look at.

I remembered quite vividly the first time I saw her. She came to us just after my mother had to be committed. My father was still studying at the time, he told me, doing his residency in psychiatry, and unable to manage career, home, child and sick wife. A doctor friend of his had recommended her. She and her husband Costa owned a restaurant a few blocks away, the Pines Pavilion it was called. Costa was a horrible taskmaster. And although their marriage had been arranged in the Old Country, Maria was not an Old Country bride. She was tough and headstrong, and refused to work in the restaurant under a domineering bully. Coming to work for my father not only saved their marriage, it saved Costa's life. Anyway, on the advice of this mutual friend Maria came to help us out. And that was thirty years ago.

I was very young when I first met her and should have been frightened out of my wits. She's a big woman in all respects. Her head is enormous, secured like a post on broad shoulders. Her hair, grey now, like weathered wood, is always tied back in a bun, and held in check with at least two-dozen bobby pins. Her eyes under sturdy brows are deeply set, and surrounded by pebbled flesh black as hockey pucks. Maria was a demonstrative woman, given to outbursts of emotion. Her lips prickled with spikes of stubble when she insisted on hugging me and kissing her _Koritzee-mou_ , her little girl. Thea Maria was beautiful, and I loved the old woman with the whiskers and enormous brown mole on her neck.

The door was unlocked so I walked in greeted by the cinnamon aroma of Maria's cooking. He had already served the steaming plates and was just fishing the garlic bread out of the toaster oven. His tie and jacket were off and he played cook in a dishtowel apron. Men must have a special gene for that.

"Sit, Sammy. Sit."

I resisted the urge to yap or bark and sat, watching him like a forlorn puppy. When he was seated, I dug in. Comfort food. Just what I needed. The chicken came away from the bones easily and the spaghetti was just the right texture.

"How'd it go with..." he nodded to the wall joining our respective buildings and gnawed the meat from a drumstick.

"It went fine," I said, and nodded at the same wall.

He chuckled and licked his fingers. "Not saying anything eh?"

"Jesus, Dad. Why don't you ask Thea Maria?" He had the good grace to laugh out loud before denying she could possibly clue him into anything that transpired over at my place.

I told him. At the mention of Joan as part of a Special Forces unit his face lit up.

"Relax Dad. You're salivating."

"It's the chicken."

"Sure." He was soft on Joan, but not in a romantic sense. It was more like when you brought a college girlfriend home for the weekend and your father treated her a bit too attentively, behavior somewhere between Charles Boyer and Dirty-Old-Man. A man other than your father you'd definitely call a pervert.

"My, God, Sammy. Be careful." He was intrigued by the possibility of an international terrorist conspiracy virtually on his doorstep. "You know campus crowds can be dangerous. Universities are breeding grounds for anarchists."

He was winding up for another of his lectures on social-economics or class struggle... The haves again, versus the have-nots. Here's me sitting across from him, with a Ph.D. in criminology and sociology, getting advanced tutoring from a psychiatrist. I decided to play devil's advocate and taunt him a little.

"You know, Dad. I'm not surprised."

"By what?" he said licking each finger methodically.

"The Arab students."

"How so?"

"Well, considering what went down in Hebron..."

"You mean the Goldstein thing?"

"Yes. The Goldstein thing."

"Sammy. As horrendous as that massacre was, there's no excuse for the crimes that followed."

"Of course not! But it's not surprising. That whole area is a bed of hot heads and fanatics. Let's face it." His face was getting flushed, not just from the Retsina he insisted on drinking with Maria's cooking.

"Maybe so. But when they carry on their two thousand year war -when they bring it to my doorstep- then I draw the line." Excitedly he stabbed the air with a chicken bone and I suddenly felt foolish for egging him on.

"I'm only suggesting -and strictly from an academic view- that I can see how this can escalate."

" Leave it to bleeding-heart liberals and academics to look for justification."

"Dad, come on! There's a hell of a difference between justification and an attempt to understand human behavior... What's so funny?"

He leaned back in his chair and laughed, pointing his finger at me and shaking his head. I asked for it.

"I'm sorry, Sammy," he said, mistaking my silence for sulking. "But you know, this Religious War crap really gets to me."

"No, you had a point. Sometimes I'm too glib. It goes a lot deeper than just studying human behavior."

He nodded and wiped his plate with a piece of bread. I knew he had treated a number of Jews. Holocaust survivors.

I remembered being in a restaurant not too long ago. Geoff and I had gone out for chicken. In the booth behind me were two women, mother and daughter, judging from the conversation. As it happened it was a Sunday, Mother's Day.

"You know," one of them said, "Dad never expressed any hate for the people. He always said the German's were as much a victim as the Jews. Victims of Nazi propaganda."

"Your father would have given a room and a bed for the night to Hitler himself, claiming he was just a poor house painter down on his luck."

"Mother, that's not fair!"

"No? You didn't see how he suffered. You didn't hear him crying in the night. And now the Arabs are doing it."

"It's not the same. I know Dad suffered."

"Suffered? It killed him. It took over forty years but those Nazis finally killed another one of us," she hissed, her voice sharp as broken glass. The restaurant was crowded and noisy, and I leaned back in my seat to hear better. They had finished their meal and were getting up to leave. Not being very discreet, I made eye contact with the daughter who awkwardly looked away. She was about my age, in a tailored suit with streaked blond hair coifed in a matronly way, a younger version of her mother. Her face, pretty under too much make-up, was sad, strained by the burden of her mother's hatred. Sisyphus had it easier.

"Oh, sorry.... What did you say?"

"Two thousand years. And still counting." He looked at me, and pushed his plate aside. "Christianity has caused more misery for mankind than anything else in history. For a group who supposedly follows the Golden Rule, they certainly have a lousy track record."

I nodded in a non-committal way.

"You finished?" he asked.

"Yes. I'll have to tell Thea Maria how good it was." I pushed myself away from the table and looked at my watch. "I'd better be getting back, I still have some work to do." The food had perked me up some, but I was very tired and filled with a deep sense of loss.

"Before you go I want to show you something." He got up and went into the living room. "Come." I followed him to beat to argue.

"Sit here," he commanded pulling the antique chair forward and placing it in front of the chesterfield. A flat wooden seat with a straight slatted back, hard and unyielding, age its only virtue. I put my cup on the coffee table and sat down. On the chesterfield covered with one of his better linen tablecloths was a rectangular shape about two feet by three. He'd purchased another painting and I was about to be graced with its unveiling.

"Ready...?"

"Ready," I answered

He carefully pulled away the cloth. I had expected something along the lines of a Danby or Pratt -his tastes ran to what was called super or high-realism. Something maybe in the line of Wyeth or even Colville. I was stunned by the unveiling. An old wooden panel, its edges chipped and white where the paint had flaked.

"Interesting..." That's what people say about art when they haven't a clue about what the hell they're looking at. He laughed and said:

"You'd better believe it, Sammy. You're looking at a real treasure. A six hundred and fifty year old treasure."

"Jesus, Dad. Where did you get this? Who did you have to kill?"

"I borrowed it. The museum acquired it a while back. Now the new curator, Johnson, seems to have doubts about its authenticity."

"So he gave it to Gregor Milland to authenticate."

"Sammy," he pleaded. "Give me a break here."

"Well, what's the deal? Why would they even let this out of their sight? Something this old has got to be worth a bundle."

"A big bundle, I'm sure. No, I'm just going to study it a while and give an opinion."

"Opinion?'

"What? You think I'm out of my depth?"

"I didn't say that..." He had in fact over the years become quite an art expert. But his collection consisted of contemporary pieces.

"You know, Sammy. Psychiatry prepares you in ways you'd never dream. Symbols. Universal archetypes. Artists throughout history used them. Both consciously and subconsciously. And in religious art? Anyway.... sometimes a symbol -in the way it's used- is anachronistic. So I'll look at the painting. And who knows? If I see something anomalous..." He shrugged.

"Well, if you want to know my opinion...."

"Sure. Shoot!"

"I'm worried about you having something this valuable in the house. Your security system predates tin cans on a string."

"Don't worry. It'll be safe enough. Johnson's the only one -besides you- who knows I've got it."

"What do you figure your collection is worth now anyway?" He shrugged his shoulders.

"It's not the money," he said avoiding my question, but I knew it had to be in the neighbourhood of a good six or seven million dollars.

"I know art isn't about money, but I think you should check with your insurance company. See if you are adequately insured at least."

He continued to ignore me, so I dropped the subject and went over to inspect the painting more closely readjusting one of the lamps for a better view. It must have had a loose connection and I had to fiddle with it.

"This is truly beautiful. Any idea who the artist is?"

"That we don't know. But it's in the style of Orcagna or maybe Andrea da Firenze, you know, the Florence School. We're fairly sure it's fourteenth century. Post 1350 probably."

The names meant nothing to me. What fascinated me however was the freshness, the vitality of the colours, even after all these centuries.

"This is fantastic, Dad. Incredible. Absolutely incredible."

"Yes, isn't it? That something so beautiful, so skilled has survived the tests of time. All kinds of ravages... And to think it's sitting right in front of us. Six hundred years of history between us and the artist. And we've got it to touch. To admire..." His voice trailed off and his eyes clouded. Jesus, Dad, get a grip. It's only a fucking painting. He cleared his throat and rubbed his hands together briskly.

"That's real gold leaf, you know?"

"Really" I was dumber than a brick when it came to art.

"Are you going to tell me what this thing is worth? Or is it a trade secret?"

"Sammy, it's hard to say. Dollar value has more to do with what someone is willing to pay rather than artistic merit. Like Van Gogh's Sunflowers, for instance

"Well, what did the museum pay? Or what will they accept from a buyer. Assuming they are willing to sell."

"There are several things to consider. In terms of its antiquity or what it represents, historically that is. Or politically. You see when we move out of the realm of art or creative merit, value becomes an academic exercise."

"Dad..."

"Okay, okay, I'm getting there. If we had to put a dollar value on it. Well..." here he screwed up his face and stroked his chin. "I'd say anywhere from a one, maybe two hundred thou to a million —million two."

I let out a low whistle.

"Of course, it depends on whether or not it's the real thing. Worst-case scenario is that it's a copy or maybe the work of a lesser artist. Or maybe a studio apprentice. In that case then the value would be at the lower end."

"What if it's a forgery?"

"My God, Sammy. Bite your tongue!"

"Oops! Sorry. Still it begs the question."

"Yes, it does. It does. And that's something we do have to consider. I have no way of knowing. And Johnson -although he won't admit it- is out of his depth on that point. Maybe I'll see something. But my analysis has no scientific basis."

"So how do you find out?'

"Well. There are people in New York. London. But, like I said, it'll take more than the practiced eye of an art expert or a psychiatrist. But even when you rely on science, and technology, you can still get into trouble. That kind of analysis is destructive. Too invasive."

"The sample you test gets destroyed." I remembered the controversy regarding the authentication of the Shroud of Turin.

"Exactly. Consequently no one wants to subject their artifacts to scientific scrutiny. It's a real dilemma."

"I can see it's a problem." I stood up and backed away, and he replaced the cloth draping it carefully over the panel.

"I'd like Geoff to see this sometime.... soon. Will you be seeing him? Maybe we can all get together here for dinner."

"He'd love that." And he would too. They got on famously. Even better since the divorce. You figure it out. "He told me he'd be pretty busy with this Arab thing."

"Of course, of course." He frowned sorry for bringing up the topic. I thought of Sarah and her wish to sleep over and learn to play poker.

"I'll tell him though. I'm sure it's a diversion he'll need."

"Okay. See what he says. Let me know and I'll ask Maria to make something special, something really Greek, and the three of us can whoop it up."

"Great. Geoff will love it, I'm sure." Whooping it up meant cigars and thick blue smoke filling the room. Really Freudian if you ask me.

"This is really fascinating, Dad, but I really do have to be getting back." I could hardly keep my eyes open.

"Sure, sure. Don't work too late, try to get some rest. A good night's sleep. Today has been real hell for you."

"Say that again." He looked at me in that doctor way. "I know you're trying to help, but I don't need anything to help me sleep, okay? I'm not falling apart, you know."

"Okay, okay," he said waving his hand, "Don't get excited. I'm just being a father, is that so bad?"

I got up and went over to him and kissed the top of his head.

"It's not bad at all. I'm glad you're here for me. Besides I'm sure Thea Maria will give you a blow by blow account of my actions, reactions, transactions and infractions."

"Enough. I get the picture. Go home." He got up and steered me towards the door. I kissed him again, said goodnight and left. It took me all of seven seconds to climb over the stone divider separating our homes and let myself in. Of course, only then did he close his own door.

I undressed, got into my pajamas -flannel now that summer was over- and brushed my teeth. Looking at my reflection, I considered the need for an application of wrinkle cream, but I'm not much for beauty products. Lipstick and occasionally some mascara are about all I ever use. I leaned closer to the mirror and checked the area around my eyes. Now that my face was developing character, crow's feet or laugh lines by those who deny the passage of time, were becoming more noticeable. I shrugged, opened the window a crack, and went to bed; the term papers weren't going anywhere. I fell asleep thinking that growing old sure beat the alternative.

# Chapter 3

The alarm rang jarring me out of a deep sleep. I'd been dreaming and vaguely remembered feeling comfortable and relaxed, soaking up the sun in the back yard. The phone was ringing and I was annoyed at having to get up to answer it. Of course it wasn't the phone. And I didn't even have a back yard. At least not the kind with grass and manicured suburban-style flowerbeds. My yard consisted of a few square yards of gravel, rutted from tire tracks leading to the garage below the house. My father kept promising to have the area paved, but seemed never to get around to calling the contractors. Mind you, I couldn't think of a good reason why I didn't take the initiative.

I struggled up on one elbow, shut off the alarm then flopped heavily back against the pillow. Maybe just a few more minutes; six-thirty was insane, besides, from the dull grey light that filtered in through the slats in the vertical blinds the day promised to be miserable as well as cool. I rolled over to grab a few more winks but was struck suddenly by the thought of Lee-Ann and Sarah. Feeling guilty for being so comfortable, I forced myself to get up. Might as well go for my run, I told myself.

I liked to jog a couple of miles three or four times a week, especially if the weather permitted; during the winter jazzercise classes kept my thighs from ballooning. I could usually manage to struggle through a good forty minutes of running, even an hour on the rare occasions I had a partner, or when I took to the trails on the mountain. Today, if I lasted twenty minutes I should get an award. In an old pair of sweat pants and over-sized sweatshirt, the Cape Cod lettering almost invisible from so many washings, I was ready. My Nikes were the only part of my outfit that wasn't beat-up. They say an assault has nothing to do with what a woman is wearing, that the attacker isn't interested in sex. But in spite of what I knew, no way was I going to dress provocatively, know what I mean? Besides how the hell anyone can run with a Lycra string stuck in their ass is a real mystery to me. Half the women at jazzercise had about six folds of that miracle fabric wedged solidly up their whoosis. No wonder they did all of their moves on the tips of their toes.

I tied my shoes and looped the shoelace with my key around my neck, tucking the key under a bra strap. Bra was hardly the word for it. This technological advancement in women's sports lingerie was the only concession I made to athletic fashion. And I wasn't making a statement; this was survival. Even at my age, not that I'm that far up the hill, never mind over it, gravity was winning the battle. Tissues were losing their elasticity. The droop had started. This magical piece of Lycra, this rebounding marvel of elasticity, I hoped would counter the effects of Mother Nature. Aerobics. Good for the heart but hell for the full figured girl. Men have it damn easy. Most of them don't even need a jock strap.

I closed the door, giving it a good tug to test the lock, went down the steps, turned right and loped up to Pine. I figured on running over to Park, right to Ste Catherine and along to University. There I'd turn right again, battle my way back up to Pine and head home, trying not to walk the last bit. At least this was the plan. And I managed it. Almost.

The hill was winning. I tried not to give in. At Milton there was no way I could maintain my pace and I had to slow to a crawl, but I refused to walk. At least I didn't take the short-cut over to Aylmer. I forced myself up the hill pumping my arms, my breath ragged, sharp as knives, thighs screaming, pounding my way past the ugly place, punishing myself. I made it, my ego bruised, my heart pounding and my lungs on the verge of collapse. I felt like shit; obviously, it had been a good run.

I was no sooner out of the shower when the phone rang.

"Did I wake you?"

"You kidding? I've already been for my run."

"God, I could use a work-out myself. I'm about to snap."

"That bad, Huh?"

"Bad! I've been here all night. I doubt I can get away long enough to shower and change. And Ouellette's sticking to me like a fly on shit." Not like him to be so vulgar, at least not with me.

"Listen," he continued." Ouellette wants to talk to you. In the flesh."

"Jesus, Geoff, I've already told you and Joan everything I know. Didn't he listen to the tape?"

"Relax. It's not about that. He wants you in a professional capacity."

"Oh..?"

"Yes. Said he wants -and I quote, 'to pick at your brain'."

"Pick at my brain, eh? That man sure has a way with words." I laughed.

"Well? How about it? Are you free today?"

I looked at my watch. "I've tutorials this afternoon. Two until four-thirty, five,"

"Okay then. How about eleven this morning? Get it done before you have to go to work."

"No problem."

"Great. I'll pick you up."

"Why don't you come for breakfast, have some real food? I haven't eaten yet myself." It was twenty to eight.

"I don't know." He must've put his hand over the mouthpiece to speak to someone because his voice was muffled. I couldn't make out what was said but the agitated tone was unmistakable.

"Still there?"

"Of course!"

"Sorry, Sam. That was Ouellette. Seems he's on your side. Wants me to take a holiday. Use some of my accumulated time."

I'd forgotten all about our plan.

"Good Idea. Let's talk about it when you get here."

"Yeah. Sam, don't go to any trouble. I doubt I can eat the way my stomach feels."

He hung up before I could reply.

By the time I'd dried off, fixed my hair -about forty seconds with a blow dryer- and dressed, he was there, leaning on the doorbell.

"Sorry," he said, when he saw my face, "habit of a Gumshoe." He sauntered in, hung up his coat and came into the kitchen. I'd put the coffee on after his call and the aroma filled the room. He helped himself to a cup and sat at the table. He looked like shit and I told him.

"Thanks. You look great yourself." He laughed and added, "You really do."

"Glad to see your stomach's better," I said refilling his cup. He was lathering cream cheese and lox on his second bagel.

"Must be the company. Feels like all I've been living on are stale donuts, shitty coffee and Tums."

"You really do need a rest, Geoff." I leaned over and with my thumbs smoothed the skin under his eyes. "Your bags have bags."

"Can't," he mumbled, his mouth full. "Once I'm on a case, you know how I get." So much for our trip to the mountains.

"Right. That's why Ouellette wants you to take a break. What about that weekend away?"

"Not a good time. Please don't be upset."

"I'm not upset. But I am worried, because as you said, I do know how you get. What about Ouellette?"

"Oh, I can handle him."

"Sure. Geoff has big shoulders." Before he could argue I got up and slipped off his already loosened tie, and started to unbutton his shirt.

"You're taking a shower -don't argue. I've already put out your shaving stuff, and fresh clothes. If you won't take a few days off, you're going to at least freshen up, put on a clean shirt. I even bought you a new tie. It was for your birthday, but the way you look I'm afraid you might not live that long."

He mumbled something that sounded like thanks and headed for the bathroom. He shaved first. He always did. And when I heard the shower run, I stripped off my own clothes and joined him. I don't know if cleanliness is next to godliness, but I knew what was to follow was damn good for a clear complexion.

He was startled when I slid open the shower doors but in seconds flat I knew he was glad to see me. I soaped and lathered him, kneading the taut muscles in his back and shoulders, the hot water soothing.

"Turn," I said. He faced me, his head back, his eyes closed. I soaped his chest, his stomach. He reached for me.

"You're tired, remember?"

"I'm not that tired," he sulked.

"We'll see about that." I removed the shower nozzle and rinsed him thoroughly.

"Out!" I said, and slapped his behind. Jesus, his whole body was muscle. I rinsed myself, replaced the showerhead, and got out. After drying him off I said, "Go on. Sit on the bed. I'll be right there."

"I could get used to this, you know? You sure you're not Japanese?"

"Don't raise your hopes, fella. I doubt the shape of my eyes is about to change. Go on." I shoved him towards the door.

By the time I came out, he'd flopped down on the bed and dosed. I gave him credit though, for managing to put on one of his socks. Nothing else, just the sock. As I raised his legs onto the bed, he stirred. He didn't have strength enough to put on his damn socks, but he had no trouble diverting his blood flow to his critical mass. Men. Their last goddam act in life was to ejaculate. Jesus. Even condemned prisoners on the gallows shot their wad in a last ditch effort to clear their pipes. I wondered if those murderers who'd found Jesus ever yelled, "Christ I'm coming!"

"What's so funny?"

"You!"

"Me? Why?"

"Not you, you. You as in men."

"I don't get it."

"The world could be ending, but your mind is still on your dick."

"Come on. That's not fair. It has nothing to do with our mind. It's automatic."

"That's for sure!"

"It's survival. Survival of the species."

"Survival of the species?"

He put his arm over me. "Yeah," he mumbled, "like rats. They always copulate at impending disaster."

"Well, shit. I hope this isn't an omen." He didn't answer, already asleep, his breathing slow and rhythmic.

Gently, I removed his arm, got up, and covered him with the duvet. Quietly, I picked up my clothes and shoes and tiptoed out of the room closing the door softly behind me.

# Chapter 4

Traffic was always heavy, but midday was worse, aggravated by double-parked trucks, taxis stopping abruptly and jaywalkers who considered it their obligation to violate traffic laws. And if that wasn't enough you could count on construction detours to barricade every major artery. Eventually, Geoff managed to navigate through the maze on de Maisonneuve making it all the way to Guy Street where he had to stop for a horde of students crossing on a red light. I watched them weaving and darting between the cars, university scarves flapping, cut-off from the city beat by their iPods. In the small park Bethune stood stoic in his patina of birdshit. Geoff swore and eased off the brake nudging the car into the intersection.

He coasted to a stop, then slid into a gap left by a squad car in front of the station and got out and waited for me to come around, so he could take my arm to guide me towards the door. I hated it when he did that, but I let him play out the role.

"Watch it!"

He whisked me aside, squeezing a nerve in my arm, to avoid a policewoman struggling with a belligerent youth. The boy's hands were cuffed so he raised his foot against the jamb to keep her from driving him forward.

"Maudite vache!" he yelled, his long hair whipping around. "Hostie'd chienne de chalice!"

With one hand on his wrists, the other twisting a hank of hair, she pulled, reining him in until his head was twisted back. He relented and went cursing and yelling into the station. Her partner put his baton away and followed.

We walked up to the third floor -no elevator here- and entered a large room crammed with back-to-back desks. The noise level was phenomenal, but what amazed me amid the chaos was how everyone moved. Slowly. Deliberately. Their air of apparent calm totally alien in the clamor

A black woman in uniform came over to us. She was taller than Geoff and very high waisted; the gun on her hip almost level with my chin. Her hair, cut _en brosse_ was shot with a streak so white it looked artificial. She kibitzed in French with Geoff and laughed -something about horses or hair- which I didn't get.

"Good morning, Dr. Milland," her English tinged with a trace of British inflection. "Please follow me."

Gliding with the grace of a Zulu queen, she led us to a corner office. The name on the pebbled glass door said, E. Ouellette, Inspecteur. She knocked twice, opened the door and stood aside for us to enter, then closed it behind us.

The room was empty and sadly in need of a coat of paint. The colour had faded to a dirty green and the ceiling was flaking. Brown splatters decorated the wall where he threw his empty coffee cups into the wastebasket. Several lay crumpled on the floor in drying puddles. Behind the chairs, years of rubbing had worn a deep groove in the plaster. I pulled a chair forward and sat down; the wrap around arms chipped and marred with cigarette burns were loose.

In spite of the plants and citations, in spite of the family photos, Ouellette's office was as beat-up as the chair and his attempt at hominess to hide the despair failed miserably. Geoff continued to stare out the grime-streaked window. A pigeon cooed on the ledge, it's silly head grey and speckled bobbed and swiveled in that dumb way birds move. It pecked at the glass then flapped off startling Geoff. He came over, took off his trench coat and sat down leaving a chair between us. No sooner had he perched when the door opened and the big man came in.

"Morning. Sorry to make you wait." He waved an arm, "Meetings!" and moved into position behind his desk, unbuttoned his jacket, and lowered himself into his chair. He was a large man in his late forties. Broad chested with a thick neck and powerful arms.

"Sit! Sit!" he said to Geoff who had stood up when the man entered.

"So? Dr. Milland, I hope you are well?" He leaned forward lacing his thick fingers together and rested his forearms on the desk.

"Yes, thank you, inspector."

"Emile! Call me, Emile." He smiled broadly. His teeth were so even they had to be false.

"Sam," he continued before I could say anything, "I want to ask you a few questions. Geoff, I think, mentioned the nature of the... ah, business?" He looked at him then focused on me.

"Well, not exactly.... He only said..."

"No matter, no matter," he interrupted. "You know we are in the middle of some very delicate stuff here. It's unfortunate but it seems we are involved in some international business. Bad. Ugly" He grimaced and shook his mane of steel-grey hair. He got up abruptly, grabbed the pitcher from his desk and proceeded to water the spider plant hanging over the file cabinet.

"Anyway," he went on, "if you don't mind, Sam, I would like you to tell me what happened the other day. What you saw. Heard."

"I've already given..."

He was about to cut me off again, but I raised my voice slightly, "I've already given my statement. You have it. On tape. There is really nothing more to tell." The plant began to drip on a stack of manuals already warped from repeated soakings.

"I know that. I know that." He shrugged and sat down. The swivel chair creaked under his weight. Emile was built like a wrestler, shorter than Geoff, stocky and strong, with virtually no neck, his head a granite outcrop.

"I've listened to the tape -very thorough. Precise. But..." He unclasped his hands. "Indulge me. I'd like to hear it personally. I know it's difficult. So please, take your time. Maybe you'd like a cup of coffee?" He started to rise.

"No thank you." I took a deep breath. Oddly, it was less painful this time, as if the re-telling diminished the horror. That bothered me.

"That's it," I said. "Right from when the rock came through the window up to the moment I met Geoff at the scene. That's all of it. There's nothing more to say."

"I'm sure of that, Sam. I didn't doubt what I heard on the tape, but I needed to hear it from you. Our investigation it.... it concerns more than your ah... observations. It's much deeper than a simple campus demonstration gone wrong." He furrowed his brow and looked at Geoff who remained impassive, revealing nothing. He stared ahead at a spot somewhere behind Ouellette, for some reason avoiding eye contact with me. What the hell was going on?

"Sam," the big man finally said. "Lee-Ann. Your friend...."

"Has something happened to her?"

"No, no!", he said, sensing my alarm. "Lee-Ann is okay. Actually I was about to refer to her husband."

"Her husband? You mean Bill? He's been dead almost four years now. A car accident." I looked at Geoff. He shifted in his seat and tossed his coat onto a vacant chair.

"Sam," the brow furrowed again, "We're quite certain it was not an accident."

"What do you mean, not an accident?"

He paused and tapped the desk with a stubby forefinger. "This is not so easy. Especially since we're talking about your friends." He looked at Geoff as if for support. "Lee-Ann's husband was murdered. And very likely it was a revenge killing."

"What..." His hand stopped me and he continued.

"Lee-Ann's husband was an arms dealer. Something went wrong. Maybe he screwed up -we don't exactly know. Whatever it was, it got him killed." He made a face and shrugged again as if to say if you play with matches expect to get burned.

"We've known about this for a long time. Almost since it happened," Geoff said, finally speaking.

"Come on. I knew Bill. No way. He was a computer salesman. Sold systems."

"That's right. He was a computer expert, and he did sell systems. And as unbelievable as it sounds, that was his cover."

My mind raced. Bill traveled a lot, selling systems around the world. Ironically he dealt mainly with law enforcement agencies.

"Jesus," I said.

"Yes." Ouellette smiled ruefully. "His cover was perfect. His skills. His contacts. Perfect."

"Not perfect enough if what you're saying is true."

"It's true, Sam. You can believe it!"

"What does all of this have to do with me? Seems you want more than just my impressions of the shootings. Why are you telling me all of this?"

Ouellette nodded. "There are several reasons. It's complicated." He got up, came around and sat on the edge of his desk in front of me. "Several reasons," he repeated. "It's possible your relationship with Lee-Ann might ah... prove important to our investigation. You've been friends a long time?"

"Yes. Since university. Look. If you think Lee-Ann ever said anything that suggested Bill was involved in arms dealing, I can tell you straight that she didn't. Besides there's no way, I'd have kept that kind of suspicion to myself." I looked at Geoff.

"We know that," he said to me. "But we're worried she still might be in danger."

"Danger? What kind of danger. What the hell do you mean?"

Geoff shifted in his seat, and wiped his hand across his face.

"We suspect she might be carrying on the family business," Ouellette interjected.

"You can't be serious."

Geoff sat up abruptly and assumed command. "We've traced some of her trips abroad to the same places Bill used to go."

"That doesn't mean she was selling arms, Geoff. That's a hell of a leap! Surely you don't...."

"No, it doesn't. You're right. But after every one of her trips there's been a damn sizable deposit made to her bank account. And since Bill was killed, her assets have grown by almost five million dollars. Four point seven five to be exact."

"This is just too fantastic. If what you're saying is true.... No. It's impossible." I shook my head.

"It's true, Sam. I wish to God, it wasn't. I loved Sarah too."

"I realize that. But now what? Because of my friendship with her you want me to spy on her, is that it?"

"No. Absolutely not -quite the opposite actually. If Lee-Ann's in danger we want you to keep away. For your own protection."

"Jesus, Geoff. Now you're really scaring me."

Ouellette put his hand up to cut Geoff off. "Better to be safe than sorry, _hein?_ If our suspicious are right and Lee-Ann was the target -then surviving an assassination attempt makes her very vulnerable. As a matter of fact she's under twenty-four hour guard at the hospital. These guys play for keeps, Sam. They'll try again. Count on it."

"That's right," Geoff agreed. "I don't want you putting yourself in jeopardy."

"So what are you saying? I can't see her? Geoff. I'm all she's got, for God's sake. Her husband is dead. Her only child is dead. She needs me, Geoff. I can't just abandon her."

" _Non, non_ not abandon her. But for the time being it would be best if you broke contact."

"Okay," I said icily. "I'm not to contact her. Fine. Now tell me. What did you mean about my relationship being helpful?"

"I'm sorry," he said gently. "Geoff told me how close you were. How special your friendship was. A family. But there _is_ another side to your friend. Her husband was a criminal. An illegal arms trader. And as difficult as it is to accept, it is a fact. Furthermore... if Lee-Ann is involved..." He shrugged.

"I understand what you're saying. But I'm not ready to believe she's a criminal. I've known her too long..."

"All I'm asking," Ouelette interrupted, "is that you keep an open mind. I'm not asking you to abandon or betray Lee-Ann.  But if you think of anything..." He let the words hang and shrugged again, got up and went back to his chair. The interview was over at last.

I don't remember leaving the office, or the building. I don't recall getting into the car or the drive back. I only came to my senses after we were home and sitting in the kitchen. Gradually the shock dissipated, replaced with seething anger.

"Geoff," I said, resolving to stay calm. "How could you not have told me any of this?"

"Because I didn't know, Sam. Honest. Ouellette only filled me last night. Shit! It wasn't even his case."

"Not even his case?"

"No. He got wind of it from the people running Joan."

"Joan? What the hell has Joan got to do with this."?

"Joan's on the anti-terrorist squad. You know that..."

"Go on..."

"After yesterday they started sorting it all out. Apparently they never really closed the books on how Bill died -we accepted the accidental death verdict- but the Feds never really believed it. Now they figure Bill is somehow tied to what went down yesterday. The anti-terrorist squad is up to its eyes investigating, trying to figure the connection, but as usual the left hand doesn't know what the other hand is doing. Law enforcement agencies spend more time competing rather than supporting each other." He stopped and stared at me. "Look. I'm not supposed to repeat any of this."

"I'm not going to take out an ad in the paper."

"I know, I know. But this is really supposed to be under wraps. Okay? Like I was saying Joan's with the anti-terrorist squad which is a federal agency. Part of the RCMP. She's sort of on loan to our department."

"Nothing is ever simple, is it?"

"No. It sure isn't. They've been watching Lee-Ann for a while -almost since Bill was killed. When they heard she was involved in what went down yesterday, all hell broke loose. Ouellette gets pulled aside and they whisper in his ear. And because you were close to Lee-Ann and Sarah he drags me into it."

"If you ask me, it has more to do with _our_ relationship, Geoff. Not Lee-Ann and Sarah!"

"Don't get your water hot."

"Don't get my water hot? If it wasn't for the fact that we're friends Ouellette wouldn't..."

"Friendship aside, you are a witness to a violent crime."

"Right! But you have to admit he seemed much more interested in fishing for information about Lee-Ann's so called criminal past."

"Come on. Be reasonable. Your relationship may well be instrumental in helping us solve this thing."

"Now you're doing it. How many times do I have to tell you people that I don't know anything? It's beginning to sound like I'm a suspect. Like you think I'm part of this... this... international conspiracy."

"No one is treating you like you're part of a conspiracy. Calm down."

"Calm down? You haven't exactly been level with me."

"That's true. In spite of our relationship, I am still a cop. And like it or not, I can't tell you everything. You are our only reliable witness with a special relationship to the parties involved. I couldn't risk telling you anything for fear it would prejudice your account of what happened."

I stared at him shaking my head slowly.

"Sam. Think about it. Your best friend. You were there. You saw. And until we heard your side of what happened we couldn't chance telling you anything. Eyewitness accounts, contrary to public opinion, are not all that reliable, you know. Knowing the background or our suspicions would have coloured your report."

"Does he think I'm part of this..."

"Of course not. But like I said, you were there. A witness to an assassination attempt. You can't blame Ouellette for trying to cover all the angles."

"He's covering his ass, is what he's covering."

"Okay, have it your way. He's covering his ass. But that's life. So don't be surprised if there's another knock on the door."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"This is no run of the mill murder investigation. We are in the middle of an international crisis here. Terrorism. Murder. Assassination. Call it what the hell you want. And your best friend was married to a guy suspected of dealing arms on the world market. He gets himself killed under very suspicious circumstances. Now his widow seems- and I said seems- to be somehow involved. Under these circumstances don't you think you might suddenly become popular with our federal law enforcement agency?"

I was drained. Yesterday life had been so normal.

"I don't know what to think. I don't know whether I should be scared or worried or what. Everything is suddenly upside down. My best friend. Suddenly I don't know who she is. And Bill? He was supposed to be a simple guy selling computers. Not guns. What was he trying to accomplish? It couldn't have been for the money, neither one of them was that materialistic. Besides he made a bundle just selling those damn computer systems."

"Who knows how much money is enough. Maybe it was a power thing."

"A power thing? Selling murder wholesale?"

"I don't know, Sam. There's probably no answer. Don't even try to figure it out."

"It's Lee-Ann I can't figure out. She didn't need the money. Or was that a lie too?"

"A lie? What about?"

"The insurance settlement."

"No, no. That's legit. She really did score big on that."

"Then why get involved with something so dangerous. She's not stupid."

"This business has nothing to do with being smart or stupid. In my books it's about greed. Pure and simple. Some people never really ever have enough. Money or power for that matter."

"Sorry. I can't buy that. Not about Lee-Ann."

"People change. "

"Sure, they change. But Lee-Ann? I don't buy it. She was finally getting her life back. She wouldn't throw it away. And she sure as hell wouldn't have put Sarah at risk." I shook my head.

"Maybe you're right. But there are a number of unanswered questions. Like the money. And I don't mean from the insurance." He stood up and ran a finger around the inside of his collar. "Look, I got to go. You going to be alright?"

"Hey! I never felt better," I said, and regretted it immediately. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't take it out on you. This is just too farfetched, too bizarre."

"I know what you mean. The root of your anger is probably that you feel Lee-Ann might have betrayed you."

"Yes. That's part of it. But what I think is really scaring me is that all of this might turn out to be true."

"Well, don't take it personally. Maybe you should think about how well you really do know Lee-Ann."

I walked him to the door and said good-bye.

He had a point, I admitted grudgingly. We do change. Not necessarily for the better. In fact, how well did I know her? Sure we'd been friends for years. But we hadn't seen each other all that frequently until recently. What was it -a couple of times a month? Not even. We'd been coasting on the foundation of a relationship built years earlier and during the time we'd both been married we'd hardly even kept in touch. A lot can happen in the intervening years. Lately, since the baby and Bill's death, we'd renewed our friendship. But as Geoff said; we change. Hopefully we grow, develop for the better.

I couldn't believe it - _didn't want to believe-_ she was involved in anything criminal. If that were true, then she'd have willingly put her own child in jeopardy, having used Sarah as some kind of perverse shield. No. Never.

I looked at the clock. My God! I was late. My first session started twenty minutes ago. I ran to the phone and dialed my office.

"Yes?"

"Harry, it's Sam."

"Sam, where are you? I've three brilliant young graduate students sitting here waiting for you."

"I'm sorry, Harry, but would you tell them I can't make it. Something personal has come up. Please extend my apologies and tell them I'll make it up to them."

"Sure, Sam. You okay? You sound... "

"No. I'm fine. Really. Thanks for asking though."

"No problem," he said.

I hung up feeling guilty, upset, and miserable. I'd never stood up my appointments before. My father had trained me far too well.

# Chapter 5

I was up early and debated whether I should to the Y for a swim, or a run. It didn't take much of a layoff for my weight to creep up over 118 pounds. Maybe I should start coloring my hair too. Lighter streaks in the brown. I hadn't been in the water for several weeks and my performance would have regressed. Mind you, once winter set in I'd spend more time at the pool so I decided to stick to my roadwork while the ground was still bare. I shivered, already anticipating the cold clamminess of sweaty clothes.

At the bottom of the steps I did a few stretches then headed off to challenge again the route that had been besting me. This time I won and completed my three miles without walking, and at this hour I didn't even have to worry about the traffic.

After a shower and a quick breakfast of a banana, two pieces of toast with peanut butter and a leisurely stroll through the paper, I dressed for work -I had an early class at a quarter to nine.

I wore my beige silk blouse tucked into my skirt -the black wool one with the slash pockets - and a pair of low-heeled shoes, dressy but easy to walk in. I'm not much for make-up, as I've said —perfume is _my_ weakness. The expensive kind. I unbuttoned the top of my blouse, gave myself a good spritz, then put on my suede jacket, the three-quarter one with the padded shoulders and left for work. It had warmed up since my run and the wind had died, but I kept my pace brisk; in less than ten minutes I strode into my office. The door was open.

"Morning, Harry." Harry Zakaib was my office mate, a lawyer with a lucrative law practice who lectured part-time.

"Hi, Sam. Heard all about the excitement. You okay?" He was sitting behind his desk, several books open in front of him, his considerable bulk filling the chair, conforming to its contours. I took off my jacket and hung it on the coat tree.

"Yes," I said with an air of resignation. "I'll survive. I'm all cried out let me tell you."

He got up, and hugged me.

"Anything I can do?" He stood back, appraising me, holding me. Funny, Harry didn't make me feel threatened.

"I'm fine. Really." I kissed his cheek. "Thanks for caring.

"Well, I'm here for you. You know that." He sat down, picked up his pipe and sucked. It gurgled, almost making me gag. After a few futile puffs, he tapped it into the ashtray and began to fuss with the damn thing, scraping and reaming the inside of the bowl with some kind of specialty tool made for pipe smokers.

I sat behind my own desk and opened my laptop case checking on the papers I had left behind. Unfortunately they hadn't disappeared and still needed to be graded. I closed the lid and snapped the clasps abruptly. Harry looked at me. His pipe was functioning and he filled the room with a blue haze.

"What's bothering you, Sam?" His voice was soft.

"God, Harry. I don't know which way to turn. Lee-Ann is damn near comatose. Her only child horribly killed. She's a widow. Has no parents, no relatives. I want to help. Shit! I have to help her. But what the hell am I supposed to do?" I was close to tears again. "I have a million things to do. A funeral to arrange. Jesus, Harry.... I'm just not up to it. . And to top it all, I'm not even supposed to go near the hospital."

"You got a class now?" He looked at his watch.

"Quarter to nine."

"Ten minutes," he said. "Let me take it."

"Don't you have a lecture?"

"Nope. Just came in to check some references. And to see you."

More likely it was to see me.

"It's a freshman class, isn't it?"

"Yes." It was the same group I'd been lecturing the day of the demonstration.

"I'll take it. I can spellbind them for an hour. A little history of the law won't hurt a first year sociology class."

"Well, don't wow them too much, I'd like them to miss me."

When he laughed, deep, throaty, and lecherous, his body shook and his eyes crinkled. He brushed tobacco from his beard, a recent affectation that I wasn't sure I liked. It was dark and speckled with grey, quite distinguished actually, but in spirit Harry was a longshoreman; tattoos would have suited him better.

"What are you planning to talk about? I have the impression you've already planned the lecture?"

"Oh, figured I bamboozle them a bit about the law in the Middle Ages. I've been reading up on the Trial of the Templars. They should get a kick out of how the Church manipulated their fate."

"Well, don't start a religious war."

"Jesus, I hadn't thought of that! Isn't that what last week was all about?"

"So I'm discovering. While you're at it. There's a cute blonde. Sits in the second row, near the middle. Jennifer, I think. She's writing her paper on the Crusades. Something to do with violence and the church."

"Well, that's perfect! Great! Jennifer, you said?" He jotted a note to himself and got up, as excited as child with a new puppy.

"Thanks, Harry. I really appreciate this. Want me to introduce you?"

"Hell, no! It'll be more fun this way." He looked at his watch. "Oops, I'd better get on with it. Look," he said heading for the door, "don't worry about the class. And I meant what I said, Sam. You need something. Anything. Just say the word." He left quickly before I could thank him.

Now what? The bank wouldn't be open yet, but maybe the investment offices kept different hours. I got up and took the phone book down from the shelf behind Harry's desk and looked up the number.

"CIBC. On peut vous aider?"

"Ah, oui. Monsieur Bellamy, s'il vous plaît." I really should work on my French.

"Whom shall I say is calling?" Obviously she thought so too.

"Sarah Milland."

"Un instant, s'il vous plaît." A click, a pause, then a male voice, frantic and energetic hawking some automotive product. I heard the words 'meenee vahn' repeated several times.

"Hello, Mizz Milland? Robert Bellamy here. How can I help you?

"Oh, good morning Robert. I need some advice," I said. "I'm considering expanding my, uh, portfolio," I lied.

"Great! Come and see me. I've something interesting in a new mutual funds group. Very promising. Very promising. But better make it soon, though," he laughed.

"Sounds good. But what do you mean by soon? I can be there in fifteen minutes?"

"Hey, that's great! You'll be in time for croissants and coffee. Looking forward to seeing you." And he was gone.

Bellamy was a real comer. According to Lee-Ann he was brilliant. An MBA with a background as a stockbroker. He'd made a few bucks himself was how she put it, but the rat race was killing him. Not to mention a hint of a scandal involving insider trading. So he got out, sold his seat on the exchange and went to work for the bank as an investment councillor. He also wanted to get into my pants. We'd been out a few times, but in spite of the physical attraction -a very strong physical attraction, expensive perfume and pheromones not withstanding- I didn't end up in his bed. Nor he in mind; he was too aggressive. Robert Bellamy was into conquest. Power. Control. I was looking for commitment. Sounds corny, I know. We are well into a new century after all. Fast paced. Energetic. Grab the brass ring when it flashes by. But I'm a bit old-fashioned. Uptight my father might say. I won't do more than shake hands on a first date. Anyway Robert was brilliant at investing money, and his aggressiveness spilled over into everything he did. Sleeping with me would simply be a quick dividend, a fast return on an investment in a fancy dinner and expensive wine.

Guys like Robert are flesh raiders. They move in, strip the assets, and move on leaving a wake of destruction. In business, the bottom line is money. Make as much as you can as fast as you can. And Robert was good at making money. For his clients and for himself.

I crossed the wide concourse, went through the revolving doors of Place Ville Marie and headed towards the bank of elevators. The offices were on the fourteenth floor.

The young woman at the reception desk smiled and asked my name and if I had an appointment. I gave her my name, answered yes and took a seat while she buzzed her boss. I'd no sooner crossed my legs when I heard Robert's voice.

"Sam!" he said, more loudly than I would have preferred. "Come." I hoped he didn't mean that sexually; I like a lot of foreplay.

He held his arm out and ushered me towards his office.

"Hold my calls, would you, Marge? Thanks."

"Coffee? I promised you a continental breakfast."

"Coffee would be great, thanks."

"Marge," he said over his shoulder as we entered his office. It occupied a south corner with a pretty good view of the river and distant south shore. Mont St. Hilaire was barely visible, a hazy, smoky grey in the distance.

"So tell me. What have you been up to? You look great!" He sat back in his swivel chair with hands clasped behind his head. With his short curly hair over a wide forehead, he reminded me of a young Harry Belafonte.

"I'm fine, Robert. Thanks. You look good too." Money is kind to you, I almost said.

He leaned forward, took the cups from the tray and handed one to me.

"Thanks, Marge. And close the door, would you?" He waited until Marge was gone then smoothed his tie, two hundred bucks worth of silk, at least, then he twitched and tugged at his shirt cuffs, exposing gold links.

His nervous energy was disconcerting. Forever shifting in his chair, fixing his clothes, rearranging his desk, Robert was a corporate bungee-jumper who needed a lot of physical space. In bed he'd be an explorer, not a missionary.

"So, what can I do for you, Sam? You said you had some spare cash."

Not exactly my words but to avoid a lie, I mentally committed about fifteen thousand I had stashed away in bonds to whatever he was about to advise. He didn't curl his lip when I told him the amount I had in mind, but he didn't turn cartwheels either.

"Great! Great!" He pushed himself back in his chair and swiveled around to grab a prospectus from the stack on the credenza. The furnishings in the room were all Chinese, black lacquer with gold motifs and accents. Several Chinese prints adorned the walls. Original wood cuts, I'd swear.

"You've heard of Altamira?" he asked.

"I've heard of it."

"Well, this promises an average yield around twelve percent. Could go to fourteen."

"I raised my eyebrows and he mistook my surprise for skepticism.

"I know, I know. Others have done better in the short run, but I'm talking a good seven-eight years. Possibly more. A good chunk is in pharmaceuticals and AIDS research. There's a lot of optimism in the scientific community and stock has been climbing."

"I read a few reports, there's nothing about a cure imminent..."

"Not a cure, Sam. Not a cure. Something more in the line of gene manipulation. The cells controlling the immune system."

I gave him my I wasn't born yesterday look.

"I know what you're thinking, Sam. But my sources claim that research is on the verge of a breakthrough. Even if they're wrong, the worst that can happen is you get a return on your money of about six percent. These people are solid," he said, tapping the prospectus. He leaned forward and added conspiratorially, "For whatever it's worth, Sam, I've put in a hundred thou myself."

He hated losing. Especially money. I thought about doubling my commitment.

"Okay, I'm convinced. You've done well for me so far. Count me in for twenty thousand." My stomach flipped.

"Hey, that's a good initial deposit, don't knock it."

The only knocking was my knees. He pushed the prospectus across the desk towards me, then started tapping the keyboard on his computer.

"Still at the same place?"

"Still there."

"And McGill?"

"Yes."

"How's your father?"

'Very well. He's still trying to figure me out," I said lightly.

"That's a tough one. So am I." He smiled showing me his even, white teeth. God, he was a hunk. Another smile like that and I'd have to go home and change."

He finished playing with the computer, and turned to me.

"How about dinner," he said, undressing me with his goddam big brown eyes.

"I'm kind of busy, Robert. I'd like to, but..." I shrugged and he laughed making me feel like a bashful virgin. I shifted in my seat and crossed my legs, grateful for wearing cotton.

"Still seeing your Ex?"

"Occasionally," I answered, a bit piqued.

"No way I can compete there. I know when I'm licked." He even made that sound sexy.

"Look," I said, uncomfortably. "I need some information, Robert."

He furrowed his brow.

"Remember Lee-Ann?"

"Of course," he said. "I'm forever grateful she introduced us."

"Well, she's in trouble, Robert." I said.

"Oh, my God!", he said, utterly horrified. "That was Sarah? I saw the news... of course.... but... She was so beautiful, so bright. My God, Sam. I'm sorry. I don't know what to say. This is too unbelievable... My God. Terrorists. What next?"

"I couldn't believe it myself. But now I'm afraid there's a weird twist to the whole thing. It seems the police now suspect that Bill was murdered. That his death was no accident."

"What? That's preposterous. I invested her insurance money. And believe me, they don't cough up a cent unless they're sure. Bet on it."

"Anyway," I went on not sure how much to tell him. I took a deep breath. "Robert," I said, "this is awkward. But I need some information and I don't know who else I can turn too."

"What is it? You're not in trouble are you? Financially...?"

"No, it's nothing like that. Getting this information might be a bit shady, but I need to know Lee-Ann's bank records."

"Shady!" He sat up like a bolt. "Sam, have you any idea what you're asking?" He shook his head and broke eye contact. He couldn't have looked more betrayed had I asked him for insider information.

"Doesn't your _Ex_ have access to that kind of information? Surely the police can find this out. Legally."

"Geoff isn't exactly on this case. And you know how hard it is to access this information. You need court orders. You need reasons. The red tape is a mile long. Besides, if Geoff started nosing around where he isn't expected to, well.... you know. It could jeopardize things."

"It could jeopardize a hell of a lot of things. Sam, you don't know what you're asking. The privacy laws are pretty strict. And the penalties..." He shook his head not wanting to come right out and tell me I was asking him to risk his career, his future.

"I know I have no right to ask you to put your neck on the line. I'm just trying to find a logical explanation about all the money going into her accounts. I can't believe even for a second that Lee-Ann kills people for money. No way she's some kind of assassin. Robert, it's just not possible."

After an uncomfortable silence he said, "What is it you want exactly?" He didn't smile.

"Three things. When the deposits were made. The amounts. And the source."

"I'll see what I can do. For Sarah's sake." He got up to show me out.

"Just a sec. I'll write that cheque."

"You were serious about that?"

"Of course," I could tell he didn't believe me. It would take a lot more than twenty thousand dollars to buy back my respect.

"Okay," he said, putting the cheque squarely in the center of his desk. "I'll get the paper work done and give you a call. I'll see what I can do about the other. By the way. About Sarah. Let me know the details regarding the funeral, will you?"

"Of course, Robert. And thanks." I extended my hand. He took it, held it briefly and said, "I hope Lee-Ann realizes how much of a friend you really are, Sam."

"I really appreciate this, Robert."

"I'm doing this for Sarah. No promises, but I'll ask around. I have a few friends."

He opened the door for me and walked me to the elevators. When the car came, I entered and faced him. He stood watching me, fastening the buttons on his double-breasted jacket. The doors closed slowly leaving me with the incongruous image of a sentry in a three thousand dollar suit. Why did I always think of men as authority figures? Sinister sentinels, watching me, waiting for me to trip, fall, fail.

I rode the elevator down to the lobby and headed for the concourse. Halfway across I stopped and turned back, deciding to shop before heading home. After walking for what seemed like miles, I found the shop I wanted and went in. Forty-five minutes later I left the underground mall with an umbrella and matching scarf for Geoff. Guilt can be expensive. The clerk, a gentle man and a bit petulant when I said I didn't need anything else, wrapped the items carefully, making sure the name 'Aquascutum' showed prominently on the package.

The temperature was still dropping so I buttoned my jacket and walked home taking my time, thinking about my next moves.

I stowed my jacket and purchases in the closet, went to the kitchen and realized I'd better put my guilt offerings in a less conspicuous place. For a detective I didn't find him all that observant, but my father on the other hand was prone to snooping and might think the stuff was for him. Not wanting him to be disappointed I relocated the packages to my den. Jesus, when you lie or cheat, it has to be followed up with an incredible amount of industry. Keeping secrets, lying, plotting, was just too much damn work if you asked me.

It was lunchtime so I figured on having a quick bite before going to the hospital. I had finally convinced Geoff that this was something I absolutely had to do. He gave in finally after exacting my promise to visit Lee-Ann once and once only. And I should let him know ahead of time so he could work it out with the security detail at the hospital.

I fished around in the fridge for my habitual lunch. Shit, no yoghurt. And no fruit except for an old nectarine with grey fuzz growing out of its navel. Again I'd forgotten to buy groceries. And there was no sense going next door as his pantry would probably be just as bare considering I did the shopping for both of us.

I shut the fridge and noticed two bananas in the bowl on the counter, one with fewer brown spots than the other. And I still had a loaf of reasonably fresh raisin bread, the kind you had to slice yourself.

No sooner had I taken a bite when the phone rang. After a frantic search for my iPhone -a gift from my father- I gave up the hunt and answered the wall-phone on the fifth ring.

"Hello," I said, my mouth thick and sticky with banana and peanut butter.

"Sammy, you're home?"

"Who'd you expect?"

"Actually, I expected Maria to answer. Has she been?"

"No. It's Monday, Dad. Not her day, is it?"

'You're right. You're right. I forgot. Listen, maybe you can do it. Go over and see if I left the papers from Chubs on my desk, would you. I thought I had them with me. The security code is with them."

"Okay. I'll call you right back." Jesus, why didn't he just write the number on his front door? On the way out I spotted my phone on the little shelf below the mirror in my porch. Sure enough the papers were there. Not on his desk but in the middle of the kitchen table.

I called him back on the cellular and Ruthie put me through immediately.

"I've got it, Dad. It's right on the kitchen table. Great security system you have."

"Okay, Sammy, okay. Don't rub it in. Keep the papers with you. I'll get them from you later. Another thing. Check the living room. Tell me the painting's still there."

"Dad! You've got to be...."

"Sammy, please. Not now." I walked into the living room. It was still on the chesterfield, wrapped in the sheet."

"It's here, Dad. Not to worry." I thought I heard him sigh.

Thanks, Sammy. I'll see you later. Don't forget to lock the door."

"Dad, what's up? This doesn't sound like you."

"Nothing, Sammy. Nothing. Just make sure, okay? I'll see you later." He hung up.

I did as he asked, tugging and testing the door to be sure it wouldn't magically unlock itself and went back into my own place. I stowed the stowed in my handbag then hid his papers in the folds of the newspaper and stuck them in the magazine rack. As if I didn't have enough emotional baggage of my own now I had to shoulder some of his paranoia.

I'd procrastinated as long as I could. I finally finished my lunch, such as it was, and went to see Lee-Ann.

After identifying myself to the satisfaction of the policeman outside her room, I was allowed in. She was sleeping. As quietly as I could I dragged the chair close to her bed, sat down and took her hand. She looked so small, so vulnerable.

We stayed this way for a long while and I watched her breathe, the blanket rising ever so slightly on her chest. Her red hair dull and lifeless, her complexion, usually highly coloured by her enormous energy, pale as putty. I stroked her hand; it was limp and her nails were cracked and dirty.

A nurse entered, startling me.

"Oh, sorry. Just checking on our patient."

"How is she?"

"Oh, we're doing fine. Real well, aren't we?" She held Lee-Ann's wrist and looked at her watch. Satisfied after a few seconds she laid Lee-Ann's hand gently across her stomach.

"She'll be fine," she told me, smiling. Bobbi Parsons, a good ten years my junior, was my height and twenty-five pounds heavier. Her long hair, shining with good health in contrast to Lee-Ann's, was held in check with a leather barrette, the kind that has a wooden peg threaded through. Years ago they had been quite the rage, and I'd bought several for myself in Province town. I watched her fuss a bit with Lee-Ann, arranging her hair, fanning it out on the pillow. I didn't like the effect; it made her look like she was laid out in a coffin. Bobbi continued to smile and talk to Lee-Ann, comforting words, comforting sounds.

"Is she still sedated?"

"Doctor said to ease up on that. She should be coming around in a couple of hours."

"I'll stay with her then. If it's okay."

"Sure. Be good for her when she wakes up and you're here." Bobbi smiled and left, her crepe soled nurse shoes whispering as she went out. The door closed softly with a sigh and we were alone. I got comfortable, slouching back in the chair and waited.

I must have dozed off because I came to with a jolt when I heard my name.

"Sam... uh... Sam?"

"Yes, Lee-Ann." I sat up quickly and took her hand. She flopped back against her pillow.

"Oh, God, Sam."

"I'm here. It's okay, Lee-Ann. I'm here."

"Sam?" She struggled to sit up, but she effort was too much. I moved to the foot of the bed and cranked the handle a few turns to raise her a bit.

"Oh, Sam. I'm so glad you're here." Her eyes welled. She struggled again and sank back against the pillows, her strength gone.

"Help me, Sam. Please."

"Of course, I'll help you. I'll take care of everything. You concentrate on getting better."

She reached for my hand and held it tightly. "I know.... uh... thanks." After a few deep breathes, "What about Sarah? Will you make the arrangements...?"

"Of course. I'll handle everything, Lee-Ann."

"Can it wait until I get out...?"

"I don't know, Lee-Ann. I think you'll be here a while yet. You've had..."

"I want to be there, Sam. My God. My baby." She started crying softly, controlled. "Oh, Sam, I miss her so much."

"I know. So do I. I loved her too." Somehow I managed to stay composed. I concentrated on breathing, staying calm. She needed my strength.

"I'll be okay," she said, drying her eyes on a corner of the bed sheet. "I've been through it before." She leaned across to get a tissue from the box on the dresser but couldn't quite reach it, so I handed it to her. She blew her nose and sighed. "I'm so tired, Sam. I feel as if I'm floating out there somewhere. None of this is real. It's a bad dream. And the pain... I feel like I've been hit by a truck."

"I'll call the nurse."

"No. I don't want any more junk. I need to know what's going. The pain I can handle. The surgery went okay, didn't it?"

"Yes. They had to remove your spleen. It's an organ we can live without."

"Sam. No bullshit, please."

"No bullshit, Lee-Ann. Honest. The surgery went fine. According to my father, you should be able to leave here in a week, ten days."

"Ten days!" She tried to sit up, but fell back grimacing.

"Lee-Ann, let me get the nurse!"

"No... I'm okay." She grimaced again.

"Lee-Ann. You've been through hell. You can't expect..."

"But ten days."

"I'll talk to my father. Perhaps we can arrange to have stay with me. In the meantime..."

"I know, don't turn any cartwheels."

"Right." She reached out and took my hand and closed her eyes. In seconds she was asleep, her breathing slow and rhythmic. I released her hand tucking it under the covers and left. The cop was a young, fresh-faced guy about the same age as Bobbi. They seemed to be deep in conversation, communicating on a level other than verbal. She blushed when I went by and I heard him tell her his shift was over at eight. I left the hospital and walked home feeling miserable, trying to shake the hospital smells that clung to me like a cloak.

The day was shot, the light waning with the temperature dropping rapidly. The wind had picked up too; creating little tornadoes, dust swirls that whipped my face stinging it with bits of grit. From the corner I could tell by the amber glow in the window that my father was home. I didn't want to see him. Not true. I did want to see him, but I didn't want to answer any questions about Lee-Ann, or how I was feeling, or if I needed a little something to help me. I let myself into my own place as quietly as I could, hoping he wouldn't call. Of course he did.

"Sammy. I know you probably want to be alone, but I'm here for you if you decide you want to talk or just need some company."

He hung up, not bothering to give me a chance to reply. He always managed to say the right things. I took a hot bath, cooling the water with a flood of tears.
Chapter 6

The next several days were hectic, emotionally draining. Arranging Sarah's funeral sapped me entirely and I resented having so little time for myself. When it dawned just how selfish I was, I felt guilty more so because I was glad not to be in Lee-Ann's shoes.

Since I'd cleared security and the cop on duty knew me, I was able to convince Geoff to lift the restrictions on my visits to Lee-Ann, providing I kept to the same time frame.

She was recuperating steadily, already taking walks in the corridor trailing the IV bag on a pole, using it for support. She'd shuffle along, one hand behind her holding the gown closed and the other on the pole, pushing it ahead of her. I offered to bring her some clothes

"Thanks. But I don't plan on staying that long."

"You sure? I could check on your apartment, bring your mail, whatever. Might be a diversion for you."

She looked at me and said nothing. After an uncomfortable silence, I felt I had to mention the arrangements I had made.

"The funeral is Friday." Today was Tuesday.

"That's good. I'm planning on getting out of here Thursday. Will you come shopping with me? I'll need a few things." Her face was hard, her voice a detached monotone.

"Of course." I didn't see how she could possibly leave the hospital in two days; she could barely make it to the end of the hall and back without resting.

"Did you see to everything at the cemetery?"

"Yes. It's all taken care of."

"You made sure of the plot?"

"Yes." Bill had been buried in the mountain cemetery and Lee-Ann had purchased a family plot.

"God, Sam. We're supposed to outlive our children." Her eyes welled up and she started to sniffle.

"Lee-Ann. Don't torture yourself. If it's any comfort to you, Sarah will be with her father."

"I don't believe any of that stuff. I wish I did, but I wasn't brought up to be very religious."

"Religion has its advantages."

"At least the view is great!" she said, blowing her nose. She laughed through tears and sobs. "Did you check it out?"

"Yes, I did, actually. It's a beautiful spot. Quiet and peaceful." Jesus, what a dumb thing to say. The view in fact was spectacular, but who there could enjoy it? I hated this conversation. I hated everything about death, and funerals. I especially hated to be the one making all the arrangements. It was pretty barbaric if you ask me. Will the family want an open or closed casket? What about visitation? A service in our chapel? And music. Would you like an organist, or just a tape, very subdued, of course. And the casket. White? Maybe Madame would prefer bronze. Or our economy model, pressed wood with a lovely fabric covering. Very, very nice, Madame. I wanted to tell the unctuous little opportunist that she was only six; maybe clowns and a magic act would be more appropriate. But I didn't. It wasn't his fault.

I went through the motions like a robot. Sticking to middle of the road decisions, even paying the bills, Lee-Ann didn't need invoices trailing in for weeks on end.

"Look," I said, reaching for a tissue and wiping my own eyes. "If you expect to be out of here on Thursday, you'd better get some rest." I stood to leave and picked up my jacket from the foot of her bed.

"I'll never be able to thank you enough, Sam. You're a saint." She put her hand out drawing me close to kiss my cheek.

"Nothing prepares us for this, does it?" No, I nodded, and thought about my brother.

"Go on," she said, when I didn't answer. "You have a life. I'll be okay. Think I'll sleep for a bit. Like you said, if I want out of here..."

It was Geoff and my father who were the real saints. Both had offered to share the burden in spite of their own heavy workloads. But for some perverse reason, I wanted to handle it all myself. I took my time, walking slowly, the cold invigorating.

When I got home my answering machine was blinking like crazy. I don't usually have more than one or two messages, but the light was flashing like a strobe. My father wanting to know when I planned to get groceries followed by two more calls from Robert Bellamy. I dialed Robert's number. As for my father, it was time he learned to shop.

"Sam! I've been trying to get you for a couple of days!"

"I'm sorry I didn't get back to you yesterday, but by the time I got in your offices were closed. This is the first chance I've had to return any calls. I hope you don't mind my calling you at home."

"Of course not," he said, sudden realization dawning. "I didn't mean to seem insensitive. Anything I can do?"

"Thanks, everything is under control. More or less."

"I'd like to help, Sam. You shouldn't have to do this by yourself."

"I'll let you know, promise. So far everything is manageable. You sounded urgent," I said, to change the subject. "Has something come up?"

"Yes. And, uh... no." I could hear him chuckle, his tone much warmer since our last encounter.

"Well, that's pretty clear." I tried to keep the impatience out of my voice.

"You won't think so in a minute. You know," he added in a lower voice, " this is confidential. If it gets out, my ass is grass, know what I mean?"

"You have my word, Robert. And I appreciate you sticking your neck out."

"Actually I don't have much information. It's what I couldn't find out that makes this so interesting."

"What do you mean?"

"First off, I have a record of the deposits to her account over the last three, three and a half years. Actually they're not deposits, they're transfers."

"This is significant?"

"Well, I think so. Pretty close to four million dollars in amounts not less than -let's see- the smallest was two hundred thousand. One hundred and ninety to be precise. And the largest four hundred and seventy-five and change."

"Wow! That's a lot of designer clothes!"

"I'll say. But, Sam, the source -or sources- of the deposits, is untraceable."

"Uh... like a cashier's cheque?"

"Well, no. These are transfers, not deposits. If she had made deposits in the form of cheques, then the cheques might be traceable. I could probably dig that. And as for cash deposits, anything over ten thousand, she'd have to account for. Providing you're dealing with a reputable bank. Which she was."

"I still don't get it."

"There's no record where the money came from. That is no record of who, or what -if it's an institution- made the deposit, or rather, the transfer.

"The only thing I could find out was on what bank the money was originally drawn."

"And that's what you think is so significant...?"

"Yes. When you hear the name of the bank, you'll understand." He said the name. I didn't.

"I have to confess my ignorance, Robert. I've never heard of Commercial whatever....'

"The National Commercial and Mercantile Bank of Grand San Marcos."

"Right. Who the hell are they?"

"It's a bank located on an island —part of a volcanic chain in the Caribbean, San Marcos being the largest. San Marcos is just south of Jamaica, but it's so small it's hardly a blip on the map."

"Go on."

"Well, San Marcos has some very peculiar banking laws. It's an absolute tax haven for anyone with a fortune to stash."

"You said Lee-Ann's transfers are into her account."

"I know, I know." He sounded very excited. "I spoke to some people. Of course I only got what I've just told you -no record of the depositor- so I did some checking on my own.

"San Marcos has been independent for only about fifty or so years. They seem to have an economy built solely on -get this- solely on tourism. But... Unless I miss my guess, financially, the country's or bank's assets -as the bank is nationalized- comes from money on deposit. Money I'm guessing, from dubious sources. Tourism is just a cover. I doubt there's enough of it to make the country viable."

"How do you figure all of this?"

"The banking laws. Account holders operate in complete secrecy. Numbers. No names. No questions...."

"So what you're saying is anyone can invest or deposit money in San Marcos without identifying himself. Without giving his real name."

"Right. Names don't matter. You have the money; they'll take it. Mind you, there are procedures. You have to identify yourself in some satisfactory way if you want to access your money. But that's it. Apart from your personal identification arrangements everything operates in total secrecy.

"But you said banks won't take anything over ten thousand dollars without a declaration of the source."

"In San Marcos, they have their own rules. They're not unique that way you know. And maybe it's a wild guess on my part, but it seems to me it's an easy way for drug money to be invested. Hell, I can't see an easier way for money to be... shall I say... processed?"

"My God. You're not saying Lee-Ann is involved in drugs?"

"I'm not saying anything. Except that the money in her accounts, those big deposits- were transferred from the bank in San Marcos. I can't tell you the accounts it came from or anything like that. Only that it's all from that one bank. In San Marcos."

"That doesn't tell us much."

"No, it doesn't. Only that the source of her income is untraceable. There has to be a reason for that."

"This is kind of scary...."

"Scary? I sure wouldn't want to get involved with anyone who goes to such lengths to avoid leaving a paper trail. Know what I mean?"

"Of course. You've done enough as it is."

"Well, I do have to admit, it has me curious. Those amounts are pretty big. But like they say, curiosity killed the cat."

"Cats have nine lives..."

"Not this cat! Anyway, I hope this doesn't make things more confusing for you."

"Are you kidding? It hasn't exactly cleared anything up, you know."

"I guess not." He laughed. "You owe me, Sam. That dinner you promised. Or maybe a weekend in San Marcos?", he said optimistically.

"For a weekend in San Marcos, I'd need to know where the money came from."

"Looks like I'll have to settle on dinner. Mind you, your offer is very tempting." His laugh was lecherous.

"Be careful," I told him. I wouldn't want you giving up any of your lives."

"You'd be worth it, I'm sure. Sand. Sun. Ocean breezes. Midnight walks in the moonlight."

"Drug dealers chasing us."

"Okay, I get the picture. We'll leave it at dinner. For now."

I ignored his parting comment, said good-bye, and hung up.

I dried my palms on my thighs and checked the time. Nine-thirty. Geoff should be home, I thought, so I dialed his number. Damn! After the beep I stated the time and told him to call. What the hell was Lee-Ann into anyway?

I was too keyed up to settle. I tried grading some papers, but freshmen essays can be boring. I tried watching some TV but that was an even greater drag. So I compromised and read a few essays with the TV flickering in front of me, canned laughter telling me when to laugh, Pavlovian conditioning gone awry.

At news time I put the papers away and listened to a special report on the crisis in the Middle East. Peace talks had stalled again; another busload of Arabs bombed. This time it was fourth grade students on a field trip. I thought of Henry. And Jennifer with her interest in the Crusades. Nothing changes. We're still fighting the same battles and working our asses off to justify killing each other.

At ten thirty the phone rang.

"Hi, Geoff. Did you get my message? I've got some interesting news."

"Sam. I've got some news too. Bad, I'm afraid."

"My, God. Don't say it, Geoff. Has something happened to Lee-Ann?"

"No, not exactly. Lee-Ann's probably okay. At this point."

"What the hell does that mean?" My papers scattered when I stood up; I was getting sick of cryptic comments.

"Listen for a minute, okay? Don't interrupt. I'm at the hospital Lee-Ann's gone. Either escaped or was abducted, we don't know but...."

"That's ridiculous."

"Would you listen! She's either run off or she was taken. At this point it doesn't much matter. The problem is this -and I hope you're sitting down. The nurse on duty? And the police officer guarding her? They've both been killed."

"Oh, my God!" I slumped down on the chair, my knees jelly.

"Right now I'm up to my ears in crap. Ouellette's having a fit and all hell's breaking loose."

"When did this happen?"

"Near as we can tell, about an hour ago. I haven't been here long -figured I'd better call you in case Lee-Ann tries to reach you."

"Me! Why me?"

"Come on, Sam. Who else? Listen, Sam. I can't get into it now, just wanted to let you know I..."

"Geoff, this doesn't make any sense..."

"Not now, Sam. I'll call you later."

"Wait! You said a nurse was killed. Which one?"

"Hang on a sec." Some muffled sounds and he was back, "A Bobbi Parsons."

"She was on duty when I visited Lee-Ann earlier. And the police officer?"

"A young guy. Just engaged. He was putting in overtime. Saving up for whatever the fuck newlyweds save up for."

"I'm sorry, Geoff."

"Yeah. Life's a beach, ain't it? I'll call you tomorrow. You said you had something to tell me...?"

"It'll keep. You want to crash here?"

"I don't know when I'll be able to get away. Besides I won't be very good company, I can tell you that right now. I just might go and get good and drunk."

"I'll wait up for you. Just get here when you can, okay? We'll tie one on together." This made him laugh.

"I'll get away as soon as I can."

It was two-thirty when I heard him ring. This time at least he didn't lean on the buzzer. I had fallen asleep on the sofa with the light low. I stumbled to the door in my stocking feet. He stood there backlit by the moon, sinister in his trench coat fastened up to his throat. He'd even knotted the belt.

"Hi," he said, softly.

"You really should use your key."

"Sure, and get shot like an intruder." I gave him a look.

"Sorry. That wasn't funny."

I let it go. "Shall I put on a pot of coffee?"

"Not for me, thanks. I've enough caffeine in me to last a lifetime. But you know what I would like?" I raised my eyebrows.

"Hot chocolate. Is that weird or what?"

"Sounds good." I headed into the kitchen. He followed, unbuttoning his coat and tossing it on the banister leading to the upstairs, and sat at the kitchen table?

"Mind if I wash my hands," he asked. He removed his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves.

"Take a shower. I'll put the hot chocolate on hold.

"Just my face and hands. I'll be a minute."

He changed his mind, because no sooner had he gone into the bathroom I heard the shower running, and being a victim of classical conditioning myself, the sound of running water triggered an urge to shed my own clothes.

The shower was quick and what followed not quite so brief, but there was a sense of desperation in our coupling. Maybe we were more like rats than we cared to admit.

I awoke before my alarm sounded, reached over to shut it off and flopped back tiredly against the pillows. To hell with jogging; maybe we'd do some other aerobics before breakfast. He was still dead to the world. I watched him sleep. His eyes twitched and he jaw moved, grinding his teeth. His breathing was slow, rhythmic. I snuggled close and lay my hand on his chest.

I must have dozed off, because the next thing I knew the space beside me was empty and the aroma of coffee wafted into the room. I struggled up and put on my robe. It was a bit ratty looking but a hell of a lot sexier than my Canadiens hockey shirt. I stuck my feet into a pair of slippers and headed to the bathroom to brush my teeth. After splashing my face with cold water and running a comb through my hair I went into the kitchen.

Coffee was ready and he was making toast. And he was dressed for work, not aerobics. Shit.

"Hi. Sleep well?"

"Mmmm. I always sleep well when I have you to snuggle up to." I kissed him on the cheek and sat down, yawning and rubbing my eyes. He poured my coffee and handed me a plate with two pieces of toast buttered generously. I could get used to this.

"Got any grape jelly?"

"In the fridge."

"He brought the jelly and more toast to the table then refilled his mug before sitting down to join me.

"I don't know," he said, " hot chocolate before bed and toast and jam in the morning. I haven't had so many sweets like this since I was a kid."

"Maybe you needed a sugar fix. Cravings are warnings."

"Think so? I could demolish a whole loaf of bread and finish the jam."

"Indulge yourself."

When he was finally done, he'd eaten six slices and was working on a third cup of coffee.

"God, that was good." I would have preferred an aerobics workout myself.

"By the way what was it you wanted to tell me last night?" he asked.

I told him. He was a good listener and didn't interrupt, only his facial twitches showing disapproval at my interference.

"Sam. Why didn't you tell me this last night?"

"I was planning to, but you were stretched to your limit. A few hours haven't made a difference, has it?"

"No. You're right. But... Jesus. This kind of skews things."

"How do you mean?"

"Well, I know she's your friend and all -our friend - and that's makes this so damn tough. And as a friend she deserves our trust. But... and there are several. One. There's all that money. Two. No record where it came from. And three. Bill's death not being an accident -not to mention that he's a suspected arms dealer. And on top of that? Two more people dead and Lee-Ann missing. Kind of casts a pretty big shadow of doubt over her innocence don't you think?"

"Yes, except for one thing."

"What's that?"

"Lee-Ann would never run out. Not on Sarah."

"I guess you've got a point there."

"A point! I'd say it's enough to show she had to have been abducted, don't you think?"

"Sam. It has nothing to do with what I think or feel. This is a police investigation. Two people were killed."

"I know, I know,"

"Yeah, well. The nurse? She was stripped of her clothes..."

"Her clothes..?"

"Yes. Lee-Ann had only her hospital gown, don't forget. She obviously used the nurse's uniform to get out of the hospital. Whether she left voluntarily or not, I've no idea."

"You keep talking like there had to have been another party involved."

"Yes. Unless Lee-Ann had a gun stashed."

"Very funny."

"They were both shot at close range. Small caliber. Both head shots. Very professional."

"And no one heard the shots? That's pretty odd, don't you think?"

"Not really. Probably used a suppresser. The way we figure it someone dressed like a hospital worker or a doctor, had access to her room. Someone the cop would have let in. For some reason the cop was in the room too. Probably called in on some pretext, no way Lee-Ann would have gotten by him, that's for sure."

'What about the nurse?"

He snorted. "Bad luck? Bad timing? Maybe they buzzed her. I don't know. They needed her uniform." He shrugged. "Anyway. We've two dead and Lee-Ann's missing. Don't need to be a rocket scientist to add this up. For now, I'll entertain the idea she didn't leave on her own accord. But I wouldn't bet money on it."

"Thanks for your confidence."

"Sam. It's not personal. I'm a cop, and a damn good one, I'd like to think. And I have to think like a cop, okay?"

"I'm sorry. It's just too hard to imagine. I'm hoping this is all a bad dream and I'm going to wake up any minute."

He sipped his coffee and shook his head. "Nightmare is more like it. Got to get moving," he said abruptly. "Ouellette's got a wild hair up his ass."

"See what he thinks about this money thing."

"Jesus, Sam. How am I going to do that? You got that information illegally. At the very least, it's an admission of invasion of privacy. By you, your buddy -what's his name- and who knows how many others. This information can really screw up the case. Besides it's not my end of the investigation. I can't act like I'm running some kind of sideshow here."

"Well, someone has to tell him. You said so yourself, this really skews things."

"And it does! But it's not a matter of telling Ouellette. It's a matter of discovering this information legally."

"Well, how are you going to do that?"

He winked. "I'm thinking of passing this little nugget onto Joan. Let her worry about the legalities. In fact they might already be on top of this -I'm not exactly privy to what the Feds are doing. The left hand never tells the right hand what's going on. Basically it's each department trying to reinvent the wheel. Talk about big egos at the university!"

"Not so much egos as politics. The guy with the information is the one in control."

"It all boils down to power, doesn't it? You'd think they'd learn to trust each other, but who am I kidding? Why do you think I'm only half way up the ladder?"

I saw him to the door and watched and watched the car pull away. He wasn't a games player, more interested in solving the puzzle, than impeding anyone chasing the same goal. If someone else got there first -great! - as long as the problem got solved. It was hard to be a team player in an organization where each man was either out for himself or dragged his feet for fear of making his buddies look bad. And like Geoff, Ouellette was more interested in answers and he wasn't afraid to ruffle feathers to get them. But unlike Geoff, Ouellette had no scruples about using people to further his own career. I closed the door and went back to the kitchen to clean up. In the middle of loading the dishwasher there was a god-awful pounding on the wall. My father, no doubt, hanging another picture. When the noise didn't abate I called him. On my iPhone. You didn't own gadgets; they owned you.

"What are you doing? Sounds like you're breaking down the wall!"

"Hi, Sammy. The kitchen window is stuck."

"We'll leave it. I'll come over. Last time you tried some home repairs it cost a fortune." He'd attempted to fix a leaky bathroom faucet and stripped the threads so badly a plumber had to replace both taps and install new piping. Old houses have to be nurtured.

"Thanks," he said. "How did you do it so easily?"

"Strong arms," I lied. He had forgotten to undo the little catch at the top, would you believe.

"Have you had breakfast yet? Maybe a cup of coffee? I've an hour before my first appointment. I'd like to hear how the investigation is going."

He poured us both a cup and put out a plate of Maria's baklava and chocolate chip cookies. I filled him in. He found the intrigue damn near orgasmic, I swear!

"But now that we've got this information -what do we do with it?"

"Come on, Sammy. You're resourceful. Haven't you planned your next move?"

"Dad, come on. Give me a break." He laughed.

"Weren't the two of you planning a naughty weekend somewhere in the mountains?"

I gave him a dirty look. He smirked, but had the good grace to avoid eye contact.

"Yes. We did plan to hole up in a mountain cabin and screw our eyes out!"

He laughed heartily and shook his head, but I did make him blush.

"Well then. Change your plans slightly. Find out where this San Marcos is exactly and go down there. And don't tell me you can't afford it. Better yet, let me make it my treat. You both deserve some R and R."

"I can pay my own way, thank you very much."

"Suit yourself. I brought you up to be independent." He sniffed when he said it. The only man I know who'd turn a virtue into the crime of the century.

"Don't you have a mid-term break or something? He added.

"Thanksgiving weekend."

"Right," he nodded. "But you said something about the Friday before, didn't you?"

I'd forgotten about that. Not a holiday -my seminar class going to visit the prison. The one in Laval." The warden, a friend of mine was more interested in rehabilitation than incarceration.

"That'll give us a four day week-end if I can book off. Providing Geoff can get time off too."

"Didn't you say he had some days owed him?"

"Yes, but the way things have changed, I don't know..."

"Well," he said, munching a cookie after soaking it first in his glass of milk. "If you want my two cents, it's just what the two of you need. The funeral's Friday. Gives you a week to get organized. Buy a new bathing suit."

I had to admit it sounded awfully tempting.

"Thanks," I said.

"For what?"

"The idea."

He waved his hand at me. "Forget it. Ideas are cheap. Especially this one. Unless you've changed your mind."

"No, I haven't changed my mind!" I got up and got the dishcloth. There were enough crumbs on the table to feed a flock of birds.

"I've been meaning to ask you. You were having a fit about your security system."

"I wasn't having a fit." He screwed his face up as if being overcome by a bad smell.

"Dad. You were damn near apoplectic." I kept pushing.

"Now you give me a break! I was just concerned about those papers dragging around. The new codes were on them."

"Sure." I rolled my eyes.

"Besides I don't like to leave stuff like that out in the open," he added, his voice barely audible, and inclining his head in the way I learned was a reference to Thea Maria.

"Dad! How can you think such a thing? " He looked sheepish as hell and said.

"It's not that I don't trust her. But apparently she and Costa are having trouble with their Jimmy."

Their Jimmy, had to be over forty years old. He'd been a difficult adolescent, probably still was. The last I'd heard was that his parents had shipped him off to the Old Country. Something about a pregnant girl dishonored. You know the Greeks.

"He's back. After fifteen years. Maria and Costa have been supporting him all this time, but the poor boy wasn't enjoying his lifestyle. And now he's back with his hand out."

"What has this to do with anything?"

"I don't know. Maria hates to talk against him. Her only child and son and all. But I gather the poor boy has run up a few debts."

"How old is this clown anyway? He must be pushing forty."

"Try forty-four. And he's still running home to his mamma."

"And they're going to bail him out?"

"Of course they're going to bail him out! He knows they can afford it. The restaurant made them a fortune."

In spite of never having mastered English, Costa, through hard work and long hours had made a good living and eventually bought the building which included the restaurant and a half dozen apartments.

"Providing the problem really has to do with money. You might not remember, but Jimmy was prone to be ah... how shall I put it.... a bit larcenous? His troubles may be more serious than a few debts."

"That thought crossed my mind. Still.... he is their son." I said.

He nodded, his face full of emotion, remembering my brother.

"Well, I just hope he doesn't bleed them. I'm surprised though that he's surfaced after all this time. He didn't seem to have much use for his parents when he was growing up."

"He was ashamed of them. Used to berate them for not speaking English any better. She only told me this since he came back. Blames herself for not trying to blend in better."

"Didn't he give Thea Maria a hard time about her long black dresses and head scarves?" I said, memories surfacing.

"Yes, that's right. Made them feel guilty for embarrassing him, and the more they indulged him, the more selfish and spoiled he became."

"He should have been proud of them for having achieved so much. By the way..."

"Yes?"

"What about the painting? Have you learned anything new?"

"I didn't tell you?"

"Tell me what?"

"I've been invited to give a lecture on it. At the museum."

"Right. Sure."

"It's true. Me. And Johnson, of course. Maybe some other experts. We're going to discuss the painting. Sort of analyze it on the spot."

"On the spot?"

"You know what I mean. Kind of a debate. It'll be fun."

"I'm sure. Better check your security system first. Unless you can hold this little debate without the painting."

"Don't worry."

"Where is the painting now, anyway?"

He didn't answer. I knew it was still on the sofa shrouded under the sheet.

"The sooner you get it back where it belongs, the sooner you'll stop worrying about it."

"Who's worrying?" I gave him a look and he mumbled, "You're right. I'll take care of it."

I looked at my watch and said, "Thanks for the coffee. I've two classes coming up and I want to check my notes for the evening session."

I kissed the top of his baldhead and headed off to my own place and made a real effort to read those papers. I whipped through them and limited my remarks to comment only on outrageous claims. Nothing surpassed frosh arrogance. That done, I had an hour to kill deciding to spend it at my office.

I was alone today, Harry being there only two days a week. He didn't kill himself in his law practice either. He was pretty well heeled and took only those cases that interested him. And since his lecture load was light he spent a lot time researching the law looking for obscure precedents. He hated to lose. All in all his relationship between practicing law and teaching was symbiotic. And symbiotic was the way he referred to his living arrangement with his 'conjoint' as the French say. His 'conjoint' was as skinny as Harry was fat. And with a perpetual sinus problem. Georges had every ailment known to man, and I swear, even made up a few. Harry didn't mind. He pampered and babied poor Georges, cooking gourmet meals like you wouldn't believe. Georges, however, continued to sniffle and pump nasal spray into his sinuses. By profession, he was an architect, and of all things, he designed hospitals and health care facilities. Go figure.

I still had some time so I called Geoff. He was in his office for a change and I outlined the holiday plan.

"Sounds great!"

"There won't be a problem, with Ouellette, I mean? I'd hate to have to cancel..."

"You kidding? He's considering having me barred from the building. Claims my overtime chits are going to bankrupt the city."

So I called my travel agent.

Yes, she knew the place. Yes, we'd need passports. Were they current? Mine was and I was pretty sure Geoff's was too. But there was a hitch. We'd have to leave Thursday. Mid-afternoon. And we'd have to fly to New York first and connect for a flight to Jamaica, then layover -just an hour, so don't go shopping, she said. Then take a local plane from Jamaica and island hop over to San Marcos. That's what she said, island hop, making it to San Marcos after another layover, in late evening. I pictured a short grassy strip with a windsock on a pole.

"There's a real nice hotel," she said. "On the beach. But it's pricey. There's a cheaper hotel on the southern end of the island. Close to the hot springs. But it draws a lot of _health_ nuts."

She was right about being pricey. Eight hundred bucks a night! But there was no way I wanted to hang out with a bunch of people parading around in the nude. So my modesty, and independence was going to cost me.

Besides, she said, they had cable. And internet. Whoopee!

# Chapter 7

Friday finally arrived. It had been one of those weeks that seemed endless, yet at the same time the days flew by. And hoping against hope I was disappointed when there had been no word from Lee-Ann. I really believed she'd show up at the last minute with a good reason for her disappearance. My capacity for fantasy and wishful thinking is enormous; if I smell manure, I look for the pony rides.

The funeral was a pretty sad affair, made sadder by such a poor showing for Sarah's passing. My father came, of course, as did Geoff. Harry was there too. Even Robert Bellamy came to pay his respects. And apart from the minister that was it.

Geoff, who'd seen more carnage, more horror, more unspeakable crimes committed could hardly contain himself. He kept biting his lower lip to keep from crying, staring blindly at the white box, his hands jammed in his pockets. I didn't even try to put on a show of strength and cried like a baby. The minister droned, a sad expression pasted on his face. My father stood between us holding my hand, his other arm on Geoff's shoulder. My father, who more than most knew personal tragedy, our comforter.

It was over quickly. And after throwing in my pinch of dirt from the shovel proffered by the attendant, the end seemed anti-climactic. There was a hollowness, something incomplete, unfinished.

We left at that point, piling into the Jag, and the two men smoking discreetly over by the old maple moved in to lower the box. My father had insisted on playing chauffeur, so with Harry up-front beside him and Robert and Geoff flanking me in the back we left. He threaded the big car expertly through the traffic discharging us one by one. The first stop was the university -to let Harry out, then Geoff's office. Robert had insisted on getting out with Harry. Needed to walk, he said. I closed my eyes and settled back, enveloped by deep comfort, the leather, soft and luxurious.

At home, finally, he said, "Come in. We need a good brandy."

He poured generous portions for both of us. It burned on the way down searing a hole in the pit of my stomach. How could anyone drink this stuff?

"Thanks. That's my limit. I've a class a bit later."

"Right," he said. "Your graduate group." He rubbed his hands together, got up and took the glasses into the kitchen.

"Got everything settled for your trip?" he called.

"Under control. Our flight is next Thursday. Three o'clock."

"Need a lift to the airport?"

"Thanks, we'll take a cab."

"Well, if you change your mind..." He came back into the living room rubbing his hands again. Time for me to leave. He liked to review his files before meeting patients. I went home, took off my funeral clothes, opting for a pair of jeans, a denim shirt, and my Reeboks. It was Friday, our meetings informal, but I drew the line at wearing a baseball cap.

The next few days dragged. Geoff was thoroughly tied to the investigation, my father with his practice and in his free time, pouring over art books. So I was left pretty much on my own. I went through the motions, lecturing, jogging, reading papers. Research. I even went for a swim.

Paula, the lifeguard at the Y pool also gave private lessons. She was terrific. An enthusiastic, energetic redhead who wasted no time. She had diagnosed my problem immediately. As I've said, I'm not a good swimmer. It had taken me forever just to learn the basics. And until Paula had pointed out my problem, I was the slowest, noisiest, and splashiest swimmer in the pool. Of the three skills required to propel oneself through water, I could only manage two at a time. I could kick and breathe, but not move forward much. Or I could breathe and move my arms, sinking for lack of kicking. But when I managed to coordinate arms and legs I almost drowned for not breathing properly. I was a disaster.

Apparently she'd been watching me for some weeks before deciding to intervene.

"Falley les jambes, Madame. Falley les jambes!" It took a while before I realized she was talking to me.

"Pardon?" I said, clinging to the side, recovering.

"Falley les jambes," she repeated, and kicked out with her right leg. I hadn't a clue. What the hell was 'falley les jambes'? She came over to me and stooped, holding her whistle.

"Fais aller les jambes," she said slowly and jumped into the water. "I'm sorry, I thought you were French." Her English was perfect.

"Fait aller les jambes", she laughed. "Move your legs. Kick." She demonstrated, swimming a length to get the point across.

"I know what to do," I told her. "But my body refuses to do what my brain tells it."

"Practice. Patterning. You know, you're pretty strong." And didn't add, 'for a woman of your age'. She couldn't have been much over twenty herself. "Especially your legs. They can really propel you. Make that motion an unconscious habit. Watch."

She worked with me a bit. I won't say I got the hang of it right off, but I did improve in the next few weeks.

"Falley les jambes," she reminded me when I came for a workout. And when I had an extra hour, for thirty-five bucks she'd give me a private lesson. This extra hour was usually a good seventy-five minutes.

Thursday finally rolled around.

Airlines want you to check in a solid two hours before takeoff. And due to my normal paranoia, I add another thirty minutes. But this trip I wasn't in control. Geoff could not -would not leave his office before he absolutely had two. There goes the weekend, I thought. So to avoid a nervous breakdown I ran around the house cleaning and polishing every mirror in the place. Windows? Hell would freeze over before I did windows, but mirrors were another story. My therapist said it was a manifestation of my narcissistic complex. Really? Anyway, whatever the reason my mirrors always sparkled.

Geoff's cab arrived as I was putting the Windex away under the kitchen sink.

"Ready?" he asked, smiling from ear to ear. I looked at my watch. We'd either miss the plane or die in a horrendous car crash rushing to make the flight; what did I need to be ready for?

"Yes," I said tersely. "Just the one suitcase." I reached for it.

"Let me." He hefted it as if I'd filled it with bricks.

"Heavy?"

"Good thing I'm wearing my truss."

"I'll be spending a lot of time on the beach, then."

"Funny. I'm really cracking up." He lugged it down to the cab and swung it into the open trunk, cursing under his breath when his coat got caught when he closed the lid. By the time we were settled in the car he was in a foul mood.

"I'm really a musician," the cabby told us and kept thumping the steering wheel to prove it. He was skinny as a wet rat, his hair whipping and snapping, the long, beaded strands keeping time to the Reggae blaring from the speakers. Occasionally, he'd throw his head back and sing along. Jesus, if that was English, what the hell did I speak? These days a ride in a taxi was an ethnic adventure. He got us to Dorval in less than twenty minutes, managing to get us out of the city and on to Highway 20 without driving on the sidewalk.

Geoff gave him three tens and we got out.

"Tanks, mon." He waved a cheery bye, looked over his left shoulder and pulled off barely giving Geoff time enough to grab the bags and close the trunk.

After getting our tickets checked and our bags processed we went to the boarding gate. My purse was put on the conveyor and X-rayed. Geoff raised his arms and turned slowly allowing the security man to scan him with the metal detector. Next went the shoes. Of course he wasn't carrying his gun, and I knew this left him feeling vulnerable.

Finally, we were cleared and herded through that funny tunnel that always smells of new carpet' and onto the plane. The flight attendants welcomed us and showed us our seats. Geoff was still a bit moody, so I ignored him, as he read and flipped through all the brochures and magazines stuffed in the pouch in front of him. I inventoried the contents of my purse to appear indifferent, and take my mind off the flight. It's not that I'm afraid of flying, exactly, but I prefer boats. When the engines fail, you don't sink.

Just as the plane took off, the second the wheels left the runway, his mood changed. He reclined his seat, took a deep breath and leaned back.

"Do you mind if I doze? I'm really tired."

"Of course not. We're on holiday, remember?"

He must've been exhausted, falling asleep almost before the plane reached altitude, and his occasional snoring made the two kids across the aisle laugh. The boy was about eight, his sister a couple of years younger and each time Geoff snorted they cracked up.

We arrived in New York, running a bit late. We barely made the next flight and I was sure our baggage would be delayed. Fortunately I carried extra panties in my handbag.

The flight from New York was bumpy, shattering my nerves; turbulence, the pilot said. I gripped the armrests so hard my hands and arms would be sore for days. Geoff, on the other hand was positively serene.

He'd shed his trench coat and wore a dark blue, spring and fall topcoat over a blue-grey double-breasted suit, a bit heavy for the tropics I thought. His shirt was white and he wore his tie knotted in the way that never looks quite centered. I wore my black slacks with a knife-edge crease and my narrow belt with the silver buckle. Under my suede jacket, my cream silk blouse was sheer enough to reveal the pattern of my bra. I was determined to drive him out of his mind. Providing we didn't crash.

The flight remained rough and I needed a couple of drinks to steady my nerves. Geoff, oblivious to the bumps and grinds, nursed a beer and read a magazine. When it was time to eat, I barely nibbled at my Chicken Kiev. Geoff finished both portions, flying, he said, made him hungry. I was scared and his comments about rats came to mind again.

Eventually we reached Jamaica and the connecting flight to San Marcos was delayed almost two hours. Jesus! Did the rubber band break? There were only four other passengers from our flight. Two men, one of them old enough to be the other's father, but he wasn't, and a young honeymoon couple who had already been acting like rats for the last two hours.

The attendant informed us that the flight to San Marcos would take about a half hour. The plane was small, very small —a twin-engine propeller job with a capacity for only a dozen passengers.

We waited on the tarmac, the propellers whining until six more people joined us, the last one scrambling aboard just as the attendant was closing the door. He lurched to his place, the ticket in his teeth and sat down heavily as the plane began taxiing. The newcomers, four black men and two women a shade lighter didn't act like tourists, their demeanor bored and blasé. They had to be going home I figured or back to their jobs.

It was dark when we got to San Marcos, but the sky was clear and so studded with stars it looked like you could scoop them up.

Miraculously, our baggage did arrive when we did and in the airport lounge -if you could call it that- we showed our papers. After inspecting and stamping our passports, the customs officer put them and a handful of brochures in a glossy folder, then signaled to a young black man in army-style khaki shorts, and a Hendrix Lives T-shirt. He couldn't have been a day older than sixteen with a smile that rivaled the stars.

"Samuel will take you to The Plantation," he said handing me the folder.

The road, gridded by shadows, skirted the ocean, and with barely the stars for light, the illusion of speed was deceiving. We flickered through slivers of moonlight penetrating the palms, surreal sentinels guarding the beach.

The Plantation, at the end of a long, gravel drive, was shrouded in lush shrubs and luxurious bushes exuding a beautiful tropical scent. The car crunched to a halt and our driver got out and held the door for us, then carried our bags to the lobby. I thanked him, gave him what I hoped was a generous tip and was rewarded with his trademark smile.

Unlike the other resorts I'd been to, the Plantation seemed deserted; there was only one car in the lot and the place was deathly quiet. I checked my watch; not even eleven o'clock. The lack of human activity was incongruous. The place seemed well kept, the porticos and exterior trim all appearing to be freshly painted, although in the moonlight the colours were shades of grey. The Plantation spoke of luxurious extravagance, but it was too quiet. Inside, the lobby was a statement of refined good taste, with the grandeur of a sugar baron's estate, those old colonials who drank tea, ate cucumber sandwiches and screwed the servant girls.

Deserted or not, this was a hell of a place for a honeymoon. Or, to quote my father, a dirty weekend.

We checked in, and I handed over my VISA card. John Vincent Millay, his nametag said, was white, pushing sixty and bald as an egg. His tuxedo fit like a glove and in spite of the evening damp, his white shirt was crisp.

He tapped the bell once and a young black man materialized quickly enough to have impressed David Copperfield.

"This way," he smiled.

We followed. The Plantation was a three story, sprawling structure in the shape of a T with a very short trunk. The trunk was essentially the lobby with a dining room near the top of the T. We followed the porter down a short corridor to the back of The Plantation, the ocean side, and came out on a very long verandah. The view was breath taking. The ground sloped steeply down towards the sea and we found ourselves suddenly on the third level overlooking the beach. We continued our walk along the verandah and twelve units later we were at our rooms. The porter opened the door, then followed us in carrying the bags. He went through the litany explaining about the bar, closed circuit TV -here he winked at Geoff- and the vibrating bed. After opening the drapes and dimming the lights, he said goodnight. He refused to accept a tip from Geoff, claiming he'd be our valet for the duration and we could settle up later.

"I could take a lot of this," he said, after letting him out.

"Not too shabby, huh?"

"Better believe it!" He took off his jacket and tie then his trousers, hanging them neatly on the wooden butler thing that good hotels always have in the rooms. He stood in the middle of the room in his jockey shorts scratching his chest staring through the window at the crashing surf.

"What's so funny...?"

"Sexy," I said. "Real sexy. Black socks. Black shoes. And purple jockeys. Every woman's dream."

He laughed in spite of himself. "I'll fix that," and with a flourish, pulled off his underwear almost falling when they caught on a shoe.

"Geoff! You could at least turn off the light." I ran over and turned off the switch plunging the room in darkness. He stood in front of the window, mesmerized.

"What an incredible view," he said. The ocean was a carpet of phosphorescence, its roar hypnotic. I shuddered, transfixed.

"Easy to imagine how some people can be drawn, lured to her depths..."

"That's a romantic thought!"

"I mean it's... I don't know.... the ultimate force. The original Pied Piper."

He stood beside me his hands on his hips, in his socks and shoes. That broke the spell.

"You rip the sheets with your shoes, it goes on your bill."

He bent down and removed them, still watching the surf break on the beach, then turned to me and undid the buttons on my blouse. This wasn't real. He removed every article of clothing, folded each piece carefully and placed it on the chest at the foot of the bed. He picked me up and carried me to the bed. He put me down, gently, slowly, tantalizingly slowly, drawing out the ecstasy. This wasn't real. I was the plantation owner's daughter. Pirate's had landed. I was about to be ravished.

As is my habit, the next morning I was awake at six. I lay there still and quiet for all of eight minutes before accidentally prodding Geoff out of oblivion.

"Time zit?" he mumbled.

"After six."

"How much after six?"

"Not much."

He groaned once and started that goddam deep breathing again, but I wasn't about to be deterred. I didn't come all this way just to run on the beach.

In nine seconds flat he was fully awake, and if not alert, at least erect. God, how do men do that? Grateful for small mercies I didn't complain.

Later in the shower he said, "I'm exhausted. Must be the change in weather,"

"I've news for you, it's not the weather."

"No, seriously. I'm not usually this lethargic. You think it's jet lag?"

"No, seriously, I don't think it's jet lag. Now wash my back- I said my back!" Men!

By seven thirty or so we were in the dining room. And by the looks of things the first guests for breakfast. Our valet, apparently, was also our waiter.

"Good mornin'. I hope you had a pleasant night. It can be a bit cool on the island?"

"Thank you. It was perfect. The island is beautiful." Geoff told him.

He raised his chin, smiling knowingly, poured our coffee and unfolded menus placing them in front of us.

"Help yourself from the breakfast table." He inclined his head to a table spread with a mountain of tropical fruits. "The croissants are heavenly. If you prefer a hot breakfast, they're listed in the menu."

"Thank you, Tyrone." Everyone wore a nametag.

I couldn't believe the variety. Or the quantity. I filled a bowl with fresh fruit salad, then went back for a muffin, and after second thoughts, took a croissant too. Geoff, having been so thoroughly depleted, followed my lead but with twice the quantity.

"God," he said. "I hope I don't have a ... problem."

"Problem? What do you mean?"

"You know. Strange food. The water."

"This isn't Mexico. I'd be more concerned about insect bites. And parasites in the fish," I said pointing to something on his plate that looked like a smoked kipper.

"You serious!" He was about to spit out what he had in his mouth.

"I'm joking, relax!" I wanted to laugh but could see he didn't share the humour.

We ate slowly savouring every bite, at least I did, and for the first time in weeks I was relaxed. Geoff too, seemed at peace, the creases in his brow hardly visible. I finished eating, pushed my plate aside and reached for the paper. Tyrone had brought over a complimentary copy of the San Marcos News, a weekly, consisting of fourteen pages. I leafed through and found an ad for snorkeling and scuba diving when Geoff said:

"You smell something?"

I looked up and sniffed. Like old socks?"

"More like old skunk."

"Faintly." It did smell skunkish. Like week-old road kill.

"It's not that faint!" His nose was incredible. I went back to the paper when our waiter came over to refill our cups.

"Excuse me," Geoff said, "But... I seem to smell something. Are we near the ah... garbage disposal, perhaps?"

Tyrone threw his head back and laughed. "Welcome to San Marcos!" He finished pouring the coffee and left still laughing.

"Now what the hell does that mean?" Geoff said, leaning across the table.

"Beats me." I kept on reading; the smell really wasn't that bad. "So? What's on our agenda?" I asked after folding the paper. He looked at his watch.

"I've arranged to meet with the bank manager. Which reminds me. I'll have to see about renting a car."

"When?"

"After we finish here. There's no hurry."

"The bank, Geoff."

"Oh. Two o'clock. That should give us plenty of time to soak up some sun. The beach is fantastic!"

"Now's a good time. Before it gets crowded and too hot. Did you bring sunscreen?"

"I'll get some in the shop. What do we do about the bill? Don't you have to sign or something?"

"No. It's all included. Except for booze."

"You kidding? That's great."

"Yes, isn't it?" He missed my sarcasm. Eight hundred bucks a day made it terrific.

"Still won't tell me what this is costing, huh?"

"We're here to have fun. That's all you need to know."

"Did I ever tell you I like being kept?"

"I seem to recall you communicating that sentiment to me last night. And this morning. Hopefully you can show your gratitude again a bit later."

"Well, if that's your currency of choice, I hope I don't run out of funds."

"Really? My intention was to keep you stony broke."

The beach, like the dining room, was almost deserted. While I went back to change, Geoff bought sunscreen, postcards and the ugliest ashtray I'd ever seen, made from local sea shells. For my father's cigars he said.

Around nine-thirty we hit the beach making a good-looking couple in spite of impending middle age. Geoff was trim and fit, his colour a bit like unbaked dough, but he didn't have to suck in his gut. I wore a one-piece job, black with a purple Day-Glo diagonal slash. The back was open and scooped down to the crack of my ass. It was cut high, but not so high that I looked like a split peach. Geoff's suit was boxer style, in lifeguard orange, and for a guy that really needed some sun, he didn't look that much like a geek.

We ambled for a few hundred yards kicking sand and watching shorebirds chase the surf, following the curvature of the shore until the Plantation was hidden behind a bend. The surf was so cold it numbed my feet. I switched places with Geoff for the return and walked on the sand, packed hard by the receding tide. The incline was steep and running on the beach would have ruined my knees.

"Sam," he said. "Don't tell me you still can't smell it?"

"Yes, now that you mention it. It's a bit like rotten eggs."

"Very rotten!"

We lined ourselves up with our rooms, spread out the towels and dropped down on them facing the ocean. The day was clear, with a nice breeze. I stared out. The sun was getting stronger and the horizon shimmered; you couldn't tell where sky met water, making distance impossible to gauge. I thought I could see a boat in the distance, one of those cabin cruisers rich guys own, the kind my father swore he could never afford.

"Did you see about a car?"

"No problem. The Plantation has a few that they rent out. I reserved one."

"You put it on the room?"

"The department can pay for it. Business related."

"You can't do that! You're on vacation remember." He shrugged.

"On the room tab," I repeated, and lay back, pulling my straw hat down over my face.

"I'm sorry, Sam. But that smell is getting to me." It did seem to be getting stronger, now that the wind shifted.

"Want to go back up?"

He checked his watch. "Sure. I'll have a shower, get this stuff off me, and we can go into town. Or whatever passes for a town on this island."

He was getting testy. In all honesty, the smell didn't bother me.

"Sounds good. Maybe we can do some shopping. There's bound to be a market."

The smell, what there was of it, lingered like a phantom pain, and Geoff, to his credit, did his best to be cheerful. We found the town situated inland from the beach road no more than a scant three miles from The Plantation.

It was beautiful in the same colonial way, well kept and surprisingly new looking. Commercial buildings, mostly banks it seemed. Some real estate brokers. A pharmacy. Clothes shops for the nautically inclined. That sort of thing. We ended up in the town square, not by design, but rather because that's where the road ended. Parking was free in a well-laid out lot. Where the hell was everybody anyway? I had my camera and snapped half a dozen shots of Geoff mugging and acting quite boyish. After locating the bank, we headed off along the side streets. Most of the homes to put it mildly were grand. Lots of wood, lots of Victorian touches, and lots of money. The grounds were wide and well tended. Cars were upscale too. Buicks. Oldsmobiles. Expensive Japanese jobs. But not a hell of lot of activity.

"Is it my imagination or do you get the impression we'd belong to the young set?"

"Funny you should say that. The whole place is kind of..."

"Sedate is the word that comes to mind."

"Sedate? More like old Miss Havisham."

We walked on, but no market, so we stopped at a place called Ted's Ice-Cream Emporium.

"How about it?"

"Sure. I'm not in the mood for ice cream, but a gallon of something to drink would be great."

He had a double scoop of something and ordered me a raspberry cordial. Surprisingly it was good. Not too sweet with just the right amount of fizz.

"Guess I'd better get over there, " he said looking at his watch. "What'll you do?"

"I've a book in my bag. There must be a waiting room or somewhere I could sit in the bank."

He paid the bill and we headed towards the bank, the tropical sun relentlessly fierce and blinding.

There was a modest room, not a room exactly —more like an alcove— with a few upholstered chairs by the automated bank machine. They were leather covered and looked like they cost more than the ones in my father's study. I no sooner sat down and started to read wishing I had brought my leather-bound Bronte instead of the latest Grisham, when a teller approached me. She was about my age, and plump in a Marilyn Monroe way with jet-black hair and ruby-red lipstick.

"Excuse me, Miss. I'm Jeanette Hobbes, Mr. Myer's secretary. Can I offer you some refreshment? His meeting with Mr. London will be a while. Some tea perhaps."

Some tea perhaps? This place was getting curiouser and curiouser. I hope I didn't suddenly start to grow smaller.

"Thank you, but I'm fine."

She smiled and went back to her office after making me promise to let her know if I changed my mind.

The meeting took an eternity. Fortunately I like Grisham and the time passed quickly, but I must've read a good hundred pages before Geoff's meeting was over. He came over to me smiling broadly.

"You're not going to believe this. Come on, let's go."

I almost had to run to keep. "What happened in there anyway?"

"Wait'll we get back, you're going to love this." There was no use badgering him when he got this way, but I was burning with curiosity.

At the Plantation he said, "Why don't you go change. I'll get rid of the car and meet you on the beach."

He let me out in front of the lobby then drove to the far side and turned into a small lot. There were several other sedans with The Plantation logo on the doors. I went in, crossed the lobby and headed for our rooms.

I was hauling on one of those Lycra jobs, that come in a package the size of a tennis ball, when he breezed in catching me in an obscene act.

"Don't stand there laughing, give me a hand.

"Just straighten the straps, thank you!"

"Lovely," he said sarcastically, standing back to give his appraisal. You look like a party favour."

"Thanks a lot. Any idea what this little number set me back?"

"Not much if you only paid for the materials."

"Unfortunately it doesn't work that way." I looked in the mirror, twisting and checking myself over my shoulder. Thank God, I didn't suffer from hemorrhoids.

"Well?" I asked him. "And you'd better think before you answer."

"It's okay," he said trying hard not to laugh. " But it's not you."

"Shit." I tugged at the straps and had as much trouble getting out of it as I had putting the damn thing on.

"That's you!" he said pointing and laughing as I stood naked and hopping on one foot. I threw it at him, slammed the bathroom door and put on the other suit. I could hear him laughing to kill himself.

We eventually got down to the beach, this time walking in the other direction. Sand, beautiful and white. Sand, sun and the stink. I could smell it now; could I ever.

"That is some stink," I said, wafting my hand in front of my face.

"Yeah, isn't it? I must be getting used to it." He ran along the water's edge kicking surf at me.

"Okay, Geoff. Enough of this playful puppy crap. Give. What did that guy tell you?"

"I'm not stalling. Honest. But do you think you can wait until dinner?"

"Of course you're stalling. And why should I wait until dinner? This little game of 'I've got a secret' is beginning to annoy me."

"Okay, okay. Since you're so generously picking up the tab, I've invited Jake Myers —he's the bank manager— and his wife to dinner. So be patient. You won't regret waiting to hear it from him. That I can guarantee."

"Well, it had better be worth the price!"

# Chapter 8

We went back to our rooms to change for dinner. I managed to work him up into a frenzy first, figuring he needed a release from the stress he'd been under the last few weeks. I'd been feeling a bit tense myself. Geoff obliged with a stellar performance, not like what you read in trashy romance novels but he'd certainly occupy the main role in my fantasies for a long while. The way to a man's heart, I discovered, is not through his stomach. Anyway, we thrashed around a bit before hitting the showers.

"Ouch!" The water stung. "There are parts of me that have never seen the sun before."

"There are parts of you I haven't seen before," he said turning down the temperature.

"Whoa! Geoff! Didn't think you needed a cold shower quite this soon." When he got out I reset the tap.

By the time I was finished, he was dressed in his suit and wearing the same tie. Through the crack in the doorway I caught him shining his shoes. With a sock.

I pulled on my panty hose, sheer and expensive, taking care not to snag them with a toenail then brushed out my hair. It was short and would dry quickly without exploding into a mass of curls. My evening dress was a sexy, clingy, thing and to avoid showing panty lines I played the harlot and didn't wear any, but I wasn't quite liberated enough to go without a bra. Mind you, a fancy bra can be just as tantalizing. I pulled the dress over my head, adjusted it on my shoulders and checked myself in the mirror. Like my bathing suit, there was virtually no back and I was glad to see it didn't show where the sun met suit. The neck, cowl-like in front, drooped provocatively, and I knew just how far to lean over for maximum effect. As for makeup I added a touch of eye shadow, taupe to complement the dress— and lipstick. I didn't forget to put on perfume.

"Wow! Sam. You're... stunning." He stared a moment like he'd been clubbed and had yet to fall over.

"Thank you." I sat on the edge of the bed and put on my shoes. I didn't like the way the heels flared, reminding me of Minnie Mouse. But fashion dictates taste, as they say.

"I'm ready," I said standing up and smoothing my dress over my hips.

"Why don't we just stay in tonight?"

"Take it easy. It's just the dress. Once it's off, the effect is lost."

"Well, you'd better keep it on, I love the effect." He put on his jacket and made a production of buttoning it, first the inside one, then the outer. I liked the effect too.

After turning the lights down, and making sure Geoff had the room key card I was ready to go.

In the dining room, Tyrone was hovering around rearranging things on tables, looking as if he was killing time. When he spotted us, he ambled over, held my chair for me then handed us the menus.

"Tonight's specialty is roast beef. English style. Would you care for drinks first?"

"Yes," I said. "A Cuba Libra with extra lime, please."

"I'll just have a beer. Any kind."

He bowed and as he was about to leave, Geoff added, "We're expecting some friends to join us. Mr. and Mrs. Myers."

"I'll show them to your table, Sir."

Geoff had finished half his beer when the Myers arrived. He stood and shook hands with Jake pumping the man's hand like a long lost friend.

"I'd like you to meet Sam."

"Pleasure. And this is my wife Gloria."

"Hi," she said shyly. She stood with her purse clasped in front of her. Jake held her chair and she sat to my right. She was good looking, with long blond hair curled in a Louis Quatorze style, which she shook a lot when speaking. Jake, very self-assured in a double-breasted grey suit, sat across from me. His tie, navy with little red anchors in a checkerboard pattern, was seated perfectly in the vee of his collar. He hunched his chair closer and then adjusted his cuffs. Lots of bucks here, I thought, noticing Gloria's raw silk suit. And they both wore Rolex watches. They could've been knock-offs I suppose.

Tyrone was back and stood discreetly waiting.

"Drinks?" offered Geoff.

"I'd like some white wine?" Tyrone nodded, closing his eyes briefly. Jake, noticing Geoff's beverage ordered a beer. Tyrone then looked at me.

"The same," I said holding up my glass. What the hell, I wasn't driving.

We made small talk waiting for the drinks, commenting on the weather, the terrific beaches. No one mentioned the stink.

"So," Jake said to me, "Combining business with pleasure, Geoff tells me."

"You could say that," I answered cautiously. What did Geoff tell him anyway?

We finished our drinks and ordered the special all around. Jake insisted we try the wine he'd ordered. The St. Emilion is perfect for roast beef, he said. When we'd finally exhausted talking about the local colour Geoff, said"

"I told Jake what we're here for."

"Yes," he interrupted, "but I don't think I'm going to be much help. Bank rules and all that. But a history of the island will give you some indication of what San Marcos is all about."

"Better believe it." Geoff looked at me hinting that I had better pay attention.

"Can you start by telling us what that smell is?"

They all laughed, even Geoff. This pissed me off, since he was the one so put out by it.

"Sulfur. There's a fissure? On the south west end of the island?" She had that annoying habit of raising her voice at the end of a sentence. "And depending on the wind it's either blown out to sea or..."

"Or over the island." Afraid I'd sounded bitchy, I asked more congenially, "I'm curious about how few tourists there are. This isn't the off-season, is it?"

"Actually, she continued, "It's always off-season. Because of the smell there's a legend goes back to the sixteenth century. Pirates used the island as a hide out and to stash their booty? After killing off most of the natives. Except for the pirates no one else was ever interested in the place. And the smell? -It's supposed to be evil. Created by a malevolent spirit."

"Yes. The natives feared it, figured it was an invisible spirit that came to punish them. It is toxic, you know."

I looked at him and he was quick to add, "Not in small doses. But if anyone ventured too far into the caves. Well, they'd certainly be overcome."

"And according to the legend? The bones of the dead still lie deep in the caves." Her eyes were wild at the thought.

Jake laughed, and refilled his glass offering wine around. We were on a third bottle and I was really starting to enjoy myself.

"So," he continued. "Tourism seems to suffer. And that's a shame, because the place is a real Garden of Eden."

"Except that the apples are rotting." This got them laughing.

"There seem to be quite a few permanent residents. And well heeled too, judging by the houses and property. What's the attraction?"

"Well, Sam. San Marcos has a rather unique banking system."

"We've gathered that already."

You see," he went on, "San Marcos was part of a group of Caribbean islands under British control. Once the pirates left, and after the Arawaks had been pretty much annihilated, there was nothing left here except the stink. And rumours of pirate treasure of course."

"And that is what attracted these people?"

"No. Treasure hunters never found a thing. And the smell discouraged any kind of settlement."

"What happened to change that? Judging by the number of banks this place has, some interest in settling here has definitely been generated."

"You're right. There has. There has." He toyed with his glass twirling it between his fingers.

"About sixty or seventy years ago, a few people did come over. And settle. At least in the sense of establishing vacation homes. They were rich. Really rich. Story has it their money came from selling booze during prohibition."

"That's how the Kennedy clan got started," Gloria interjected.

"Right. Anyway a few of them came and built some pretty big houses, spending huge sums of money. A lot of estates front on the beach -you may have seen some." He stopped to refill Gloria's glass.

"Now San Marcos has ideal natural harbours -on the south side where the drop off is more shallow. The pirates knew this. And it was also ideal for the yacht set. San Marcos became the perfect hideaway. If you didn't mind putting up with a few inconveniences."

"Inconveniences? There's more than just the stink?"

He laughed. "On top of the stink, as if that wasn't enough, just about everything has to be brought in. Even water. The wells are too sulfurous, hardly good enough for watering your garden."

"Even now?"

"Oh, yes! Gloria said. "All the drinking water is brought in too!"

"But I've used the tap water... It tasted fine."

"Tanks." Jake said. "You wouldn't want to drink the local water, believe me. Living here isn't easy. Apart from the natural beauty what else is there?"

"Nothing!" Gloria stated. "Not a thing!"

"Well, I don't get it. Look at this place..." I gestured, waving my arm in a wide arc.

Gloria wiped her lips on the napkin and rested her arms on the table. "Years later. Between the two wars. The thirties, wasn't it Jake? When Britain was still reeling from the war and needing to gear up to fight Hitler? This group -from the island- approached the foreign office with an offer to buy San Marcos from the British. They owned their own properties, but they wanted sovereign rights. The Caribbean islands are volcanic in origin, part of an underwater mountain chain, and in some instances this vile gas seeps up, like here. If it wasn't for that San Marcos, in spite of being so small, would really be God's paradise. It's only about.... oh..."

Jake helped her out here. "About five or six miles long. Curved. Shaped a bit like a teardrop. At its widest point about four miles. San Marcos is small but unique."

"Because of the smell," I said. "Beautiful, but the smell keeps everyone away."

"Not quite everyone. Not quite everyone. In fact the smell in one way is the island's attraction. The islanders' protection."

"Now I'm really lost."

"Think about holding sovereign rights." Geoff said, tapping my hand.

"Banking laws?"

"Bingo," Jake said, closing one eye and shooting me with his finger. "After some heavy negotiating the island group managed to acquire the island and hold it entirely independent from Britain. Don't forget war was on the horizon and the Brits were strapped. They were suffering economically and welcomed the offer, finally agreeing to something like forty of fifty millions. And in the thirties a million bucks was a lot of dough." I still thought it was a lot of dough!

"It was a game for rich men. Men who would be king," he laughed.

"So they set up a sovereign state and adopted their own laws. At least as they pertained to banking."

"You got it. And gradually San Marcos established a financial haven offering total secrecy. Total. Absolutely no disclosures whatsoever. You didn't- still don't have to give any identification, except for establishing a way to access to your own funds. Come in with a suitcase full of dough and you're in business."

"These guys. The ones who started it all? They can't still be around."

"Oh, a couple, maybe. But the power base has changed over the years. Today the island is mainly controlled by a consortium." He leaned forward and whispered, "Worth billions."

"What's your role in all of this?" I couldn't figure why he was telling us all of this.

"Me? I'm just an advisor. I manage the bank. Sort of." He drained his glass.

"What do you mean, sort of?"

"Primarily, I invest the assets. As they come in. Not much goes out in loans, let me tell you."

"You have a background in banking?" I pressed.

"No, not really. I used to work in a brokerage house -had a pretty good track record too. They recruited me. Made me an offer I couldn't refuse, so to speak." He made a face, and filled his glass again. I made a mental note to myself to have Robert look into his background for me.

"If you don't mind the stink," he said, "it's a nice place to live.

"By stink," I said, "are you referring to the sulfur?"

Gloria laughed nervously. She'd been fidgeting in her chair for some time.

"Not entirely. But the money's pretty good. I do okay for them in the markets so they pay me well enough."

"Why do I think you don't plan to retire here?"

"No way! I miss the snow!"

"That the only reason?" I pressed and Geoff gave me a dirty look. I felt his foot nudge me under the table, but I wasn't going to let go.

"It's not much of a secret, Sam. The minimum deposit required is in the neighbourhood of ten million. And you know the types who want to ah... hide that kind of money."

"Ten million!" I gave a low whistle. "You're not afraid to work here? Knowing what you know?" And talking about it to outsiders I wanted to add.

"Should I be? I'm just an investor. And make sure all transfers of funds follow protocol. We don't keep names. I don't know names and don't want to. All I do is make sure procedures are followed. Verify numbers and codes. That sort of thing. Fairly routine."

"Except he's dead meat if he screws up!" Gloria said a bit too loudly.

"Nothing to screw up," he said, his tone unconvincing. He drained his glass again. For a guy who had no worries he sure knew how to drink.

"We're figuring on staying only another year. Two at the most. Right? Jake." She said to him pointedly.

"Yes. At the most." He pushed his glass away. "This has been great. Thank you. We don't get to meet many people. Outsiders. People from home, I mean."

"And the few we do meet are banking types. Gets to be a bit boring after a while."

Jake stood up unsteadily. Geoff signaled Tyrone who caught on immediately. By the time we'd walked them to the entrance a taxi stood waiting, with Samuel holding open the door open. We said goodnight then went to our rooms.

As soon as the door was closed behind us I kicked off my shoes and flopped down on the bed. Geoff couldn't wait to get out of his suit.

"How does all of this strike you?" He was tugging at his tie.

"A great story, I can tell you that. But what the hell has it all to do with Lee-Ann?"

"I don't know. But... I've got a couple of thoughts."

"I'm all ears." I lay back on the pillow. My head was spinning.

"If Bill was dealing arms...."

"Go on." I kept my eyes closed, barely listening, hoping the room would stop spinning.

"If Bill was dealing arms," he repeated, "San Marcos would be perfect. With all the secrecy about money and natural harbours, the place is a perfect cover."

"I'm not retaining this, Geoff." He came and sat on the bed beside me, thinking more that I was slow witted, rather than drunk. He took off his shoes and socks shaking the bed. My stomach started to rebel.

"Think about it." Right now, I was thinking about not losing my dinner.

"You've got some very powerful men, very rich men. You reach a point where your wealth becomes an end in itself. You're never rich enough. These guys are a syndicate. They're getting rich shifting the balances of power."

"What do you mean...?" I strained to open my eyes. Thank God he'd turned the lights off. "Jake didn't say anything about that."

"Let's just say," he went on, "that some people are playing both ends against the middle. Selling arms. Munitions. Whatever. That's got to be about the scariest business anyone can get into, know what I mean? Scarier when you think that these guys deal with both sides. Now in terms of money, in terms of an investment, you can't lose. Okay? It doesn't matter who wins the war -the money men always come out ahead. And I'm talking big bucks here. Actually, the name of the game is to perpetuate conflict."

I was beginning to sober up. I pushed myself up gingerly and leaned against the headboard and looked at him.

"What's really going on here, Geoff? You know a hell of a lot more than you've been letting on."

"I'm guessing, Sam."

"Right." I said closing my eyes again.

"Speculating is a better word. But we haven't any proof."

"We?"

"As in the department."

"Proof? The department?" I sat up more quickly than I should have. "This is beginning to scare me, Geoff.

"I didn't mean to. I spoke with Joan before we came down here. And she didn't say much. But I got the impression that Bill was in pretty deep. He went off on a tangent and got himself killed."

"And Lee-Ann?"

"I'm not sure. That's the part I don't quite get."

"You're not sure? That means you do have some ideas."

"Nothing I can grab."

"Jesus, Geoff." I closed my eyes and said, "And Jake? What about him" There's something fishy there, if you ask me. I'm not sure I trust him."

"You've got good instincts. I'll have him checked out when we get back." I didn't tell him I planned something similar myself.

"In the meantime let's get some sleep. We've three days left to lie on the beach. Let's forget about this and enjoy them."

He finished undressing and slipped between the covers putting his arm around me. Who was he kidding, forget about it?

Saturday was overcast, not cloudy exactly, but the haze was enough to obscure the sun, nature's deceit, which could result in a wicked sunburn if you weren't careful. We spent the day on the beach under an umbrella The Plantation obligingly provided. Apart from waking up with a wicked thirst, I gratefully hadn't suffered from knocking back the Cuba Libras and wine, but I did doze from time to time between short bouts of reading. I bought a few magazines figuring I had enough subterfuge in my life without Grisham contributing to my paranoia.

On Sunday the haze was gone but a wind shift resulted in wafting us in sulfurous splendour. How anyone could approach those caves was another mystery. Anyway we did enjoy the beach with long ambling walks. Geoff even accepted my challenge of a run, but whether from lack of conditioning or weakened by my demands he lagged a good hundred yards at the end of a twenty-minute jog.

That evening after dinner The Plantation had organized a beach party. A huge bonfire was planned, with a Calypso band for entertainment. Considering how few guests there seemed to be I was surprised at the turn out. Mind you most of the crowd consisted of young people in their twenties. Students, I figured, with the night off from their summer jobs.

The next morning after breakfast Geoff said:

"I promised Jake, I'd see him again before we left the island. See if there's some way to arrange a disclosure of Lee-Ann's records. Maybe there's a loophole or something."

"Good luck." From the talk the other night I had given up on finding out anything from Jake regarding her financial status. "While you're playing detective, I'm taking a stroll, maybe find out where that market is." Our flight didn't leave the island until late afternoon.

We parked in the same place. Geoff headed over to the bank after agreeing to meet me for lunch between one and one-thirty at Ted's Ice-Cream Emporium.

"See you," I said and sauntered off, my bag on my shoulder and my camera in hand, searching for San Marcos' elusive market; I was determined to go home with one of those straw bags decorated with seashells.

After walking for about fifteen minutes, in the direction Gloria had advised, I was about ready to give up and turn back, but I sensed I could hear noise in the distance. I continued to follow the road which sloped slightly up hill and followed the shore. Between the homes I could see beyond them to the ocean and at that point wasn't sure if the sound I heard were people or simply the rush of the sea.

Abruptly the road opened to an area flanked by small shops with more people milling about than I'd seen in the previous three days. Clerks, mostly native Caribbean, were brightly dressed in typical island garb, wrap around dresses and colourful shawls and scarves. They laughed a lot and cajoled would-be shoppers who were mostly middle-aged and from the yacht set judging by the way they dressed. I strolled along happy at last to have found the place, did a lot of smiling and with my new digital Canon snapped picture after picture.

At the end of the street the view of the ocean was spectacular. Geoff had to see this before we went back. It overlooked a small harbour where a number of private boats were moored, the source of the market crowd that had come ashore to shop. I continued snapping away before deciding to cruise the other side of the street. I still hadn't purchased the bag I wanted.

I stopped in front of a particularly interesting shop to look at some carvings. Scrimshaw the sign said. My father wasn't into anything kitchy, but I figured he'd enjoy a souvenir, so I picked out a pocketknife with a whaling scene carved on the handle, and gave it to the woman along with my VISA card. I almost choked when I saw the bill. Over two hundred bucks, this was one pocketknife he had better love.

On my way out I stopped to take more pictures, figuring to record for posterity where the world's most expensive penknives were sold. I had to stand far enough back to include the shop's sign.

To my astonishment, framed in the viewer was Lee-Ann; I'd know that red hair anywhere.

I put the camera down and called her name. The woman disappeared from view and I darted across the street heading where I thought I'd seen her. Squeezing through a group of older yacht types, I entered a boutique, managing barely, to catch another glimpse of red hair.

"Lee-Ann!" I called, ignoring the stares. I'd lost her again. I continued through the shop and went out the other door stopping in the street to pinpoint a flash of red hair moving among the shoppers. I gave up finally and was about to turn back when I felt a sharp jab in my side.

"Hey!" I said, turning.

"Shut the fuck up!"

"Jake? What's..."

"I said, shut up. Or I'll drop you right here. Move it!"

He jabbed me again, propelling me forward. Moments later we were joined by the red head.

"My God. Lee-Ann it was you. What's going on..."

"Move!" he said. Shoving me towards the dock.

"Lee-Ann...!"

"Just do as he says, okay?" Her voice was flat, the tone menacing.

"That way." He kept shoving me, jabbing me hard in the back with the gun until we reached a set of stone steps set parallel in the wall that descended towards the moored boats. He had his jacket over his arm to conceal the gun threatening to shoot me on the spot if I didn't keep moving. Lee-Ann went down the steps ahead of me and I followed her to one of the larger boats.

"Up." he said. The boat rubbed and nudged the dock. I had to hold the rope handrail tightly.

"Okay. Inside." I followed Lee-Ann into the cabin, with Jake behind. Once inside, he stuck the gun in his waistband. Lee-Ann went out and unhitched the rope and hauled in the gangplank. She came back, sat in front of a console and started the engines. I could feel the restrained power as we edged away from the dock. Once out to sea, she eased the big boat around in a lazy arc away from the island in what I figured to be a southwesterly direction, away from any inhabited areas.

I was confused and scared. Mostly scared. My mouth was dry and my knees wobbly.

"Couldn't leave well enough alone, could you? All you had to do was lie in the sun, drink your fucken Cuba Libras, and get on that goddam plane. Oh no. You and your friend have to play Charley Chan."

"That's enough, Jake. What's done is done. Forget it."

"Done? Done? You're fucken right, it's done!"

"Where's Geoff? He's supposed to be meeting with you? What have you done to him?"

"Not a thing, so you needn't worry. He wanted to go over the statements of Lee-Ann's accounts. Told him no way. Funny thing is, I don't even know her account number." He laughed, and held the side of his seat as the boat bucked over the swells.

"He's still at the bank. When I left him he was trying to get in touch with his office. Told him he was wasting his time. There's no way the bank is ever going to give out any information. Why do you think people come to us in the first place?" He shook his head and laughed.

"Lee-Ann. Why are you doing this? What's going on?" She didn't answer.

"Lee-Ann. What about the hospital?"

"What's this about a hospital..." Jake said.

"Shut up, Sam. I'm warning you."

"And those two people. Did you kill them?"

"What are you talking about? Killed who?"

"That's enough!"

"Lee-Ann was in an accident and disappeared from the hospital. A nurse and a cop were killed." For her benefit I said loudly, "He was supposed to be protecting her."

"You didn't say anything about murder." He stood up shakily and approached her."

"Shut up, Jake. Just watch her and shut up. Both of you!"

"Listen, I don't want anything to do with any murders." He ran his hands nervously through his hair.

"You're a fool, Jake. What the hell do you think you've been involved in?", she said, her tone derisive.

"Not the same," he said, shaking his head.

"What do you mean -not the same? Murder is murder, Jake!"

"I didn't shoot her. It was just a threat to get her to the boat..."

"Well, you really fucked-up this time, Jake. I would have lost her. You had to panic and now look at us. Jesus Christ, Jake...."

"Well, I don't think killing..."

"That's exactly your problem. You don't think. Killing has to do with survival. It's either you or them."

"But what she said about the hospital?" He was trying to keep his balance, leaning against the bulkhead.

"Just keep your eye her. You're in this as deep as I am. Get it through your head. You're an accessory. Do I have to define what that means, Jake?" He looked at her, clearly afraid now.

"What are you going to do to her?"

"What do you think?"

He rubbed his face and blinked repeatedly. His clothes were tattered, limp and sweat-stained.

"You can't just kill her?" When she didn't answer he added, "But she saw you.... What was I supposed to do?"

"Goddamit, Jake, I told you! I would have lost her. And that would have been the end of it. But you had pull a dumb stunt."

"My God." He turned to me and said, "It's your fault. You and your dumb boyfriend. You couldn't leave it, had to keep digging around."

"Will you shut up now? Get topside, I'm sick of your face. And give me the gun." His hand was shaking when he handed it to her.

"And get the dingy ready," she called after him.

"Just sit still, Sam. Don't make me shoot you." She waved the gun at me. It seemed a lot bigger.

"What the hell are you into, Lee-Ann. I don't know you."

"That's for sure."

"You know that Bill was killed, don't you? That it wasn't an accident."

"What do you take me for, Sam?"

"I don't know. I can't understand any of this."

"Look," she said, checking through the opening to see what Jake was up to.

"Let me tell you a story. By now you know that Bill was an arms dealer."

"We figured that much out. What we don't..."

"Let me tell it, okay?"

"Sorry."

"Bill was an arms dealer. I didn't have any idea at the time. I figured he was a computer systems salesman. In fact he was. But I had no idea it was his cover. Unfortunately one of his deals went bad. Seems a bunch of detonators he sold ended up killing the people he was selling guns to. And when they found out who was responsible -Bill was history."

"But it wasn't his fault. He didn't...."

"Sam! Don't be naive. The point is they traced it back to Bill. He was the source and had to be eliminated. Play with matches...expect to get burned."

"But it was made to look like an accident. Even the insurance company accepted that."

"Right. And so did I. But don't forget. Bill was a computer freak. He kept everything, all his records on disk. I went through his stuff after the so-called accident and when I saw his files, I really got pissed off at him. And the people he was doing business with. At first I couldn't believe it -didn't want to believe it. To make a long story short I went through all his files. It didn't take me long to find that Jake was his main contact."

"Jake?"

"That's right. As cowardly as he is, he's right in the thick of it."

"Lee-Ann, tell me what happened at the hospital. I don't believe you killed those two. You couldn't have."

"No? You really don't know you me, do you?"

"I'm beginning to."

"Sorry, but it's going to be too little and too late." She craned her neck and yelled, "You got the dingy ready?" He didn't answer.

"What has this got to do with Geoff and me? Why did you bring me here?"

"Bring you here? It was your damn curiosity, Sam. You should have left well enough alone, damn you."

"What can I say? I'm a scientist at heart." I said far more glibly than I felt.

"Your tough luck unfortunately. Being an art major has me at an advantage." She paused and looked out to sea then checked the instrument panel.

"You were telling me about Jake," I said to distract her -and keep myself from thinking about my impending fate. At this point, Jake came back into the cabin and sat down on the bench against the opposite bulkhead.

"Right. Jake panicked. Figured you and Geoff were getting too close. Isn't that right, Jake?" He scowled at her.

"Too many questions? Formal requests? All this curiosity might make head office suspicious. Right, Jake?" She turned to me and added:

"Jake here, is into some stuff on the side. He's doing a bit more than just investing their money. He's also juggling the funds. Some of it is getting into his own pockets. Am I close?"

His face was white, and he slumped.

"They find out and he's out of a job. Permanently!"

His jaw was set, the muscles working; he kept eyeing the gun she'd placed on the console. "So old Jake here is between a rock and a hard place."

"So how did you get involved? You said Jake was your contact."

"Bitch! Nosy Bitch!"

"Go back up top, Jake. Now." She had the gun in her hand and watched him as he disappeared up the ladder.

"I convinced Jake I could carry on where Bill left off. Greed is a powerful motivator. And it worked for a while too. I had a good cover. You know, spaced out widow -a flaky art major. One kid. Oodles of money, thanks to the insurance. I could travel a lot. Continue what Bill had started."

"But Lee-Ann. You're involved in... in... whole sale murder."

She ignored me. "Did you know Bill was Israeli?"

"What...?"

"Ah. So you don't have the whole picture. Sam. I'm surprised. You sometimes have to read, as they say, between the lines. You take too much for granted- at face value. And you a scientist. Tsk. Tsk." She shifted direction slightly to face the swells head on, then resumed her course.

"Bill is... was Israeli. Mossad. You know what that is, don't you?" She turned and faced me.

"Secret police, isn't it?"

She laughed. "Not exactly, but close enough. More like their CIA."

"If there's a difference, that distinction is lost on me."

"Still have your sense of humour. That's good. I lost mine when Bill was killed. And Sarah. The bastards. I hope we kill every one of them on the planet." The boat lurched again throwing us off balance. The gun skittered to the floor. I regained my balance and reached for it. I was about to pick it up but for some reason I didn't, kicking it towards her instead. She stared at me then the gun. She picked it without comment and put it the waistband of her jeans.

"You were going to tell me about the nurse and that police officer."

"Was I? Well, you are right, you know. I didn't kill them. Seems I'm too valuable. Whether it's because I know too much and might talk or they still need my ah, expertise, I don't know. But to put it in spy-novel parlance, I was extricated. Isn't that great! Euphemisms for everything."

"Yes, it's really terrific."

"It was my control. The same one who was running Bill. I know I'm as guilty as if I'd pulled the trigger myself. That's their way of controlling me."

"You mean the Mossad? You're in that too?"

"I'm what is referred to as a combatant. A spy. My case officer..."

"He killed them?"

"Sam. Do want to hear the rest of this or not? There's not much time." I hoped it was a long story.

"My case officer runs a number of agents. Like me. He sent one of them to get me out of the hospital."

"And killed those two innocent people."

"Sam. No one is innocent. Get that thought out of your head." She paused and checked some charts, then eased back on the throttles. My heart pounded and my knees went weak again. Satisfied, she left the console and came over to me and pulled her T-shirt down to reveal a tiny tattoo on her breast.

"See this? I'm part of a group. Metsada it used to be called. Highly secret. A mini Mossad. They trained me, Sam. Hell, I can take out a two hundred and fifty pound linebacker with a pencil." I felt my fate sealed. She went back to the controls to face the growing swells. The boat rose and plummeted sickeningly.

"How did you get to San Marcos, anyway," I asked trying to keep my voice steady.

"I didn't walk!" she said sarcastically.

"Bill operated out of the island. Now it's my base. Anyway knowing all of this shit isn't going to do you any good." She cut the engines and yelled at Jake to launch the dingy. I checked my watch. An hour had gone by seeming like five minutes. Time compresses itself when you know it's limited.

"Come on." She waved the gun at me and I went topside ahead of her, the gun at my back.

"Thought I told you to get the dingy in the water?"

"What the hell for, she's not going...."

"Jake, get the fucken thing in the water or I'll shoot you where you stand!"

Jake shoved it to the stern, opened the rail, and let it slide overboard into the choppy water,

"Lee-Ann!"

"Shut up, Sam. This is tough enough. Jump."

"Lee-Ann. You can't be serious..." I took a step towards her. She leveled the gun at me holding it in both hands, with her knees slightly bent, the way I'd learned at the academy.

"Jump, Sam. Or I swear it'll finish here." I stared at her. Her eyes were hard, her mouth a thin line. I looked at Jake, pleadingly. He was slumped against the rail trembling in fear; afraid she'd make him jump too.

"Go on. Move it." I edged along to the opening gripping the rail, and stopped. I looked at her, I tried to speak, working my mouth but no words came.

"Go on. You can make it to the dingy." She took a couple of steps to me and I flinched thinking she was going to shoot or strike me. She leaned closer and said, "There's water and rations in the dingy. Enough for a few days. More if you're careful. A whole survival package. I tried not to go too far out of the shipping lanes. Now, jump, goddam it!"

I gasped from the shock and held my breath. The water was cold. I tried not to panic, remembering the rules for treading water, and moved my legs like eggbeaters. I came up to the roar of the engines. Jake stood at the stern, and from a signal from Lee-Ann, tossed my bag overboard. It sailed in a big arc and landed between me and the dingy, the wash from the boat pushing it towards the open sea. Lee-Ann corrected the boat to avoid the dingy. As the stern passed me I heard shots; Jake was shooting at me. I ducked instinctively and went under. When I bobbed to the surface the boat was in the distance and I started swimming towards the dingy.

Stay calm, I told myself. Don't panic. Don't flail. Worst comes to worst, float on your back. Your good at that, I told myself. I pushed off my running shoes then swam hard for the dingy. I kept sinking. Kick! I told myself.

"Falley les jambes! Falley les jambes," Paula yelled. "Falley les jambes!" I kept hearing her voice and concentrated, gradually over taking my bag. I hooked my arm through the strap and kept going. "Falley les jambes."

I don't know how long it took me, but I finally caught up with the dingy and grabbed a handle. After securing my bag I hung on and rested too exhausted to clamber aboard. I remained tethered like this for some time, holding tightly and kicking to stay afloat. When I saw something in the distance that looked like a shark fin, my strength suddenly returned.

After several attempts I managed to heave myself aboard and flop down into a pool of water. The dingy was filling slowly and sinking. Panic set in immediately. The inflated tubes seemed to be intact but the water level continued to rise. I floundered about checking, feeling around for holes or tears. As the sea tossed us, the water shifted and I could see two waterspouts in the bottom.

I started bailing like crazy, splashing and sloshing the water overboard with my hands, managing to reduce the level considerably. Using my heels I was able to stem the flow from the two jets, then I leaned over and hauled my bag aboard. Not that it was so precious, but it was security. Paula had saved my life and having managed to keep the sea at bay, I suddenly felt resourceful. I rummaged through the bag. My wallet was soaked, my money waterlogged, but my credit cards, plastic, survived. Terrific. I rooted around some more, found my comb, about eight pounds in loose change which I chucked into the sea- nature's wishing well- and some tampons. They kept rolling in the way, as if trying to tell me something. I was about to discard them too when I realized they would probably make pretty good plugs for the bullet holes. I pulled off the plastic wrapper and fitted them carefully to avoid making the holes any wider. They kept popping out, pushed back by the pressure of the sea. I held them place, letting them go periodically, testing them. Finally, they held, the bottoms having swelled enough to keep them in place.

With the leaks plugged, my confidence slowly began to return. I was alive, safe for the time being and I went back to my inventory, setting aside the rest of my tampons, in case the plugs failed. When my hand closed around a hard plastic case my heart soared. My phone. My cellular phone! I thanked God, the fates and all the deities I could think of.

When I opened it water drained out and my hopes sank as quickly as they had soared. So much for technology. Geoff and my father were the only numbers I had on speed dial. Geoff, a bit of Luddite, hadn't brought his phone. Call 911? Or "Hi, Dad. Guess what? I'm in the middle of the Caribbean. Can you pick me up?" And would a functioning phone even work?

I started to laugh. Then I cried and cursed, swearing, using oaths I didn't know I knew. What a loser, I berated myself. I was about to chuck the phone into the sea when I figured, what could I lose? I pushed his contact button anyway. I waited. Nothing, of course. Who was I kidding? No hum, not even the crackle of static. I repeated the process a dozen times. Miracles have been known to happen, I told myself. Didn't I just repair my boat?

The effort was futile but something kept me from throwing it into the sea. What if magically there power lurking in it somewhere? I switched off and attached it to the cord that went the perimeter of my life raft, threaded through the heavy vinyl loops.

I checked my tampons again. They were still doing their job, so I sat back to take stock suddenly realizing just how hot the sun was. If I didn't find a way of sheltering myself, I'd be burned to a crisp. Providing I didn't sink first. Or get swamped.

Come on, Sam. Think. You're smart. You've got your Ph.D. In a library I'm a real whizz. Remembering what Lee-Ann said about survival rations, I started to investigate the dingy. Sure enough; there were six pockets, long and bulging. Each one contained tins of rations, with a little key like on sardine cans. And there were six canteens of water, each one holding what looked like a gallon. And salt tablets. A whole ocean of salt water, and I had salt tablets.

I found the compass, and played around with it managing to line the needle up facing north and determine that I was drifting west and slightly south. Armed with this knowledge, all I had to do was figure out what good it was going to do me.

Well, I said, talking out loud to myself. Things are getting better and better. You're alive. You've got food. More importantly, you've got water. And if the rule of four works out, enough to last a couple of weeks if you ration it wisely.

A couple of years back, the university had sent a bunch of us on a course. The course was designed for business types, people in pressure cooker jobs. The idea was to learn how to handle stress. So off we went to spend a weekend in a backwoods cabin. I only went the one time. Fighting black flies, mosquitoes and a host of other insects was a lot more stressful than my job. That, and damn near breaking both my legs when I fell off the log trying to cross the stream. But I did come away knowing the rule of four. You could last up to four minutes without oxygen. Four hours in adverse temperatures. Up to four days without water and as long as four weeks without food.

I had an adequate supply of oxygen, and I was in the tropics. So far so good. And I had food and water. Great, I said, trying to convince myself of my good fortune. With careful rationing, maybe I could last a couple of weeks. The most important survival factor, I remembered was to stay calm. Panic killed in spite of having adequate stores.

My clothes were dry now, thanks to the searing sun, but they were rough from the salt, and I started to worry about chafing and sores. No way I'd last even a week in this heat. I went through the pouches again. Besides the food and water, I found some line and hooks and a rudimentary first-aid kit, which included a tube of very thick sunscreen. I kept the sunscreen and closed the pouch sealing the heavy flap with the Velcro tabs, and applied it to my face and neck trying to cover all the bare spots and use it sparingly at the same time. It got hotter by the minute.

I worried that the combination of sun and heat would dehydrate me, forcing me to consume the water. If I conserved my resources I'd die of thirst with water to spare. And if I drank it, I'd suffer the same fate in the end anyway. I went back to the pouches; maybe I could rip off the flaps, make a shelter, an awning, something to shield me from the sun.

There was no way to get the flaps off. At least no way for me to do it. I wasn't strong enough to tear it. Suddenly I remembered the scrimshaw knife. Suddenly it didn't seem expensive. Cutting the flaps carefully and linking them by the Velcro tabs, I managed to make a cover that I could squeeze under and protect my head and shoulders. And depending how I scrunched down, I could benefit from the shadow in the lee of the tubular sides.

I lay back in the shade, such as it was, and dozed, exhausted.

I awoke terrified, my heart pounding and quickly realized where I was. The realization did nothing to dispel my fear. I stared out into the pitch black and shivered. As hot as the day was, the nights would be cold enough. The sky, covered in diamonds, brilliant against the velvet blackness, enveloped me. There was no moon. I groped until I found my phone and placed another call. It had dried out but was still dead as a doornail. I went through the motions anyway, then stowed it in one of the pouches, securing the flap. There was more water in my craft than I had remembered, so I checked the tampons. Still in place, but I bailed anyway. My pants were soaked and I was cold.

And I was thirsty, and hungry, but too scared to start my rations. Should I eat? Should I drink? Should I wait a while longer? I could die before my mind was made up. I fished around, found a canteen and fought like hell to open it. Waiting would have made me even weaker. What irony to die of thirst because you can't unscrew the cap on the canteen.

It finally gave, the lid coming off abruptly. I took a large mouthful, holding it as long as I could before swallowing. I did this three times, replaced the cap carefully, and put the canteen back in the pouch.

I felt better, and ventured out from under my makeshift canopy. Funny how quickly you get to rely on something. Under the canopy I'd come to feel secure.

I must've fallen asleep again, because the next thing I knew it was light. The sun, although low was strong enough to waken me. I studied the sky and figured it had to be about six or seven o'clock. A hell of a long day loomed ahead, and I might as well face it with a good breakfast.

Along with the tins were some foil-wrapped pouches, soft and malleable. Whatever they contained I could probably chew. I tore the foil carefully figuring to save it. About the size of a sandwich was some kind of high-energy food. It looked and tasted a lot like a granola bar, sweet and chewy, with raisins and nuts. I ate half, washing it down with a few more mouthfuls of water then counted my stores. I calculated my inventory in each of the pockets to consist of enough food for about a week. Six pouches- six weeks! At least this was my guess.

The foil wrap said, one thousand calories. Enough for a day, I figured. More than enough. I rewrapped the remaining half and stowed it back in the pouch.

I was still thirsty as hell.

# Chapter 9

Reckoning time wasn't easy; between daybreak and sunset, the days were relentlessly long, unbearably hot, and incredibly boring. I rationed my food and water trying to balance eating and drinking enough to ensure survival while at the same time remain conscious of not squandering my resources. I was holding up in spite of always feeling hungry and thirsty.

My little shelter provided some shade, keeping the worst of the sun off me. I also made sure to keep my face and neck covered with the sunscreen, but my hands were getting pretty raw and cracking. The tampons were holding up, but I still had to do a lot of bailing. During the day I managed to keep the level down, but no matter how hard I tried to set my internal clock to wake me at night it failed to alert me before the sea filled the bottom of my craft and soaked me.

Physically I was fine. Emotionally was another story. I'd swing from fits of severe depression, crying uncontrollably, to bouts of hysterical laughter. I replayed my whole life and regretted all those things I'd put off doing. I felt guilty for failing at marriage and for being so selfishly bent on fulfilling my own needs.

I laughed. I laughed at the futility of it all. I laughed at worrying about getting sunburned and saving my food. I cried about not emptying the boat in time to avoid getting soaked. As if any of it mattered. I laughed over all the years spent poring over books, the countless hours researching in the library. Wearing out two printers to chug out my academic drivel, essays, position papers, on how better to unravel the human mind. I cried for the endless hours I spent learning how to treat criminals better, understand their motivations so society could better address their needs, and provide an environment less likely to nurture sociopaths. What a joke.

"They have rights too. They're human. With human needs," I remembered saying to a panel on prison reform. "We're here to rehabilitate, not seek revenge," I told them. I toured the inner-city schools. I lobbied for milk and free lunches for latchkey kids, kids from broken homes, abused. Then files and retreated to my snug little yuppie, very pricey townhouse at the foot of the mountain. Who said life was fair?

I bobbed for days, drifting slowly in a lazy southerly arc, growing more and more tired by the hour, despair gradually gaining the upper hand. I knew I needed to drink more water and eat more too. But it was a catch-22. Die slowly with a stocked pantry, or have a banquet and call it quits.

I played games to occupy my mind. I established a routine to give me something to do and an order to do it in. So I made a point to check the tampons first thing every morning, then do some bailing, counting handfuls, making sure the number didn't grow daily. And I persisted in making my phone calls, hoping against hope and common sense that hiding in the little plastic box some power lay hidden.

Then I reviewed my inventory, counted my food stores, assessed my water supply. I adjusted the canopy, smoothing the wrinkles, trying to stretch it. Then, when I figured it to be about mid-morning, I repeated the whole procedure, going through the litany again at noon, mid-afternoon, and again when the sun went down. At night, if I awoke, and I invariably did when I got soaked, I'd bail again. And now that I had an empty canteen to use, I'd submerge it, letting it fill slowly before dumping it, turning this activity into another ritual. By the seventh or eighth day, I figured I could go on like this indefinitely, now that I had a routine, a reason for living so to speak. Sadly, this game would end when the rations ran out. I tried not to think of that, focusing instead on my rituals, and rites.

At the start of the new week, in spite of having no idea how far out Lee-Ann had taken me, I added another element to my rituals. I optimistically began scanning the horizon for signs of land. Or a ship. Lee-Ann I recalled, had mentioned something about shipping lanes, but all I really knew was I was drifting in a southwesterly direction.

In spite of my practically non-existent aptitude for geography - I can't even read a road map properly- I rigged a sail of sorts with the makeshift canopy, figuring to use the night breeze as well as the current to push me along. But for all I knew I could be going further and further out to sea.

I did my best to stay alert and optimistic, carefully rationing my food and drink, consciously trying to eat and drink enough to avoid slipping into a delirium that would be fatal. And I kept myself occupied with survival games, bailing, using the phone, keeping house. I also kept an eye on the sky. A gull or bird would no doubt suggest a reasonable proximity to land.

Twice I thought I could make out a land form on the horizon and I damn near fell out of the raft as I scrambled up to get a better look. But the sun plays tricks and the low hanging clouds hugging the horizon mocked me and faded into a formless haze.

The tropical sun was so intense that my skin blistered and cracked, the salt spray keeping the wounds from healing. My hands, too, were cracked and raw and my face and neck were burned, my makeshift canopy affording little protection. My fingers were swollen and so sore I could hardly close them. I soaked my shirt in the sea and used it as a compress but when the initial relief from the coolness wore off the salt only made matters worse, but there was no way I was going to waste my fresh water to soothe my cracked skin. The sunscreen was gone and I cursed myself for my lack of make-up; some skin cream would have been a blessing. I rationed my lipstick to protect my lips, but could think of no use for the eye shadow.

After a week of drifting with only myself to talk to, my senses were failing. The constant unrelenting sameness, the blending of sky and sea, the seamless envelope stopping time. The rhythm of day and night endlessly repeating the present, the now. There's no past, no future.

Even my ears deceived me and I imagined the sound of aircraft. Again my heart raced and I scrambled from under my canopy to scan the horizon only to be plunged deeper into despair when I realized my mind was going. For a week I soared from the depths of despair to heights of rapture, only to plunge deeper into the abyss when I realized I was betrayed by my own senses.

It must have been during the ninth or tenth night when the sounds came again. An insistent drone growing louder until it was a rhythmic whump-whump. I swore softly and broke down and cried -sleep, my only escape- and my body denied me even that. The noise grew louder and the sun dawned abruptly, the light cold as the moon. The noise was deafening. I shielded my eyes from the glare and crept out from under the canopy, weak and exhausted.

I was dead I told myself. I had finally died. This was the tunnel. I was in that tunnel drawn by the light. It was true. I felt a great sense of relief. I was at peace. It was over finally. I flopped down in the cold, wet, bottom of the raft.

The noise was a roar now, the light blinding. My craft bobbed and bucked. Someone scrambled aboard, grabbing me, pulling me, tying me up, hauling me into the air. I swung dizzyingly then was plunged into the sea.

I came out of the water gasping and choking, pulled higher and higher towards the light.

"Easy, man. Easy!"

I felt myself pulled across a threshold, scraping my back. It hurt and I thought it odd. Hands fumbled with me. Straps were pulled and tightened. My chest hurt. I felt someone roll up my sleeve. I felt it being ripped. I felt something jab into my arm.

"You okay, Miss?" Someone opening my eyes roughly, a light shining.

"Miss, can you hear me? Your name. What's your name?"

"Sam..." I mumbled.

"Sam," someone repeated. "She's fucken out of it."

"No... Sarah... My name is Sarah. Milland."

"Right on!" the voice said, propping my head up and holding a canteen to my lips. I grabbed his hand when he pulled away.

"Easy, Miss. Take it slow. I took a few more swallows then lay back in the stretcher and closed my eyes and tried to piece together what was going on.

I don't know how long it took, but it was still dark when the helicopter landed. I was carried off in the stretcher, jostled and bumped, the straps keeping me secure. But I didn't care. The last thing I remembered was being lifted, placed in a bed, cool covers pulled over me. Whatever dripped into my arm was a blessing

I awoke again to a bright light, sunlight streaming through a porthole. A man in a white uniform got up from the chair at the foot of my bed.

"Good mornin'", he said softly.

He propped my pillows behind me as I struggled to sit up.

"Where am I? I asked, surprised at how hoarse my voice sounded.

"Honduran Coast Guard, M'am." His smile was warm and his teeth incredibly white in his dark face. Above the left pocket on his blindingly white shirt was his nametag -Johnson Pembroke. He was tall, over six feet. I guessed his age to be somewhere around fifty to fifty-five. His curly hair, boot-camp short, his face clean-shaven except for a small, pencil-thin mustache meticulously clipped.

"You had quite an ordeal. I'm amazed. You're a very strong, courageous young woman."

"Well," I said, hiking myself further back against the pillows, "I don't feel very strong or courageous. Is this necessary?" I asked indicating the tube still stuck in my arm.

"Just for a little while. At least until the ship's doctor can see you. He'll be along shortly. Can I get you something?"

"Would you believe I'm starving? How about six eggs, a pound of bacon and a stack of toast."

"Well, M'am I'd say you're making a very speedy recovery. An appetite is a good sign." He laughed and poured me a glass of water," watching me drain the glass then refilled it saying, "Drink slowly M'am. Slowly. You're quite dehydrated but apart from sunburn and weight loss, I'm sure you'll be yourself in no time. I'll see about some food for you and alert the doctor -oh! Here he is now."

Pembroke stood up and introduced the man. "Miss Milland, our ship's doctor, Benjamin Hubert."

"Doctor Hubert," I said and extended my hand still raw and sore. He was a good eighteen inches shorter than Pembroke, and much darker, so dark in fact, that his skin had an almost bluish cast to it. He was the younger of the two, about my own age. He was also clean-shaven, his skin smooth and unblemished. His dark eyes alert, piercing. What distinguished him was his hair. Stereotypically I expect black people to have kinky hair. Doctor Hubert's do could best be described as a pompadour, straight and slicked back in the manner of Sammy Davis, Jr.

He held my hand examining it, turning carefully then reached into his bag for a tube of salve. It was cool and soothing his touch gentle as he rubbed the salve on my hands using delicate circular motions. He was left-handed too if you believe the rule about which wrist you wear your watch. After taking care of my hands he smiled and looked at Pembroke.

"Jack," he said. "Would you mind giving me a few minutes with Miss Milland?"

"Certainly. Certainly. I was on my way to the galley."

Pembroke shut the door and Doctor Hubert placed his bag on the bed. I moved my legs to make room. He took out his stethoscope and motioned for me to lean forward. He moved behind me, parted the gown and proceeded to listen to my heart and lungs slowly moving the stethoscope across my back.

"Breathe in. Out. Slowly. Again. Again." He took his time. The seconds ticked by slowly.

"Good. Very good. Thank you." He stowed the stethoscope back in the bag took out a small bottle of rubbing alcohol and a couple of cotton swabs. He moistened the swabs and took hold of my arm, securing my wrist under his own armpit.

"This might hurt a bit. I'm going to give you a broad spectrum antibiotic."

He took the needle firmly between his fingers of his left hand and drew it out expertly then quickly with his other hand swabbed the needle wound with the cotton wad. It did hurt.

"Just hold that there a second. Like that."

I held the cotton wad 'like that' while he fished in his bag for a Band-Aid, which he secured over a fresh cotton wad on top of the puncture.

"Apart from a very nasty sunburn," he said, holding my chin in his hand and tilting my head, "should be fine in a few days. A week —ten days at the most. You'll be quite weak until you regain your weight and muscle tone. You keep yourself very fit, are you an athlete?"

"Athlete? No. But I run and swim regularly."

"That's it then. You'll recover quickly, I'm certain. I'll give you some cream, an antibiotic ointment for the sunburn. And I'd make a point of avoiding the sun all together. You people are playing a dangerous game when you voluntarily expose yourselves to the ultraviolet."

"I didn't exactly volunteer Doctor I..."

"Of course you didn't, of course not. I didn't mean to imply. I was referring to your ah... vacation. Lying on the beach, hmm?" He tugged at the top of my gown exposing the tan line above my breasts to make his point. "Use sun block, Dr. Milland, when you holiday. Especially in the tropics."

He put his stuff away and closed the clasps on the bag. "Any questions?"

"Yes, "I said. "Quite a few, actually. First, I'd like a phone or radio or whatever you use on a ship -I'd like to contact my family. My father."

"Oh, don't worry about that. He's been notified."

"What do you mean? How could you...?" At this point there was a knock at the door. Pembroke poked his head through then came in with a tray of food, placed it on the support and swung it around in front of me. Cereal, toast and juice. I really would have preferred bacon and eggs. He was followed by another man who Hubert introduced as the captain.

Captain Luis Ortega, Hubert said.

Ortega came over, snapped to attention and bowed stiffly. He could have used a lecture himself on the hazards of sunburn; I couldn't tell if he was a light skinned black or just very tanned. Perhaps of Mediterranean descent, Ortega, pushing sixty was of medium height with broad shoulders, thick hairy arms, and a bald, bullet shaped head. Like the other two his white shirt was dazzling and heavily starched. He smiled and showed a gold-capped incisor.

I took a piece of toast and started to nibble.

"Miss Milland," the captain said. "You've been the subject of quite an extensive search and rescue operation. An operation initiated by your father." His English was clipped and precise, with a hint of Colonial British.

I stopped eating and listened. It was crowded in the room and Pembroke moved back towards the door. Hubert sat in the only chair while the captain stood between the two men and faced me.

"For over a week," Ortega went on, "the coast guard has been conducting a grid search. Had it not been for your father insisting that we continue, I'm afraid we would have abandoned the search after the fifth or sixth day. Not to be mercenary but these operations are very, very costly. Your father, through his, ah, generosity made it possible for the search to continue."

This was more input than I could process and I was suddenly exhausted. Hubert picked up on it and motioned for Pembroke to remove the tray.

"Why don't you try to get some sleep? I'll give you something." He reached over for his bag. Accept for now the very good fortune that you are safe and recovering from your ordeal. Sleep now. We'll talk again when you are rested."

"I think I can sleep for a week without any help. I'm just suddenly overcome." I flopped back against the pillows and felt something prick my arm.

"We'll leave you now. You're perfectly safe here I guarantee it. And your father is on his way." He got up and arranged the blankets around me. I'm sure I was asleep before the three men left the room.

I woke up startled by a sudden jolt. Judging by the noise that drifted in through the open porthole we must've docked. I struggled up and hunched forward on my knees to peer out but all I could see was water and my appreciation for the sea had long been exhausted. I scrambled back against the pillows and noticed a white shirt and matching shorts on the chair. My own clothes were ruined, my shirt tattered, my shorts dirty and salt-crusted. I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and lurched over to the chair, partly from being weakness, partly from the roll of the ship as it road the swells.

I took the clothes and went into the bathroom with the intention of having a shower, but I discovered I hadn't the energy. When I shrugged out of the gown I was shocked by my appearance in the mirror. My face and upper body were raw and peeling, my lips cracked and puffy. And after almost two weeks adrift my underwear was a sorry mess. I stripped off my bra and panties and with a washcloth did my best to freshen up. My under things were too soiled to salvage so I discarded them in the waste receptacle, embarrassed suddenly as I realized someone had undressed me. I dried off carefully to avoid breaking the scabs.

The shirt was large, the short sleeves falling below my elbows, but it was clean. The shorts were snug across the hips but gaped considerably at the waist. And the belt was far too big to be of any use. My own belt was on the dresser, neatly rolled. I threaded it through the keepers and fastened it two notches back -more than just a few pounds then assessed myself in the mirror. Not bad considering what had almost been the alternative. A pair of canvas deck shoes had also been provided -more than a little roomy. I laughed to myself thinking how they must've hunted to find something suitably small for me to wear.

While I was tying the shoes there was a knock, then..."Miss...?" And the door opened.

"Oh, good. You must be feeling so much better." It was Pembroke. "I've a surprise for you," he said. "Someone to see you." He smiled broadly and swung open the door.

"Sammy!" He rushed forward and threw his arms around me. I hugged him back but was too exhausted to cry

"Oh, Sammy. Sammy. We'd about given up hope." He stood back and wiped his eyes, then grabbed me again. I thought I'd never see you again. Let me look at you. My God you look awful," he laughed wiping away tears. Maria will have a fit when she sees you." He hugged me again. "Thank God, Sammy. Thank God!"

"Does Geoff know?" I managed to say. "Is he here?"

"He knows, Sammy. He knows. He's still on San Marcos. He'll fly home now, meet us there. Everything is okay now. You're safe. That's all that matters." He hugged me again squeezing the breath from me and it felt wonderful.

"Where are we, Dad? These people said they're Honduran Coast Guard."

"Yes, that's right." At this point the captain appeared in the doorway along with Dr. Hubert. My father shook hands all around clasping their hands in both of his and shaking vigorously, smiling the whole time, his eyes brimming with tears.

"Your daughter is recovering remarkably well," the captain told him.

"Yes, thank God. And you too, Captain and your men."

Doctor Hubert approached and inspected me. "Very good. Good," he mumbled absently in that distracted doctor's way. "Fine," he said more pointedly and handed me a tube of ointment. "Apply this to the open sores two or three times daily. It'll promote healing. Shouldn't leave any scars."

"How are you feeling now?" Ortega asked.

"I'm much better, thanks. No offense Captain Ortega, but I can't wait to get off your boat."

"None taken, none taken, I assure you. We are entirely at your service."

The ship lurched and I fell sideways against my father almost knocking him down. Dr. Hubert grabbed my arm to steady me.

"Maybe you'd better lie down a moment, Dr. Milland."

"I'm fine, really. I guess I still don't have my sea legs." This struck them all very funny."

"Well, Sammy. If you haven't got them yet, I doubt you ever will!"

"Let me see about a wheelchair," Hubert said. And before I could say anything he was gone.

In spite of my protests Hubert insisted I sit in the chair and wheeled me through the labyrinth of narrow corridors. Once on deck we were greeted by cheers and hand clapping as the crew milled around prouder than Punch for their successful mission.

"They're real pleased, Miss. They're not used to rescuing pretty ladies adrift in life rafts. Not often a mission ends so well."

"Not half as pleased as I am, Captain. Believe Me!" I waved to the men who responded with deafening cheers.

"I've a car waiting," my father said, and Hubert proceeded to wheel me down the gangway. On the dock, my father reached to help me up but I was well enough to assert my independence and managed on my own. Ortega came to attention, saluted then opened the car door. Car nothing. It was stretch Iimo. Hubert sat across from us, his back to the driver and before we pulled away the Captain leaned into the window.

"Next time you visit us, Miss Milland... Please fly."

"You can count on it, Captain Ortega. I've had enough of boats.... I mean..."

"I understand," he said laughing. "Take care." He tapped the roof and the driver pulled away slowly to avoid colliding with a forklift transporting a heavy crate. I think the stenciling said 'Armaco".

I leaned back in the seat and closed my eyes.

"Dad," I said. "Where the hell are we. And where are we going?"

"We're in Honduras. And we're finally going home."

"Honduras."

"Yes. Caratasca, to be precise. You drifted over seven hundred miles.'

"My God!"

"Yes, Sammy. This certainly has renewed my faith. Captain Ortega considers it extraordinarily lucky that they found you."

"Yes," Hubert agreed. "The winds countering the current headed you west. Without the wind you would have drifted up towards the Yucatan Channel. You might not have been found for weeks -if at all- in spite of the shipping traffic."

"I don't understand it all, Dad. What was the helicopter doing? And at night too."

"Well," Hubert said, "Miracles happen, they really do. Fortunately you had a hand in this one."

"I don't get it," I said. He sat slightly sideways, his left arm draped along the backrest.

"Your radio," He said.

"Radio? I didn't have a radio...."

"No? I understood...."

"The phone, Sammy. You had the phone."

"The phone..?" I said puzzled. "Oh, the phone!... but it wasn't working. Was it?"

"Apparently it did. Periodically a signal was detected."

"You're kidding! I was going through the motions. Just trying to stick to some routines to keep from going crazy out there."

"Well, Sammy. It saved you. And you laughed -remember? When I gave you the phone? Well it saved your life." He patted my leg.

"Cellular phones," he went on. "work on radio frequencies. That's why they're not all that private. They're not secure. A ham radio operator can tune in."

"That's right," Hubert said. "However in this case it was the GPS system that is responsible. I doubt it had anything to do with your periodic attempts to call. The battery was very weak but a signal was still detected. Quite fortunately for you as in the Caribbean cell service can be spotty. Your signal was picked up by chance. Many of the Islands have towers as do some oil platforms. And under ideal conditions the range can extend to about twenty miles.  Your father initiated the search of course and got in touch with cell phone carriers. A signal was detected a couple of times and they were able to generalize an area. And as they say- the rest is history." He smiled.

"And with the help of the radioman- who happens to be a very resourceful young woman- who I hear is now up for a promotion, plotted where she figured the signals were coming from. The Coast Guard was about to give up the search, but for your husband's insistence and a very astute radio operator." He shrugged, "Happily it all worked out."

Happily wasn't the word for it. I still had a lot of unanswered questions, but fatigue overcame my curiosity. I closed my eyes, leaned on my father's shoulder and drifted off to sleep.

"Sam. We're here." He patted my arm gently. I opened my eyes, sat up quickly and blinked, momentarily disoriented. After so many days adrift I still expected to find myself in the raft.

The limo pulled up to a terminus. My father and Dr. Pembroke got out.

"Wait here, Sammy. I'll be a minute." It was ten minutes before he returned. I couldn't keep my eyes open. The combination of sun and heat and whatever sedatives they had given me overpowered my will to stay awake.

"Okay, Sammy," he said, startling me. "We're cleared to board."

Pembroke held the door open for me and offered his arm. I took it, too woozy to be sexist. After wishing us well and shaking hands yet again, my father led me to a small plane, one of those executive jets, that was taxiing slowly about thirty or so yards ahead of us. It veered, bringing its tail around positioning itself parallel to the car and stopped. As we came abreast, the door folded down forming a staircase.

"I could get used to this. Limousine. Private jet. It's even got red carpets." I looked at him but it was a little soon for joking.

"Thank God for stock markets, Sammy."

"I'm okay, you know. I could manage a regular flight. Stock market or not, this eats up a lot of dividends."

He shrugged his shoulders and waved his hand as if spending this kind of money was trivial. And compared to what the search and rescue must have set him back, it probably was.

We were greeted by a young flight attendant, in a navy uniform. Her straight skirt hugged her hips a bit too snugly. When we were properly settled, our seats belt fastened, she secured the door, contacted the captain on the intercom and fastened herself in what I think is called a jump seat next to the door. Within seconds the engines increased their output and we accelerated down the runway. I felt myself pushed back into the seat and held my breath until we reached altitude and leveled off. It would be a long time before I got used to traveling without my feet firmly in contact with the ground.

"You okay, Sammy?" I loosened my grip on the armrest, but not before he noticed my white knuckles.

"Fine, Dad. Really. No problem." I looked at him and added, "Maybe a little nervous, that's all. My head still isn't clear from whatever Hubert gave me on the ship."

The seat belt light went off and the attendant came over.

"Would you like anything from the galley?" she asked handing me a pillow. "Tea or coffee? We have fruit juices too."

"No thanks. Not for me," I said. When she returned with my father's brandy I noticed the pin on the lapel of her blazer -a staff with entwined snakes.

"Who's our pilot -the flying doctor?"

"Huh?"

"What is this -some kind of hospital plane?" I nodded in the attendant's direction.

"Oh," he said. "She just happens to be a registered nurse." He went back to the magazine, and pretended to read about how air travel is turning the world into a global village.

The sun was going down bathing the sky in an eerie glow. It felt otherworldly. I slept most of the way feeling secure and relatively safe for the first time in what seemed like an eternity.

We arrived at the airport sometime in the early morning; my father of course had another car waiting to pick us up and when we did finally get home, Geoff was waiting.

After an emotional and tearful greeting, Geoff insisted I should be put to bed. In spite of having spent more than a week sleeping in the middle of the ocean I found there was little else that I had energy for, so I didn't protest when he steered me to my room and turned down the bed. I took off the shirt and shorts and dropped them on the floor. Geoff held up a cotton nightie and slipped it over my head. I steered my arms through the openings then flopped down on the bed. He tucked the blankets around me like a child then kissed my forehead. I still hadn't had a shower.

He stood there hovering over me, a silly grin cracking his face. I reached out for his hand and pulled him down. I was never so glad to see anyone in my life.

"God, Sam. I thought I'd never see you again." He brushed my hair away and kissed me, his lips barely caressing my forehead.

"I had a few doubts myself. You'd be surprised what goes through your mind when you think your time is about up."

"Well, you're safe now. And we've all the time in the world. You get some sleep now, Get your strength."

"Geoff. I need to know what happened. How'd you know I was missing? I mean... what did you do...? How...? Who figured I was lost? And what about Lee-Ann? And Jake? You know it was Lee-Ann don't you?"

"Yes. I know it was Lee-Ann. Look. A lot has happened in the past week. I'll fill everything in for you. But tomorrow, okay? You get some rest now."

I didn't argue.

According to my bedside clock it was seven thirty when I awoke. A pale light was forcing itself into my room. I welcomed the dull glow; after the searing Caribbean sun the cool, autumn light was a blessing.

I hitched up and leaned back against the headboard, yawned and stretched. I was starving but I wanted to sit back and take a few moments to enjoy the comfort and peace of being home.

As I lay there trying to figure what day it was there was a knock at the door. It opened a crack.

"Miss Milland, are you awake?" The door opened wider to reveal a stout woman of about fifty. Jesus, my father was at it again. Another baby sitter. This time I would get the locks changed.

"Come in," I said. I'm awake. Another nurse. Single handedly my father was taking up the slack caused by all the health care cutbacks. She drifted in soundlessly except for the rustle of her starched uniform and went to the window and raised the shades. Her hair was so artificially black it didn't even reflect light. She turned and stood facing me at the foot of the bed, holding her hands clasped in front of her. Like most older career nurses her face was kindly, her eyes warm and sympathetic. My father knew how to pick them.

"You look so much better today, Miss Milland. How do you feel?"

"Ravenous!"

"That's wonderful," she said. How would you like a bath first?"

"That would be great! I can hardly stand how I smell."

"Fine then. I'll run the water. While you're bathing I'll put on breakfast. Fancy anything special?"

"Just as long as it's not Jell-O!"

"Jell-O?" she laughed.

"Right. I don't want anything that smacks of hospital food."

As she ran the tub, I got up and stumbled towards the bathroom weak as a kitten.

"Let me help you, Miss Milland."

"It's Sam." I pulled the nightie over my head and got caught in it. She untangled me and helped me into the tub. Heaven. I didn't think I'd ever again enjoy being submerged in water. I lay back and soaked, luxuriating in the scented bubbles slowly disappearing as they soaked away the dirt and grime.

"Okay, Miss. Sam? Ready to get out?"

She handed me a towel and said, "I've made you some breakfast. A real one. No Jell-O!"

I dried off and put on my well-worn terry robe and slippers and went into the kitchen.

"Pancakes? How did you know?" She stood at the stove, a spatula her hand turning them over. Golden, plump, and bursting with blueberries. Some nurse! She must be related to Thea Maria.

"I made coffee too, if your stomach is up to it."

"You'd better believe it!"

"Okay then. Why don't you sit down? Try some juice first. By the way, I'm Sybyl Cross. Call me Sibbie."

"Thanks, Sibbie." I sat down and sipped my juice watching her at work at the stove. She had put my apron on over her uniform, its floral pattern at odds with her no nonsense uniform. She was a stout woman -not fat, but hearty and strong. In spite of her gentle manner, I could tell she was tough. She reminded me of the school nurse from my old elementary school days. Jesus, I hoped she wouldn't force me to swallow one of those cod liver oil capsules! I remembered the bad kids would save the capsule in their cheek, then when no one was watching they'd spit it on the floor and step on it filling the room with a god-awful stink.

Sibbie Cross brought my plate to the table stacked with half a dozen coaster-sized pancakes dribbling with melting butter. Old Sibbie, I could see, thumbed her nose at cholesterol.

"I saw a tin of real maple syrup in your pantry. Figured it was a safe bet you'd like pancakes."

"I love them! But I don't often have them." I patted my once ample hips.

"Well, you could do with getting some weight on. From what your father's told me, you haven't had much food in ages! I know for a fact you haven't eaten since the day before yesterday."

"What do you mean?" I asked puzzled.

"You slept almost thirty hours."

"Thirty hours?"

"Didn't I get in last night? What day is it anyway?"

"Thursday, Dear. You came in Tuesday -actually I guess it was early Wednesday morning." She smiled as if she was privy to a deep, dark secret, and motioned with her cup of coffee to my plate of food. "Better eat up, dear. I can make more. Leave it to me and I'll have you back to rights inside a week." She nodded, convinced of her own authority.

Sibbie sipped her coffee and watched me eat making me feel self-conscious. I made noises of appreciation to break the silence.

"Your father," she said, "left it up to you."

I looked puzzled.

"You know. How long you thought you'd need help.

"Oh! I feel fine. Just don't have any energy. I can't believe I had trouble getting in and out of the bath. I doubt I can stand up long enough to take a shower."

"Well don't you worry about it. It'll take quite a few days before you get your strength back."

"Well, I hope I can start running soon, I need to get my muscle tone back."

"Heavens! Don't do that! You young people are so impatient."

"Don't worry, I couldn't if I wanted to." She looked at me skeptically.

I finished eating and we argued about whether or not I'd help clear the table. She won, so I went to my room and dressed. The longer I played the invalid, the longer it would take me to recover. Besides even when I was really sick I hated roaming around in a bathrobe.

My jeans hung like a bag at least two sizes too large but my shirt, didn't seem to be that much roomier. I could probably starve myself and my bust would stay the same. I put on some lipstick, a touch of shadow and perfume.

"That's one hundred percent better, Sam." She was standing at the counter folding the dishtowel.

"Thanks. It's amazing what a bit of perfume can do for your morale.

"Yes... I'm not so sure about the eye shadow, though.... I'm sorry... Really none of my business.

"That's okay," I said, not meaning it.

"It's just... well, your colour hasn't quite come back. Looks like you have two black eyes.

"Really?" I went over to the mirror in the hall.

"You're right," I called. "Looks like I've been mugged.

"Maybe a bit of rouge..." She touched her own cheeks to show me where. "Until you get your colour back. You do have a have a beautiful complexion."

Old Sibbie was a piece of work all right. Bring you down then build you up. She'd have made a good drill sergeant.

Back in the kitchen there was an awkward moment of silence before she said, "Think you can manage a bit on your own for a while -if you promise not to go jogging that is."

"Yes, I'm sure I'll be fine. Is there a problem?"

"Oh, no! It's just that I'd like to go visit my son. Until dinner, if it's alright with you- I won't charge for the hours of course. My first grandchild is two years old today."

"Oh, how nice. I didn't think you were old enough to have grandkids." Can you go to hell for lying?

"I'll be fifty-eight myself, next month."

We chatted a bit as she tidied the kitchen. Sibbie had been widowed for years, having brought up her only child alone.

"It was hard," she said," but I'm not one to complain. He's been my joy all these years. Mind you he could have done better," implying her son had married beneath him. A Chinese girl. Nice though, she was quick to add.

When the counter was clean, she took off the apron and hunted for her purse. I saw her out and said as she was leaving, "Wish him happy birthday from me."

Sibbie Cross left. I was alone again; adrift in my own home. I moped around, reacquainting myself with my home and possessions. They no longer seemed very important. I played with the TV remote surfing the channels. Talk shows. Deadbeat fathers making excuses for not paying support. Mothers with their daughters- their sexually abused daughters- arguing that the man in their lives was really a kind sensitive individual simply expressing his love. This from a mother. The daughter, not a day over fifteen sat mute, bouncing a baby on her lap. If inbred dogs have problems, what hope is there for people?

Sickened by the perversity of humanity I shut the thing off. I looked at the time. Ten-thirty. Went to the phone and called Geoff.

"Hi," I said, when we were finally connected.

"Sam! You sound great! How do you feel?"

"Almost normal."

"That's terrific. Look, don't go away, okay? I'll be over in ten minutes." He disconnected before I could answer. Don't go away? Who was he kidding?

It was almost twenty minutes before the buzzer sounded. I ran to the door. Joan was with him. Shit.

Geoff stood smiling like an idiot and Joan hugged and kissed me. This touchy-feely stuff was becoming a real habit. They came into the living room and sat down.

"I'm ready now for some answers, Geoff. So don't put me off with some crap about waiting till I'm better. I'm fine and can probably still manage a five-mile run. As a matter of fact, knowing what the hell I missed will make me feel a lot better, let me tell you."

"Okay. Monday -the day we were to leave- you went looking for the market and I went to the bank to meet Jake. He wasn't there. You know why, of course. Anyway, I waited for him -the best part of an hour." He made a face. He wouldn't wait at the dentist if the man was behind schedule. "Finally his secretary comes out very apologetic. Said he had urgent business and couldn't keep his appointment. I got pissed-off, figured his urgent business had to do with cold feet. Little did I know. I left the bank cursing the man and sat on a bench in the square to think about my options. I still had a couple of hours to kill before we were to meet at -what's it called? Ted's Ice-Cream Parlour? I was sitting facing their town hall when an idea struck me. Maybe I could check into the town's archives -see when the town was founded- that sort of thing. I was still pretty curious about who was really behind the bank. By now I had a few doubts about Myer's story."

"What do you mean...?"

"Well... This business about being an investment counselor. Financial wizard. Something didn't fit right." He paused and rubbed his face, collecting his thoughts.

"For one thing," he continued, "I had the impression the other night that he and his wife -Gloria?, had the edge on us. Like they were stringing us a line. You know, tell a good story, create a diversion."

"Wasn't much of a diversion. He gave a pretty good history."

"That's true. But he didn't tell us anything my own curious mind couldn't find out. Anybody putting money in their bank would certainly know those details. I didn't think he giving away any secrets."

"I still don't get it then. What was the point? And having dinner with us?" Geoff had seemed very excited by the island's history.

"The point? I wish I knew. At first I was fascinated by what he told us. And I admit, he did have me fooled. I'm usually a better judge of character."

"What changed your mind then? Something at the records office?"

"The clerk at the records office was more than obliging. I said I'd seen a number of _for sale_ signs, and thought I'd like to invest in a property on San Marcos. So he shows me a ledger with the island's charter, explaining the sovereign rights and obvious tax advantages. They're not all that autonomous, you know. Don't have their own currency. Don't mint their own stamps -all mail goes through Kingston. As matter of fact I was a little leery of the island's status from the beginning."

Anyway," I said impatiently, "What about this little money monopoly?"

"That part's true. San Marcos is totally independent. From the Brits that is. Except for one thing." He paused again for effect testing my own patience but I was very good and waited.

"They have a unique deal with the Brits. In order to maintain their autonomy and independence they're obliged to remit yearly a very hefty tax. Of course that has never been a problem, and certainly not likely to become one."

What if they default?"

"If they default? The Brits regain control of San Marcos."

"Like a repossession."

"Right. The island reverts back to the Brits. Of course neither side wants that."

"What about government?", I asked. "And the judicial system. Seems there are a lot of logistics to work out if you're a sovereign nation."

"Well, they have a police force, a customs department obviously. And their justice system is based on the British system. They handle most domestic problems. Anything major, they follow British law. Part of the original deal he told me."

"Mind you," Joan said, "so far there have been no major crimes committed -I should say no major crimes reported. The people who run San Marcos, I mean really control the place, have the power to circumvent the law. They're the law unto themselves."

"So the guise of democracy is just that. A guise."

"That's it. The consortium is in total control. A group of very powerful men. Power brokers with financial resources we probably couldn't imagine."

"So the Commercial and Mercantile Bank of Grand San Marcos is the boss of the island?"

"You got it."

"And because they are in fact, a sovereign body, they can write their own laws -at least money laws- and no one can touch them."

"Exactly. The only thing that Interpol has be able to discover is that money transactions in the hundreds of millions emanate from that little island."

"And apart from the deposits to Lee-Ann's account were does all this money go?"

"That's tough to figure. From what I've learned there's a real tangle of companies and holding companies. Real estate transfers all over the world, stock trading, international currency exchanges. It's virtually impossible to trace where the money goes and more importantly where it comes from."

"Well, it's a sure bet most of it is illegal," I said.

"And apart from the obvious, like the drug trade," Joan interjected, "we suspect involvement with arms dealing and terrorism. San Marcos is really run by thugs. Albeit very rich and powerful thugs."

"And when they're protected by the guise of being an independent state it's virtually impossible to figure out what exactly is going on." Geoff blinked and rubbed his eyes.

"Unlike some of the Middle Eastern countries controlled by self-serving dictators, San Marcos seems to have unlimited financial resources."

"That's right," Joan agreed with me. "Mind you, some of them are tapping their oil reserves, but those revenues are legitimate. San Marcos is more like the cocaine empires in South America. But they don't have to hide in the Jungle."

"It's different kind of jungle," I added. "And a hell of a lot more dangerous if you ask me."

"Good point," she said. "There are a few -I'll call them- themes that seem to recur."

"Themes...?" I said raising an eyebrow.

Joan laughed. "One of the holding companies with shares in the San Marcos Bank, has been traced to a real estate developer. This holding company has ties to several chemical manufacturers. One of these companies has a subsidiary that produces explosives. Ammunition too."

"That's not so unusual", I said. "CIL does the same thing. They make paint and lawn fertilizer. And ammunition too, don't they?" I knew they did. My own ammo was CIL.

"And that's why it's so hard to pin anything down on these people," she said. "There are so many pieces to the puzzle..."

"And each piece by itself is insignificant," Geoff added."

"Yes," she replied. "But none of the pieces seem to fit any of the others. And unless we get some kind of break here..." She threw up her hands in frustration.

"Great. I'm convinced we're up against some tough customers. But you still haven't told me how Jake fits into all this and why the hell they were trying to kill me. Why weren't they after you too?" I pointed at him. "It couldn't be just because I accidentally saw Lee-Ann. There's more to it than that, come on!"

"As far as we can figure you were a threat."

"What kind of threat could I possibly be? Even If I had identified her, she was safe. Didn't you say San Marcos doesn't have an extradition treaty?"

He nodded and shrugged.

"And that reminds me. Lee-Ann told me, for the record, she said, that she didn't kill anybody."

"And you believe her?" Joan asked.

"Yes, I believe her," I said acidly. "That whole hospital scene stinks if you ask me."

"You don't think she would have denied it? Sam, come on!"

"Believe me, I had plenty of time to think while I was floating around out there. And as for trying to kill me, setting me adrift is what probably saved my life."

"You can't be serious!"

"I am serious, Geoff. Lee-Ann saved my life. As a matter of fact Lee-Ann deflected the shots...."

"Shots? What shots? Jesus, Sam!"

"After she made me jump, there were shots. I saw Lee-Ann struggling with Jake." I didn't mention the holes in the raft. "Had Lee-Ann wanted to kill me you can bet I wouldn't be talking to you now!"

He shrugged, unconvinced.

"She made Jake put the dingy in the water. And deflected his shots when he fired at me. Believe me, Geoff, Lee-Ann trying to give me a way out, a chance."

"Some chance," he snorted, and shook his head.

"Considering the outcome," Joan interrupted, "I'd say it was a big one."

"Okay," he said resigning himself. "I couldn't be happier at the outcome. You know that. But for the record let's just say I'm not convinced Lee-Ann had your interests at heart."

"Did you know Bill was Israeli?" I said to change the subject. "In the Mossad?"

"Yes," said Joan, "we did know that. Figured that one out even before he was killed."

"And you didn't tell me? Thanks Geoff."

"Sam."

"I know you can't blab everything about your work. But considering my relationship to Lee-Ann, the case and you, I would have figured you owed me a bit more trust."

"It has nothing to do with whether or not I trust you."

"Well, maybe I can tell you something you haven't been able to figure out. Lee-Ann was an agent too. Apparently part of a special task force. Recruited just after Bill was killed. Showed me a tattoo...."

"Tattoo!" they both said.

"What kind of tattoo? Describe it," he said leaning forward, anxious.

"It was a dog. Spotted. About this big." I held my thumb and about index finger about an inch and a half apart. "With a stick or something in its mouth." I smirked. From their reaction this was news to them.

"Why didn't you say this before?"

"Jesus, Geoff. When was I supposed to do that? This is the first chance I've had to talk."

"Okay, okay. I'm sorry." he said genuinely contrite. "Didn't mean to jump on you." He exchanged knowing looks with Joan.

"What is it?" I asked.

"This certainly gives everything a new twist," she said to him.

"Better believe it!"

"Hey. Guys! Am I invisible here or what?" He looked at me.

"The day of the shootings? The four Hassid that were killed...."

"Okay, drop the other shoe."

"They all had similar tattoos."

'You're kidding!"

"I wish!" He got up and went to the kitchen. "How about some coffee," he called.

'Sounds good," I answered and we followed.

"I'll do it," he said when I started filling the pot. Got any of those Greek pastries Maria makes?"

"If you mean Baklava, yes, I think so. If not you can go next door to my father's."

He found a Pyrex dish in the fridge, brought it out and proceeded to separate the triangles. I couldn't stand it and got up and set out cups and dishes. Geoff's usual trick was to serve them on folded paper towels, leaking honey and creating a sticky mess.

We took the well-needed break but half way through my coffee I was overcome with fatigue. Joan sensing my mood considerately declined a second cup of coffee and suggested to Geoff that they should call it a day. He didn't need to have it spelled out to him. They left and before his car pulled away I was back in my bed.

I had had enough of spies and tattoos and killing; I wanted nothing to do with organized slaughter. Unfortunately, like it or not, I no longer had any control over my involvement or the extent of how deeply I was stuck in the thick of it.

I couldn't sleep; tired but too keyed up. I tossed and turned until the bedclothes were so tangled I had to get out of bed. I called Geoff. He was out. At a meeting. I asked for Joan. She was out. At a meeting. I almost asked for Ouellette. I no sooner hung up the phone when it rang. Coincidentally it was Geoff.

"God, that was fast!"

"You okay?"

"No it's not urgent. Just tired. I went to bed but couldn't rest for thinking about Lee-Ann. And Jake and Gloria. You never said anything about them. And you never did get around to telling me about how you knew I was missing. That was the whole point of getting together. Why do I think you're stalling?"

"I wasn't stalling, Sam. But I can't talk to you now."

"Geoff!"

"I'm sorry, Sam. I know you're frustrated about this."

"Frustrated! You better believe I'm frustrated."

"Listen, Sam. I'm in a meeting. I really have to go. Listen, in the mean time ask your father. He'll fill you in. I've really got to go. Catch you later. Promise. Talk to your father."

He hung up and I swore at the phone. My father. Jesus what the hell was going on anyway. Was I the only one in the dark?

I looked at the time and called his number. Damn voice mail. It was Thursday I remembered and he should have been home. Maybe he had appointments. I went outside to check his shades and sure enough the ones in his consulting room were drawn. I hoped whoever was having their sanity appraised would get it over with quickly. I tried again to nap, this time on the living room sofa and turned on the radio but Thursday was organ music and that drove me nuts so I turned it off.

Maybe a walk would do me good; not far, just enough to get my blood circulating. Another mistake. By the time I got to the corner of Pine and Park my legs were like jelly. I stopped, stood for a while on the corner looking at what was once Costa's restaurant and thought of Jimmy. No matter what opportunity, what good fortune, some people still managed to screw up. I turned and retraced my steps walking slowly and by the time I got back I could see that my father was free. I rang his bell hoping he hadn't gone out for his damn cigar.

"Sammy! Come in. Come in. I was about to come over. You look a lot better, how are you feeling? Quickly, it's cold out there. Shut the door." He stood back waving his arms.

"It's not that cold."

He took my jacket, ushered me into the living room and I sat down heavily on the sofa. I was tired and fed up, sick even of where I lived. I never knew whether I was coming or going our homes each the mirror image of the other.

"Dad, would you stop hovering and sit down. Please." He kept at me offering to fetch food or drink.

"No thank you. I'm fine. Just sit okay? What I really want is for you -anyone! - to tell me how the two of you knew I had disappeared. Geoff won't tell me. He said to ask you."

"It's not that big a mystery, you know. Geoff saw you getting on that boat."

"What? How?"

"He walked down to the market, rather than wait at the ice-cream place. Again it was luck that he saw you. But before he could do anything, the boat pulled away. He blames himself for not saving you."

"That's dumb. It wasn't his fault."

"Try telling him that." He combed his fingers through what was left of his hair and said, "He blames himself. Being a cop and all, he figures he should have been able to stop them. He could see you were being held at gunpoint. He feels awful guilty for letting you down. Five minutes sooner would have made the difference." Five minutes. I thought of Sarah.

"It almost killed him knowing he couldn't save you. Anyway he alerted the authorities almost immediately, but they were slow to react. As soon as he could, he called me. He was so distraught I hardly knew what he was saying. The coast guard finally got their act together and started a search."

"What about the boat? And Lee-Ann and Jake."

"Nothing. No trace of the boat."

"Nothing at all? That's it? The boat, Lee-Ann and Jake just disappeared?"

"They didn't come back to San Marcos. It's a big ocean."

"No kidding. What about Gloria?"

"Gloria?"

"Yes, Jake's wife."

"I don't know anything about her. Geoff, I'm sure would have said something."

"Don't count on it. Geoff is pretty close mouthed about a lot of this. What happened next?"

"Like I said, The Jamaican Coast Guard searched the area, but I don't think they put much effort into it. Don't forget, San Marcos is not how can I put it -part of their immediate obligations." Jesus, he had a way with words.

"So I decided I'd better do something quick. These operations cost money. And the best way to make sure the search would be continued was to pay for the operation myself."

At this point my eyes welled with tears.

"It's okay, Sammy. It's only money." He came over and hugged me. "Paper. That's all. What's a few shares? Actually if you calculate the cost on my initial investment it was pretty cheap."

"Sure. Real cheap. I'm surprised the coast guard quit looking."

"Well, they didn't exactly quit. But I figured the more patrols we had, the better. And when that signal operator got our hopes up that's when we called in the helicopters. I expected you would be spotted sooner. We even had planes looking. It's fortunate you kept trying to use your phone."

"I'm cured, Dad. I'm going to carry one around for the rest of my life!"

"Make sure it's waterproof!" He laughed, then added seriously, "This was one search I wasn't going to give up on, Sammy. His eyes clouded. He was thinking about my brother, the loss still fresh, palpable.

"That's it, Sammy. After we heard they'd located you, I flew down. End of story."

"Well, end of a chapter, at least.

# Chapter 10

On the following Monday, I decided to go back to work in spite of the generous sick-leave benefits guaranteed by my contract. The work ethic had been firmly ground into me and I was beginning to feel like a malingerer. I also felt obliged to make up the lost time to my students. My classes had been covered but that never works; replacements never seem to have the same sense of commitment or enthusiasm. So I had a few gaps to fill.

To my surprise, when I walked into my freshmen sociology class they all stood and clapped. Teaching can be a real high, especially when you're greeted by a sea of smiling faces cheering and hooting. Instructors too, need to be motivated.

"I suppose you think, because of my absence, you're excused from your mid-term exam?" They groaned.

"Well, you think right." Incredible how their moods swing. Grades will be based on your papers -which by the way are due in three weeks." There were a few half-hearted grumbles, but basically most recognized a good deal when they saw it. I dismissed them early and headed to my office. Harry was stinking up the place. So much for the no smoking rules.

"My, God! Sam, you're a sight for sore eyes. He got up and embraced me, kissing me lightly on the cheek. "Looks like you could use a good meal though." Compared to Harry I was anorexic. Compared to Harry the world was anorexic. At five feet eight he must've weighed a good three hundred pounds. Harry was a gourmet cook in the old tradition and thought _nouvelle cuisine_ was French for remodeled kitchen.

"Let me cook for you."

"Thanks, but I don't think my arteries are quite ready."

"Seriously. How about dinner. Soon. You and Geoff."

"Sounds good."

"Let me know, say a couple of weeks." He looked at his desk calendar. "Say two weeks from this Wednesday. Georges will be back from Germany."

"I'll check with Geoff but that sounds fine." We'd become good friends during the few years we'd shared office space and got together regularly, if not often. Usually it was at Harry's. He was a shameless show off when it came to cooking.

He tapped his pipe in the ashtray then dug in the bowl with the end of a ballpoint pen. When the charred plug fell out he blew into the stem then stuffed the pipe in the hanky pocket of his tweed jacket.

"I got to go," he said abruptly. "Need to pick up a few things for dinner." A few things usually meant a round of the specialty shops on the Main. Fish from Waldman's, fruit and vegetables from the Four Brothers and an inspection of the Portuguese and Caribbean shops for whatever exotic foods he had yet to try. Harry wouldn't even buy bread in a regular store.

He put on his overcoat, a great hounds tooth thing with a large collar and lapels, and topped the outfit with a matching deerstalker.

"See you, Sam. Take care now." He picked up his briefcase with a flourish and left. I sat down at my desk to organize a few notes and check my calendar when the phone rang. It was my father.

"Hi, Dad. What's up?"

"Is Harry there...?"

"You just missed him. Is there a problem? You haven't been arrested again?"

"Maria's son. That idiot's in trouble again. Can you give me Harry's home number?"

I gave him the number. "He won't be there for a while. Said he had shopping to do. What's going on anyway?"

"I'd rather not say over the phone. I'll talk to you when you get home." He hung up.

Strange, I thought. What could Jimmy have possibly done now that couldn't be discussed over the phone, he'd hardly been back in the country. I put him out of my mind and went back to my papers. This time it was a knock at the door. Now what! I looked up unable to tell who it was through the pebbled glass.

"Come in," I said. "Door's open."

"Dr. Milland?" A young blond head peaked in through a crack.

"Come in, Jennifer. How's the research coming?" I waved her towards the chair near the coat rack and felt a pang. I don't think anyone had sat in it since Sarah. I pushed some papers away clearing a corner of my desk so she could put down her books.

"Judging by all the books I'd say your research is going well."

"It's okay, I guess. That's what I want to talk about actually. You know my paper? About how violence was justified. You know by the Church?"

I nodded.

"Like when the Church said it was okay to kill Moslems. During the Crusades?"

"Go on," I said, nodding again.

"And burning heretics."

"Right. That was during the Inquisition. Later than the Crusades."

"The Spanish Inquisition _was_ later, but the Church had campaigns to root out heretics even in the thirteenth century."

"You have been thorough! Go on." She beamed at the compliment.

"The Church, if I remember correctly only tried people to determine guilt or innocence. It was the secular court that carried out any death sentences."

"Yes, but the Church said it was okay to torture people. You know -make them confess."

"Okay, I'm listening. You certainly seem to be on top of things."

"Well, I kinda got interested in the Templars. You know they were really monks? Well, they got accused of all kinds of awful things. Like devil worship and homosexuality. Now I'm kinda bogged down. I'm not sure which way I should go."

"What's the problem exactly?"

"I started off by researching the violence angle and how the Church changed the rules so that soldiers wouldn't be punished by God for killing people. And now I'm stuck. My research is getting away from me. One of the books I'm reading is about how superstitions influenced thought causing a shift in morality."

"Good point. Actions are shaped by beliefs. The Middle Ages were a dark time. People believed in all kinds of supernatural elements."

"Yes, I see that. At least I'm starting to -but it's pretty confusing. I was wondering.... would it be okay if I showed how because of superstition and fear the Templars were condemned? And how the Church, because of politics, had to back the state to destroy the Templars?"

"I think that's a terrific idea. Especially if you bring out the power struggle between the Church and the king. The King of France, wasn't it? Didn't he want their lands and properties?"

"Yes, I think so." She was taking notes furiously.

"I'd suggest you consider three main points. The relationships between king, papacy and Templars. Lots of intrigue there for you to explore."

"Gee, thanks, Dr. Milland. This is a great help."

"Is that all? Need a reading list?"

"I don't think so. Each book I read usually suggests about ten others! I've got about all I can handle." She pointed to the stack and I noticed Malcom Barber's among them.

"Thanks again," she said and left.

She'd no sooner closed the door when the phone rang. Jesus, I'd never get any work done.

"Hello," I said a bit too loudly.

"What's wrong? You should like you could kill dead things."

"Sorry, Geoff. But it's one thing after another. I guess I'm still on edge. First my father wants to talk to Harry. Apparently Maria's son got himself in some kind of trouble. Then a student with a problem regarding a paper. I don't think I'll ever get caught up. Don't ever get marooned if you can help it!"

"I'll keep that in mind," he laughed. "Here's something else to keep you distracted. I'm on my way to Lee-Ann's apartment. Want to come?"

"Was the Pope Polish?"

"Give me forty-five minutes. I'll pick you up."

"Great! I'll try to get some work done and meet you outside.

Construction on the Champlain Bridge slowed traffic to a crawl. He could've used his siren but chose to creep along at a snail's pace to the Nun's Island exit. It was cool out but I opened the window anyway; my ordeal had left me with a dread of confined spaces.

Lee-Ann lived in one of those prize-winning cubes. I found the structure cold and sterile reflecting a society on the verge of collapse. A haphazard collection of glass and concrete, giant building blocks at odds with nature. Not my taste.

My own abode was just as grey, just as devoid of anything natural but at least the houses on my block had character. The Victorian mind harkened back to a sense of classical grandeur, a kind of rhythmic order. But these cubes? A random accumulation slapped together, prefab and instant. They reminded me of a hurried attempt to erect shelters after a devastating war, a catastrophe where man, unless he can suddenly protect himself from the environment, is doomed to expire in the open wound of a landscape scraped raw, bulldozed in an effort to challenge nature's superiority.

Concrete tents in a concrete desert for urban Bedouins.

We parked, approached the blocks and located her unit.

Geoff showed the warrant to the superintendent who led the way. He was young, about twenty-five or so and very skinny. His dark hair was clipped short fitting his head like a bathing cap. A small, gold earring glinted in his left ear. He kept looking back at Geoff.

"Thanks," Geoff told him. "I can manage from here."

"Call me when you're finished." He turned with a flourish and went back to his own apartment. Geoff looked at me, rolled his eyes then inserted the key in the lock to open the door. A rush of stale air poured out.

"Don't touch anything, okay?"

"I know the drill," I said a bit peeved. He walked slowly, deliberately, like an animal stalking and pulled out a pair of latex gloves snapping them on. The place smelled musty, fetid like a green house, but what struck me were the paintings.

The walls were covered with them, I knew Lee-Ann had been an art major, but I was still surprised to see her signature on all the canvases. The sensation was eerie. The Lee-Ann I knew —rather the Lee-Ann I _thought_ I knew was a flighty woman. An airhead. These paintings were controlled, painted by a mind ordered and precise. Cool, callous greens, icy blues. Interiors of empty rooms reduced to sterile rectangular shapes. Very little texture. Large flat areas, colours shifting, blending subtly.

They reminded me of some in my father's collection, in particular those by Christopher Pratt. But Lee-Ann's work was different in the way she overlapped shapes, like the way a picture turned out when you forgot to advance the film in your camera. I was deeply surprised. I didn't know the woman at all.

"Sam. Come here a sec. Look at this." I followed his voice to a room that served as her studio. A large window on the north side looked over the city. We were high enough that the view was spectacular. The man-made world stretched and unfolded before us. On an easel stood a work in progress. Same style, same colours, same vitality, the grey neutral tones somehow inherently energetic. In spite of man's overriding urge to rearrange the planet's surface, destroy what was essentially life giving, Lee-Ann's paintings suggested a resurrection. The subtle tones, the barest hint of colour imparting a sense of hope, a change in what was really a bleak environment.

"Surprise, surprise," He said.

"I never knew she was this talented."

"A lot of things we don't know about her." He left me in the studio and went in to investigate the other rooms.

"Did you bring extra gloves?" I called.

"Yes." He came back in.

"I'd like to go through her sketches and paintings." There was a portfolio and a stack of painted panels against the far wall.

"I guess that's okay. Don't handle them more than you have to," he said giving me the gloves. The drawings consisted mostly of pencil sketches, what my father would call 'compositional studies'. To me they represented a bunch of overlapping shapes and rectangles in various tones of grey, ranging from rich and velvety blacks to pale grey. Textures achieved by the patterns and rhythms of the shapes and their tones. The relationship between the sketches and paintings was quite obvious. I flipped through the portfolio amazed at what she'd achieved with the simple use of a pencil. There had to be fifty or sixty pieces each one a different and total experience. The mark of a genius, my father told me, was the artist's ability to impart a sense of originality to each new work in spite of remaining faithful to the same theme time after time.

I returned the sketches carefully to the portfolio putting everything back against the wall then went into the other rooms. Lee-Ann wasn't one for plants. At least not the kind that required constant care and watering. The only living thing that I could find was a cactus on a shelf in a bookcase. I had one like it. A Christmas cactus, I think they're called because that's when you can expect them to bloom. After a half dozen years I was still waiting. And from the look of it she wasn't having any better luck.

Sarah's bedroom broke my heart.

Lots of stuffed animals. White wicker furniture. Matching desk and bookcase. A portable radio. A typical room for a typical six-year-old girl except for one thing. Books. Tons of them. Books on dinosaurs. Cats. Jungle animals. The pyramids.

I sat down on her bed and picked up her Pooh Bear. It smelled just like her. I shut my eyes and imagined that at any moment she'd rush in, leap unto the bed, and throw her arms around me. I put Pooh back arranging him the way I'd found him and got up. I stood at the door a moment to extract, to absorb every memory of Sarah, to imagine her voice, her laughter, her outrageous precocity.

I left before my emotions got the best of me and went next to Lee-Ann's room. Not nearly as interesting. The furniture was good. Dark and modern, clean lines -no clutter. Much like her drawings. Her dresser I'd say was typical. Strewn with earrings, many of them with missing butterflies on the posts. I wanted to look inside. But as nosy as I am I couldn't bring myself to go through the drawers.

Geoff came out of the bathroom. I went in and looked in the medicine cabinet. Still nothing out of the ordinary. Soaps. Perfumes. Skin creams. I closed the door. Toothpaste -she squeezed from the middle- lay on the counter, the cap screwed on crookedly. I pulled open the drawers. Nothing irregular here either. Hair curlers. Sanitary napkins. A box of Dr. Scholl's corn plasters.

Towels hung haphazardly on the shower rod and a face cloth lay soaking under the dripping faucet. Her life was somewhat less ordered than her paintings. It was as if she would return any minute to straighten up. Everything in the apartment was frozen in time. If someone could only click the start button on a stopwatch business as usual would resume. I resisted the urge to give the tap a twist, afraid almost that doing so would bring the whole world to an end.

In the kitchen, I found Geoff holding his nose, his other hand on the open fridge door.

"Smells as bad as mine," he said closing it. "Better leave everything as is and get the lab people to go over the place. I'll have to argue the point with Ouellette, I'm sure. There's really nothing to suggest the place is a crime scene and he hates like hell to authorize anything that's going to cost money."

"By the way, did you take a look in her office? The computer?"

"Just a quick look. Why?"

"Notice anything?"

"Like what?"

"What struck you?"

"Nothing. Just the usual. Paper. Envelopes. A tray of paper clips. Postage stamps. My own desk at home is much the same."

"Anything else?"

"What is this twenty questions? Computer manuals. That's it, I think."

He raised his eyebrows.

"Okay, Sherlock. What's your point?"

He smiled. "Not what there _is_ to see -but what you _didn't see_."

I followed him back into her office and stood at the door losing my patience. "I give up," I said testily.

"Sam. No CDs. No thumb drives. No back-up external hard drive. Look around."

I went in and checked the drawers, the shelves, the mug filled with pens and pencils. "You know they're not exactly essential".

"Sam! Come on. Who do you know that's not paranoid enough to back things up? And in her business," he made air quotes. "I'm sure she'd have a back-up drive.

I had to agree. "Okay. But what does that prove?"

"I don't know if it proves anything, but you have to admit -if you think about it- it's pretty peculiar."

"You check the hard drive?"

"You kidding? I still write my reports in long hand."

"Want me to take a look?"

'Mmmm. Maybe we should leave it. Let the lab boys figure it out."

"Don't trust me do you?" I teased.

"It's not that," he said turning away. "It's just better if we leave it to the department. One of the experts. Don't take offense, okay?"

Typical. What is it about men? If a special task was daunting, a woman couldn't possibly be up to the job.

"The way my luck's been running I might delete something vital."

"Bite your tongue! I've enough problems with this case." He sauntered around with his hands on his hips taking a last look. "I guess that's it then. I didn't really figure on finding anything anyway. Finished?"

"In a minute." I walked through the kitchen again and the bathroom.

"You know? The place gives me a funny feeling." I went back into Lee-Ann's bedroom, and pulled out her bureau drawers, not sure of what I expected to find."

"What are you looking for?"

"Like you said before. It's not what I'm looking for. More like things are missing."

"What do you mean? He asked standing in the doorway.

"I can't put my finger on it. But ... I don't know.... It's just that I don't see anything personal. Except for the paintings there's nothing of Lee-Ann here." I rummaged through the drawers -nothing but underwear and stockings. Some sweaters. He came in started looking through the drawers himself, then closed them in exasperation.

"Can you give me a clue?" he said. "Seems pretty normal to me. All the ordinary stuff people accumulate. Nothing seems _not_ to be here."

"Right. All the regular stuff. Her clothes, her paintings. Even the wet washcloth and the leaky faucet. Can't get any more normal than that can you?"

"Go on. I can see you're leading up to something."

He followed me out to the living room, then the kitchen and dining area ending up in her office. He waited for me to make the first move.

"No back-up stuff." I said."

"Right."

"No papers, no letters. No bills lying around."

"Right."

"That's it, Geoff."

"Spell it out, I'm kind of dense here."

"Geoff. No papers. No bills. Nothing like that. Not even a grocery list stuck on the fridge. No address book," I said pointing to the shelves over her desk and opening the desk drawers. Not a scrap of paper. Nothing even with a phone number. Don't _you_ think that's odd?"

"Now that you mention it."

"It's like the place has been -what do you guys call it -sanitized?"

"Sanitized? Did you get a whiff of the fridge?"

"Right everything left in its place. As if the person living here has just stepped out. Except for the fact that every scrap of paper that might give us a clue about the tenant or tenants has disappeared.

"Not disappeared, Sam. Removed. Deliberately removed. And if Lee-Ann hasn't been here since the shooting.... who has?"

"Good question. You don't think she came here after leaving the hospital."

"Would you? This was the first place that was checked. She wouldn't have risked it."

"Well if you're thinking Lee-Ann didn't sanitize the place some else obviously had to. And that's an argument in her favor."

"I'm not ready to leap to that conclusion yet. I'm thinking more like whoever she's working with got here before she took off. To make sure there was nothing incriminating left behind."

"Or maybe someone else with third-party interests?" He didn't say anything, his expression telling me what he thought off my idea.

"You could at least keep an open mind, Geoff."

"Let's leave it for the time being. As for the missing stuff -the supposed missing stuff- there may be more than one.. ah... agency interested. Maybe whoever came through here has them. If in fact, they do exist." He walked towards the door.

"Time we left," he added. "I've a ton of work on my desk. Besides I still want to talk to that guy -what's his name?"

Graham Reed's apartment was sumptuous, and I wondered what he did for a living -besides being the keeper of keys.

"These condo units are all individually owned. We elect someone every year to take charge of hiring maintenance people, you know, see that the snow is properly cleared away. That sort of thing. Obviously no one here wants to vacuum the foyer."

Obviously. He had invited us into his living room. Lots of glass topped tables supported by cast stone supports polished to look like marble. Modern art of the walls -original silk-screen prints and large atmospheric watercolours diffuse and formless. The kind of stuff you can buy for an arm and a leg in upscale furniture stores.

"Did you see or hear anyone around the apartment that you didn't know?" Geoff asked, referring to the dates around the time she disappeared from the hospital.

"This is a very private place," he said indignantly. "We mind our own business," he added. His cat sauntered into the room, tail high, and leapt into his lap. "Besides with my hours, I probably wouldn't have noticed anything unusual."

"What do you do for a living, Mr. Reed?" Geoff had a knack for this. Instead of eye contact and accusing looks, he spent most of his time writing in a little spiral bound notebook, looking up only occasionally, to smile or ask for clarification.

"I'm a musician. Piano. If you like jazz, why don't you come down to Biddles some night? After ten."

"I might do that, thank you." He closed his notebook and we stood up heading for the door.

"By the way, Mr. Reed. If anyone comes around asking questions or wants you to let them in, let me know please." He handed Reed his card.

He looked at Geoff like he was something foul stuck to his shoe.

"Detective London," he said, reading from the card, "The only people I would consider letting in would have to show authorization from the owner. Or the police."

"What about your friend? When would it be convenient to come back? He might be able to shed light."

"Frank? I doubt he can help." His cat tired of being cuddled, stretched out its forepaws and struggled to get down.

"Oh?"

"Frank's in the hospital. Three months now. I doubt he'll be coming out. He couldn't possibly manage on his own. As a matter of fact I'm on my way to see him, so unless you have any more questions..."

His tone suddenly changed, his grief surfacing. He smoothed his shirt nervously, the motion almost spidery. I hoped he was naturally skinny.

"No, that's it. Sorry to impose. If I need to talk to again, what's a good time?"

Mid-afternoon is okay. But call ahead, would you? In case I'm not back from the hospital."

It had started to rain, and oddly I was grateful; unfortunately it wouldn't wash away the dirt and grime that infected humanity. No matter what we did, no matter how hard we worked, fate had the upper hand. Each day you survived was a bonus, a reminder that you lived on borrowed time. Winners were those who serviced the debt the longest.

Geoff took me home, but declined an offer to come in. Work, he reminded me. More and more, Ouellette was after him to keep on top of the case, to come up with a breakthrough. He was working with Joan, but in spite of their efforts were no closer to finding answers about who killed Sarah and the four Hassid, whom we now knew weren't Hassid at all. They were registered at the university, he told me. Exchange students, the four of them studying accounting and business administration. And in spite of their student status being a cover, they were in fact excelling in their program, posting B plus averages.

So who were they? Why were they here? What were they really up to? But the question that really nagged was why were they killed?

"Do you think they were killed because they were agents? Or because they were Jews and the demonstration simply got out of hand?"

"Out of hand? I doubt it. My guess is the whole thing was orchestrated. A cover. Of course the idea of a demonstration to pit the Jews and Arab students against each other shouldn't be discounted. But whoever killed them, used the demonstration as a ruse to commit murder."

"Funny, the four of them were together like that."

"Seems natural enough to me. It could be risky to wander around alone in those get-ups. Besides they were classmates, shared living quarters in the student ghetto -is that irony?" He laughed and shook his head.

"But as foreign agents that's not so smart. Four of them together like that. Pretty risky as it turned out."

"But that's just it -they weren't _foreign agents_." He made quote marks with his fingers in the air. "They were _Israeli exchange students_. Four devout religious Jews going to university. A perfect cover."

"Not quite," I said.

"No," he agreed. "Not quite. But one thing's for sure," he continued, "we know they're tied somehow to whatever Lee-Ann's into. And Bill. Damn good thing you mentioned the tattoo! It's another lead."

Fate again, I thought. The cosmic dice rolling. But the trick is to capitalize on the bits of good fortune the gods toss at us. Mentioning the tattoo was a fluke. But like the discovery of fire, the trick would be to keep from getting burned.

I thought of poor little Sarah, her life snuffed out like a guttering candle simply because she was at the wrong place at the wrong time. And my survival? What are the chances that bits of cosmic energy flying randomly at the speed of light will be snatched from the atmosphere by a radio operator? Supposing she'd been tuned to another frequency? Or had to go relieve herself? And Sarah? A second cup of coffee would have altered my world making it a far better place today. I shivered and my arms were covered in goose bumps.

# Chapter 11

Routine soon became commonplace again and I slipped back into my regular life. Lectures, grading papers and preparing a series of seminars for my police-tech course. I was part of a group of academics that lectured to law-enforcement students and I was particularly interested in how environmental and domestic conditions affected criminal behavior but felt more emphasis should be given to the choices we make. Let's face it; not all abused kids become criminals. Sure, there may be influences beyond our control, but in the main the bottom line is that we do choose. And by our choices we oblige ourselves to accept the consequences of our acts.

I didn't agree with Lee-Ann's argument. Some of us do become victims. It was through no will of her own that Sarah was gunned down. And to commit murder, acts of terrorism against people simply because they don't share the same ideologies or wear the same headgear was something I could never buy. I thought about Jennifer's paper; there were enough examples in history showing how easily a cause could be found to justify murder.

Sadly, I realized that whatever altruistic principles Bill and Lee-Ann may have shared simply perpetuated the insanity of genocide. On the one hand zealous militants bent on destroying and replacing a social order were supported on the other by voracious and rapacious arms dealers interested simply in turning a quick buck.

Whether you're a revolutionary hero or a criminal depends on which side you fight. They both react violently against oppression, disadvantage and restriction of opportunity. What would King George III have called Washington?

Geoff was still in the thick of his own investigation. As far as he was concerned he had the law to work with, and didn't tear himself apart thinking about political or social philosophy. We had planned to go out that evening but he canceled at the last minute, too busy, he said.

So to avoid climbing the walls, I invited my father over for a dinner of marinated chicken breasts grilled on the Bar B-Q and a large tossed salad. I was too lazy to prepare vegetables but a bottle of wine gave an air of elegance to an otherwise simple meal. That and eating in the dining room on my good china.

"What's happening with Jimmy?" He'd been caught trying to sell an artifact he had smuggled back.

"Maria and Costa are at their wits' end. And I'm afraid all this is going to end up costing them their savings." He chewed thoughtfully, his brow furrowed.

"Didn't you say Harry was going to represent him?"

"That's right. But he doesn't come cheap. Besides, over the years they've been shelling out plenty. The house in Greece. A car. Living expenses. I don't think Jimmy ever worked an honest day in his life to support himself. And now this. The well can't be all that deep." He shook his head.

"What exactly is he in trouble over anyway? You said something about smuggling."

"Yes. An icon. Tried to say it belonged to his family. But Maria couldn't lie about a thing like that –a religious picture\- not even for her Jimmy. Not to mention her fear of being sent back to Greece if she gets in trouble." He licked his fingers and took a sip of wine.

"Unbelievable and after all these years. I've told her. Harry's told her. No way she be deported -not that we've encouraged her to be untruthful. But both she and Costa have this fear of being broke again. Of having to go back to their roots -which happens to be some little backward village."

"That village is probably a thriving metropolis today."

"Could be."

"I remember when they did go back for a visit. What -ten...fifteen years ago?"

"And if you recall -that visit cured them. They'll never go back permanently. Just the thought of having to go back is making her sick. Literally."

"What about this icon?"

"It's a beautiful thing. But I doubt the fool has any appreciation for it. He'd sell it for a pair of dress shoes, I'm sure." He wiped his mouth, threw the napkin on the table in disgust and pushed his chair back. It wasn't like him to speak so uncharitably. When he fished out a cigar, I got up and fetched an ashtray; I hated it when he used the dishes.

"Stole it from a church," he said shaking out the match and blowing smoke. "Smuggled it over. Stealing national treasures is a serious crime in a lot of European countries and Greece is no exception."

"What happened?"

"Well, he's not that bright, you know. Smart enough to realize that the icon was valuable, but too damn dumb to realize you don't just walk into a gallery with it under your arm. He had it wrapped in a newspaper -the Athens Times or some such thing would you believe?"

"Come on, Dad!"

"I'm not kidding you, Sammy. The boy is no rocket scientist. Maybe you don't remember, but he didn't exactly shine when he was in school."

"Maybe not. But to wrap it in a Greek newspaper?"

"Like I said."

"Where did he try to sell it?"

"It's on Sherbrooke, corner of.... oh, you know the one I mean." He put the cigar down, broke a remnant from a roll and mopped his plate.

"They don't even handle stuff like that, do they?"

"No, they sell mostly contemporary art. What I'd call mainstream."

"Like clowns on black velvet?"

He snorted almost choking. I was considering the Heimlich Maneuver when he finally caught his breath.

"They're not quite _that_ trendy. More like old sea captains smoking pipes and large seascapes for over your sofa."

"What did he do -just walk in off the street?" I poured him some coffee to help wash down whatever was still making his eyes water.

"Exactly. Doesn't even call for an appointment. Goes in and asks to see the buyer. Would you believe he asks for the _buyer_!

"Anyway the clerk calls the appraiser who's not quite the cretin Jimmy thinks she is. He sings her a song about how it's been in his family for generations. And now that his father has died, they need to sell it so they can divide the inheritance." He stopped to spread butter on another piece of roll.

"I hate to say this. But Jimmy is spoiled, selfish and treats his parents -pardon me- like shit!" Pretty strong from a man who claimed never to use naughty words.

"Anyway she can tell a con job when she hears it. Besides the newspaper is a giveaway that his story is a crock -it's all in Greek! Like I said, he's no rocket scientist."

"How does Harry fit into all this?"

"They're going to need a lawyer. No two ways about that, so I called him, but Maria and Costa aren't comfortable with him. They've never had to deal much with lawyers, and they're intimidated by him."

"Harry is no shrinking violet."

"That's for sure. Plus the fact that they can't communicate all that well with him. I promised to be there anytime they have to meet. That seemed to satisfy them."

"Well, I hope you've convinced them that they can trust Harry."

"That's not the problem -it's Jimmy they don't trust!"

"They came here with nothing, worked hard to better themselves and their only son is doing his best to destroy it all."

"No one said life's fair. We play out the hand we're dealt. Sometimes you lose -and sometimes.... you lose."

"Dad! You're not usually so pessimistic. What's worrying you?"

"Oh.. nothing. Everything. I don't ... lately...."

I got up to clear the table going over and putting my arms around him. "This time we won, Dad. Against incredible odds." I kissed the top of his head, then took his dishes into the kitchen.

"You're right," he said following me and puffing on his cigar. "I guess I'm just tired. I was keyed up for so long I haven't recovered yet. And now this, but I'll be okay." He put his cigar down, tucked a dishtowel into his waistband and proceeded to wipe the counter with a soapy dishcloth.

"Oh!" he said looking over his shoulder. " I didn't tell you? I'm giving a lecture. On the painting."

"The painting?" I'd forgotten all about it. "That's great. When?"

"Next week. You know Johnson...?"

"Yes, the curator."

"Right. We're going to discuss the historical aspects of the painting. How it reflects the philosophy, social structure of its period. Sort of anchor it in time. In the Middle Ages the Church was the artist's biggest patron and through its influence paintings became a barometer of moral tone."

"I guess you authenticated the painting by the sound of things"

"More or less. There doesn't seem to be any disagreement about who the artist was -or at least the studio- that produced it."

"I can see why you're so excited." He spoke so animatedly splashing the curtains on the window over the sink.

"I hope you can come. I've reserved tickets for you and Geoff. You know we still haven't gotten together. Maybe after the lecture?"

"No problem for me, but I'll have to work on him. This case is eating him alive."

"I hope you can convince him. He must be pretty stressed."

"Tell me about it!" He'd been so preoccupied, I was about ready to join a convent.

Geoff said he'd do his best to attend but couldn't promise. I understood, I really did, and I did my own best to steel myself for disappointment. Selfishly I was beginning to resent his commitment to the case. Reflecting back to the reasons for our divorce reminded me that I had been the one totally absorbed in the pursuit of a goal.

By the day of the event I still hadn't seen Geoff. Sure, we spoke often enough on the phone, but the conversations were strained; the pressures of the investigation weighing heavily on both of us. He did come through however, managing to tear himself away from the case for one evening.

"Hi." he said lightly, handing me a bouquet of mixed flowers.

"They're beautiful," I was genuinely touched. "Let me put them in a vase."

He followed me into the kitchen, his hands deep in the pockets of his fall coat, thrusting it out of shape. He had cut his hair too.

"Why don't you take off your coat, we have a few minutes." I put the flowers in a vase and filled it with water.

"Eight o'clock you said?"

"Oh they won't get going much before eight-thirty, I'm sure. I doubt they're expecting a sell-out crowd."

He took off his coat and went into the hall." Have a seat in the living room. I'll be right there."

I came out with the flowers and put them on the coffee table. He was sorting through a bunch of my sociology magazines, arranging them by date. Satisfied with the order, he squared them on the coffee table, leaned back the sofa and crossed his legs. As usual his shoes gleamed. He wore his grey tweed jacket, the brown flecks brought out by his chocolate colored slacks. Both he and my father had a knack for combining textures and colour. In the fashion department I was the mis-fit. Even his tie matched.

I smoothed my plain black skirt and resisted the urge to grab him by the tie and pull him into my bedroom. I hoped this lecture would be a short one.

Unable to sit still for very long, he got up and started going through my compact discs and put on a Vic Vogel, the one featuring the late Stan Patrick on piano. After the first cut he lost interest and I could see he was anxious to go.

"How's the case coming?" I was putting on my lipstick using the antique mirror in the hall and could see him rubbing his yes and trying to stifle a yawn.

"No new developments. We're still trying to find a relationship between Lee-Ann and the four Hassid. Jesus, I'm still calling them Hassid. And we're watching her apartment too. Which will probably turn out to be a waste of money and get my ass chewed again for going over budget."

"What about the tattoos? Any luck there?" I came back and sat down.

"You kidding?" Now he was squatting on his haunches still going through my music collection." Joan has been digging around like crazy. Nothing. The Israeli's aren't much help. And as usual they won't admit to anything."

"Par for the course. What about the Arab Students' League?"

"Nothing there either. But a couple gave me the creeps."

"What do you mean?"

"We interviewed a few of them. And most seemed genuinely upset. They're really only students, for God's sake. Most join groups a lot of the time purely for social reasons. I know I did. Figured it was a good way to meet girls. And like university students they show their idealism. The fact that this demonstration ended so tragically has shaken a lot of them. Many were quite horrified and have made plans to go back home, ashamed to have been part of it."

"In this case, for a few, it was more than social. These factions have been at each others' throats for centuries."

"True," he conceded. "Ethnic ties can be very strong." I thought of Maria and her husband. They'd been active for years in the Greek community, raising funds for different causes as well as their church.

"You said a couple gave you the creeps?"

"Yes, two of the Arabs that we interviewed made me feel real uneasy. They were too cool -too controlled. If we're lucky maybe they'll screw up." He played with the base setting, then turned off the stereo and put the CD back in its case.

We got our coats and left, but not before I went through my purse making sure I had my keys. I'd had to replace all my identification and credit cards since my ordeal at sea; keys loomed large on my priority list of security.

"We walking or driving?"

"It's Thursday. By the time we find a place to park the lecture could be over."

"Okay, if you feel up to it. I certainly can use the exercise," he said patting his stomach. "Haven't been able to work out in ages, most of my days have been spent sitting in a chair. And to make matters worse I've been eating a lot of junk."

At the bottom of the steps he peeled the wrapper from a roll of Tums. I looked at him and raised my eyebrows.

"Heart burn," he said, popping a couple into his mouth.

"Well, I hope that's all it is. No exercise. Bad food. Stress...."

"Yeah, yeah, I hear you."

"Joan's been on my case too. She runs, you know, wants me to go out with her. Running I mean. She's even done a couple of triathlons."

Jesus, that's all the incentive I needed to work on my swimming. "How nice," I said, trying to keep the acid out of my voice.

I knew that she ran; we'd gone out together. Once. Months back when she'd been assigned as my body guard because of a case I'd been involved in, I challenged her to a run, thinking to teach her a lesson. I'd suggested we try my route on the mountain. At first I led, figuring to break her. She stuck like glue, even pushing the pace. My ego wouldn't let me admit I'd been bested and I damn near died trying to keep up.

"Maybe you should," I said not meaning it.

"Yeah," was all he said.

It was cool, winter definitely in the air, and I was glad to be wearing my coat.

We passed a couple of women, who in spite of the fall chill, wore short, tight skirts. Their fake fur jackets were what my father called bum freezers. Geoff followed them out of the corner of his eyes and I could imagine what he was thinking. Suddenly feeling very possessive, I held his arm tightly; if he was going to run on the mountain I wanted it to be with me.

The walk took no more than fifteen minutes or so, the lecture being held in the new building across from the museum. We went in and up the stairs on the left to the exhibition room. Folding chairs had been set up, enough for a good two hundred people. We hung our coats on the roll-away rack, walked to the front and sat down. Not the first to arrive but we certainly had our pick of seats from the third row back. I looked around not really expecting to see anyone I knew, but to my surprise Henry and his girl friend were entering. She waved and Henry, pretending not to see me steered her towards seats on the opposite side near the back.

In front, a rent-a-cop in Coke-bottle glasses was making a big production out of arranging the slide projectors. Three of them. A young girl -she couldn't have been more than eighteen or twenty- in long, straight black hair was checking the microphones and cables. The half-blind guard didn't trust the girl and double-checked all her moves. He had to play with the mikes tapping them and counting in French - _un-deux- trois..._

Another girl handed out programs. I took one and read where the Friends of the Museum were sponsoring the lecture entitled _Art and Attitudes in the Middle Ages._ A free-will donation would be appreciated they told us, with proceeds to go to the children's Saturday morning art classes. A brief biographical reference attested to the credentials and accomplishments of the two distinguished speakers. Gregor Milland, M.D. and Winslow Emmet Johnson, Ph. D.

I folded the paper and put it in my purse. The room was beginning to fill, but it would never reach standing room capacity, and judging by the way Coke-Bottles was running around, the start would be delayed. Attendance, in all fairness, wasn't that bad considering the topic. Most were college types. The tweeds and pipe set. Middle-aged women, still clinging to their counter-culture image. And of course the patrons, who were more interested in showing off their glittering minerals and dead animal skins than art and attitudes of the Middle Ages.

Shortly after eight-thirty, the committee chairperson entered through a side door near the front, followed by my father and a man I presumed to be Winslow Emmet Johnson. The moderator was my age and absolutely stunning. Geoff's posture immediately improved and I wondered if more than his back stiffened. She filled the room with her goddam pheromones. Her voice was well modulated, and she spoke with authority, a woman used to getting her own way.

She introduced the two speakers, asked for a round of applause then retreated to a reserved seat in the front row deigning to sit with the rabble.

Winslow Emmet Johnson said the presentation would be a two-pronged approach. By comparing the museum's recent acquisition with known documented works he would show that the painting was indeed authentic. My father, he said -calling him Gregory- would discuss the attitudes and philosophy of the period showing how these elements were reflected in paintings to reveal the cultural context that placed them in a historical time-frame.

"Okay, Gregory?" he said, turning to him.

My father nodded, his lips a tight line; he was piqued.

He dimmed the lights and the projectors came on, showing paintings on each of the three screens, three fourteenth century paintings, he said.

"On my left," Winslow Emmet Johnson said, "is a known and authenticated work by Francesco Traini. The Triumph of Death is a huge fresco, circa 1350. The center screen depicts a work attributed to Orcagna -an altarpiece from the Strozzi Chapel and dates from the same period. Orcagna, after Giotto's death, was one of Florence's master artists.

"The third work, painted in 1367," he said pointing to the screen on the right," is by another Florentine -Andrea da Firenze." He made a show of sounding very Italian. "It's called the Way of Truth- or sometimes The way of Salvation. Gregory? It's all yours."

By the way he moved I could tell he was pretty pissed off with Winslow Emmet Johnson. He approached the screen from the side to avoid the glare.

"Before discussing a work, especially a work from antiquity, it's essential to view it in its historical context. If you'll allow me, at the time of these paintings, Europe was absolutely devastated by wars, a violent feudal society struck repeatedly by natural disasters and particularly -the Black Death. And as today, these disasters drove people to despair. With the absence of adequate science, man's only hope was salvation -a better life after death. And there's nothing like wars and disasters to renew one's religious faith." He was interrupted by a smattering of nervous laughter.

"It's impossible," he said pointing to the Orcagna altar piece, "for an artist not to imbue his work with the feelings, characteristics -the ethos if you will- of his culture. Unless, of course there is a deliberate attempt to conceal those contemporary elements." He turned slightly to face us, keeping the pointer handy.

"Orcagna shows Christ as the Omnipotent King. His punishment will be swift and severe, salvation impossible unless we follow the scriptures. You see," he said turning to the audience, "natural disasters, wide-spread disease were considered God's punishment for evil doing and Orcagna's altar piece reminds sinners of God's intolerance for evil.

"If we go back to the Triumph of Death, we see a slightly different view -an obsession with the most gruesome aspects of pain. Life was short in the Middle Ages and death inexorable. But it was finite. A temporary misery so to speak. On the other hand hell was eternal. And we see very graphically the horrors and pain we will endure for all eternity if we sin." He pointed to the angels and devils fighting for the souls of the dead. "Death is an old woman, a grotesque, horrible hag who carries a scythe to harvest her victims."

He paused and took a step forward, "Wasn't life a bitch!" The audience laughed, caught off guard.

"Enjoying himself, isn't he?" Geoff said, clapping along with the others.

"Don't encourage him or we'll never get out of here."

Winslow Emmet Johnson got up to claim his fifteen minutes of fame. "Thank you, Gregory."

"You father is really going to love this guy," he said a bit too loudly.

"Sh!" I said squeezing his arm.

"As my learned colleague has pointed out," the man went on, "we can see from these paintings that art has lost its optimism." This time the laughter was a genuine outburst. Unlike my father, he seemed annoyed by the reaction and made a disapproving face. He plodded forward, the pre-plague paintings showing Christ among the people, a warm compassionate Christ, a Christ who was very human and accessible."

"Thank you, Winnie." He played with the focus and accidentally caught Winslow Emmet Johnson with the beam. "That was ah, very illuminating." The group almost broke up, Winnie made a face and shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

"Oh-oh. Looks like your father has his hackles up."

"In our third piece -The Way of Truth- cultural tone is revealed in yet another way. This fresco, over thirty feet high, is one of the largest executed. Although didactic, it is rich with details of contemporary life. The purpose of the painting is to show the way to salvation." He stepped closer to the painting and pointed.

"But -and it's an important _but-_ salvation can only be achieved according to the principles and doctrines of the Dominicans, an order founded specifically to convert heretics. Bring them back to the fold, so to speak.

"This figure here," he pointed to a black and white robed figure, "at the bottom of the screen. That's St Dominic, founder of the order."

The woman in front of me hunched forward for a better look and I had to shift my own position. He was pointing to a figure waving a stick or rod at a bunch of dogs.

"St Dominic is directing his dogs, looking very much like Dalmatians, to attack the wolves thus saving the sheep. The symbolism is not really all that arcane, but we have to bear in mind that this was painted in a time when the masses were illiterate. And that ladies and gentlemen brings us to the Lorenzo Panel, the moment we've all been waiting for."

"Thank you, Dr. Milland." Winnie stood and beckoned to the security guard. Coke-Bottles then spoke into his walkie-talkie. Seconds later a workman, with a jailer's set of keys jangling from his belt, brought in an easel. His two helpers followed carrying what I knew was the painting. To my horror, it was still wrapped in the old tablecloth. They put it carefully on the easel and removed the cloth. My father took it and folded it carefully. I tried to disappear into the floor. The one with the keys played with the light switches so that only the painting was illuminated. There was a collective expression of awe.

"This painting," my father said, "is attributed to a student of Giotto -who by the way died in 1337, before the Plague devastated Europe. We know this artist only by the name Lorenzo. His panel -a predella- is one of a series forming the base of an altarpiece. This panel, and no doubt the others, depicts the lives of the saints. As my colleague has pointed out, by comparing paintings to known works we can confidently allocate them to a given period. We can also determine with reasonable accuracy not only when, but also where the painting was executed. In this case Giotto's studio in Florence."

"Excuse me..." an older man behind me was waving his hand and stood up. My father shaded his eyes trying to locate the voice.

"Yes? A question...?

"Uh, yes. I, uh... appreciate your obvious expertise, Dr. Milland. And your efforts in authenticating -trying to authenticate this ah, painting. But wouldn't it have been a whole lot simpler, and more accurate too, to have what's it called? A carbon fourteen test done?"

Good question. And you're right. That would be quite definitive, certainly. Carbon fourteen testing, however is quite invasive. In fact you have to essentially destroy the item -part of the item tested. Remember the controversy over the Shroud of Turin." Mumbles rippled through the room, and Winnie got up and stuck in his two cents.

"That's true. The merit of carbon fourteen testing is continually argued. The Vatican decided however that they didn't want to subject the Shroud to such an indignity. Violate its integrity, as it were."

"And no one," my father said, "wants to subject the painting to such an invasion. In spite of science having the last word so to speak it, is no match for Dr. Johnson whose own expertise is unsurpassed in the study of style, form, and nuance when it comes to early Renaissance painting. So I defer to my colleague."

"Winnie..."

He stood up, adjusted his glasses on his nose with a poke of his finger, then pushed a few wispy strands across his very baldhead, mumbling an insincere thank you.

"Stylistically it fits the period. Between 1350 and 1375," he added contemptuously, "Definitely not after 1400.

"Lorenzo of Florentine was most certainly a disciple of Giotto, and like Giotto his figures are large and quite low in the foreground bringing the viewer into the pictorial plane. The figures are also strongly three-dimensional. That and the use of perspective are innovations attributed to Giotto. Previously space was created simply by placing those elements nearest the viewer at the bottom, those farthest away, at the top. Mountains for example would occupy the upper part of a painting. Lorenzo's use and understanding of perspective has created a very dramatic and powerful painting."

"Thanks, Winnie," my father said getting ready to use his pointer. Mass depopulation caused by the Plague ultimately gave rise to a more prosperous middle-class. And like everyone else they were concerned about their salvation. Since there was no way to escape disease or famine they endowed churches, hospitals, using their wealth to do Good Works in the hopes of guaranteeing their salvation.

"At the same time, because of wide-spread suffering, many became disillusioned with religion and a great many sects sprang up threatening to divide the church. Consequently the Dominican order was founded to combat these heretical movements. Lorenzo's panel, painted about a hundred and fifty years after the order was founded is in fact a Dominican painting -you can see the many figures in their characteristic black and white habits. Lorenzo's panel, commissioned by the Dominicans, is an attempt to preach the Word -the Dominican Word. And the Dominican Word was the only true way to Salvation. Lorenzo also uses dogs to sniff out heretics and non-believers. See them attacking this creature -with the horns? And over here. The sheep huddling in fear, God's flock.

"These dogs. The hounds of God or Domini Canes is a pun on St. Dominic's Latin name. Domincanus.

"Dr. Milland?"

"Yes," he answered, shielding his eyes.

"I understand what you're saying, but I still don't see how you can date the painting. Could a more recent artist have painted it simply in that style to fool us?"

"An excellent question. Excellent."

I was asking myself the same thing. Pretty easy if you ask me to paint retroactively.

"There are a number of features. Okay?"

He pointed to the black and white robed figures. And the dogs. The dogs. Something about them nagged my mind.

"And here. This figure. This is St. Dominic himself. Guiding the saved. Okay? He's just heard their confessions. And this little group here? Wealthy merchants. We can tell by the way they're dressed.

"See? This one is opening a chest. See the gold coins? Over here. Another. He's holding a key and pointing to the chest. A clear attempt to buy their way into salvation. But what convinces me, really convinces me is this figure." He tapped the painting making poor Winnie flinch.

He's one of the Medici. Originally apothecaries, the Medici made a fortune selling burial shrouds in the event their herbal potions failed." This elicited considerable laughter.

The old man wasn't convinced. "I see your points. And they are fascinating. I'm not saying the painting isn't authentic, but what's to stop someone from meticulously researching all this data and producing a work to defraud the public?"

My father frowned. He'd been so caught up in his interpretation he hadn't considered forgery a strong possibility.  He was clearly uncomfortable, and my own embarrassment was acute.

"Dendrochronolgy." Winnie said, after letting my father squirm.

"Tree ring dating. According to my people in New York. This panel does date from the time in question. And Dr. Milland is quite correct in his analysis. But as the gentleman at the back said, although interesting, the analysis in itself is not proof of the painting's authenticity."

Winslow Emmet Johnson was a real piece of work. Having let my father tie a noose around his own neck, he was about to spring the trap door.

Geoff leaned over and whispered, "I didn't think your father was supposed to prove the painting isn't a fake. Just give a run-down on the history of the period. Put it in context."

"That was my impression too." The woman in front turned and gave us a dirty look. I wanted to add that it was pretty low of Johnson to let my father appear less than competent; it was the museum's responsibility to show that the painting was genuine, not my father's.

"Fortunately," Winnie went on, "most pieces that date from this time were painted on wood, canvas a far more recent phenomenon. The rings evident on the edge of the panel have been compared and matched to ring patterns from the same time period. Although the style of painting does match early examples, we must rely however of the profile of rings. Tree ring dating offers empirical evidence, and is quite conclusive, I assure you. Quite definitely, ladies and gentlemen Lorenzo's panel dates to circa 1350- 1375." He sat down unable to keep from gloating.

"There you have it, ladies and gentleman. From the expert himself." He turned and smiled at Winnie and led the group in applause. Winnie stood, his face pinched and acknowledged the accolade with several little nods, like a pigeon pecking.

A few went up to talk to Winnie and my father, shaking their hands and mumbling thank you. The old guy still didn't seem satisfied. I overheard him ask Winnie to elaborate on the tree ring technology. By eavesdropping I learned that a series of panels whose dates were not in dispute were used to draw a profile of the ring patterns. It was a simple task to match unknown samples to this profile. I wondered why Winslow Emmet Johnson let my father go through his charade.

"Of course," I overheard him say, "you also have to take into account climactic conditions too. Not all regions have identical conditions, obviously."

Sure, I thought. But what was really obvious is that Winslow Emmet Johnson had this information the whole time. What was his agenda, anyway? Very interesting, I thought, but more to the point the dogs were on my mind. Domini Canes. The Hounds of God indeed!

"Well? What did you think?" My father whispered to us, fishing for compliments.

"I had no idea, Gregor, that you were so knowledgeable about medieval art."

He waved away the compliment. "I got carried away with my own rhetoric. What I know did nothing to authenticate the panel." He shook his head dejectedly.

"Don't be too hard on yourself, Dad. That wasn't your job."

"Thanks, Sammy. But he that increases knowledge, increases sorrow."

"Where the hell did you get that!"

"It's true. I made a fool of myself."

"That's ridiculous. Just because the old fart asked a question you couldn't answer? Come on, Dad!"

"Sam's right, Gregor. Besides there isn't an artist alive that could have done all that just from research. He would have slipped up, I'm sure."

"Don't underestimate people. But thanks anyway. Johnson's the real expert. He sure can get kind of pouty, though." He laughed.

"I wonder why...?" I asked.

"Huh..? You noticed, did you?" He was still laughing. For a psychiatrist, wounds to his ego healed fast.

"The whole room noticed, Gregory."

"Don't you start!" he said to Geoff. "Look you two, I think we should celebrate. Go for drinks." and looking at Geoff added, or cheese cake."

"What are we celebrating?" I asked.

"A lesson learned," he said.

"Why don't we go to Biddles," Geoff suggested.

"Dad?"

"Sure! I'm game. Let me get my coat, I left it in back."

We waited for him in the foyer.

"I didn't bring the car," he said, turning up his collar and fishing for a cigar.

"Neither did we. But it's not that far a walk."

"No, but it's a bit cool."

Before I could say anything he was at the curb and whistling down a cab. It careened to a screeching halt and we piled in. I'd hardly fastened my safety belt when it was time to get out. What he had against walking I'd never know. I'm surprised he didn't hire a limo when he went for cigars.

At eleven-thirty, Biddles was just beginning to draw a crowd but we did manage to get the last available booth. Charley wasn't around tonight, but a group was squeezed onto the stage. The trumpet player, introduced the next number -For Lauren but not Forlorn. He'd written it for his daughter he said.

The waiter came over and my father asked for a single malt scotch; Geoff and I each had a beer. We sipped our drinks and when the set was over the piano player stood up to introduce the musicians.

"Let's hear it for our trumpet player." The crowd clapped and I missed his name. Greg something or other from Red Deer.

With the music over temporarily, the noise rose and we could hardly hear ourselves think let alone talk.

"How about we hit Dunns," my father said, knocking back the scotch and swirling it in his mouth like it was mouthwash. "I've had enough of this."

So after another ride in a taxi we found ourselves in another booth, this time ordering great slabs of New York style cheesecake, which for my tastes was too dry and crumbly.

"That'll be three cheese cakes..."

"Two," I interrupted.

"Two cheese cakes and three coffee," Geoff repeated.

"Diet Coke for me, please." The waiter, his expression revealing nothing, rubbed something out on his pad.

"That's two cheese cakes, two coffees, and a diet Coke for the lady."

"Is that with or without a straw, Sammy..."?

Geoff snorted, shaking his head and I jabbed him in the ribs. The waiter didn't bat an eye.

"So. You liked my lecture?" Jesus for a psychiatrist he was insecure.

"Dad, you're absolutely shameless."

"What..." he said innocently."

"You were terrific. Okay?"

"Easy for you to say. You stand up and talk in front of people for a living."

"Maybe you're not a seasoned public speaker, but you were poised and your delivery was very professional."

"If you were nervous, Gregor, it certainly didn't show."

"God, I'm glad to hear that," he admitted. "My hands were so sweaty you wouldn't believe."

The deserts came, the waiter making a show of placing my Coke on a napkin and laying the straw carefully beside it. My father made no attempt not to laugh, Geoff knowing better dug into his cake.

"That's it!" I exclaimed and knocked over my glass. We scrambled to mop the mess with our napkins. The waiter, still deadpan, came back with a cloth and wiped up.

"Next time, Miss, just order the cake, would you." He winked at my father and brought me another drink.

"The dogs," I said when the mess was cleared.

"The dogs. What dogs?" Geoff asked, his fork poised in mid air.

"The dogs. Domini Canes."

"The Hounds of God?" my father said. "The painting?"

"Yes. The painting." I paused and repeated, "The painting. And the tattoos."

"What ta.... _oh,_ the tattoos." Geoff said softly."

"What are you two going on about?"

"Dad. The Hounds of God. In the painting?"

"Yes, yes."

"Remember the four Jews -the Hassid who were killed?"

"Of course."

"They had tattoos, Gregor. And Lee-Ann too."

"So? Lots of people have tattoos."

"Dad. These tattoos were dogs. Like the ones in the painting."

'You're kidding."

"In the tattoos they're holding a stick in their mouth. Didn't you say it was a torch?"

"Yes, a torch. To illuminate the way."

"I knew I'd seen that design before. I only just made the connection."

"I'm glad you did," Geoff said, and pushed his plate away having suddenly lost his appetite.

# Chapter 12

I had no time to spare thinking about the Jew and Arab conflict as Geoff insisted on calling the massacre that had claimed the lives of Sarah and the four Hassid-Mossad agents. And I was grateful that my work distracted me enough to keep from wondering what had happened to Lee-Ann; thinking about her depressed the hell out of me. I couldn't believe that after knowing her all these years I could have been so easily deceived. People change, my father told me.

"Thank God, I'm not the person I was yesterday," he said. "If we don't change, grow, then what's it all for?"

But to what extent do we change? And at what cost? We don't suddenly adopt new values, or a new code of morality. Do we? And I had never known that Bill was Israeli. Sure, I knew they were Jewish. But neither of them had ever seemed particularly religious or politically minded. Maybe that was part of the cover. And as far as Lee-Ann's background, I had never met her family and she never spoke of them. Thoughts of "Schindler's List" came to mind and of all the films I'd seen about the Holocaust, this one had touched me deepest -that one man could single-handedly save all those men and women. Where were the others? The complacent masses, voluntarily blind to the atrocities were as guilty as the Nazi machine -hell, they were in fact a calculated part of that machine. As for Schindler, what was his motivation to take such enormous risks? Was it money or altruism? I doubt if his motivation mattered to those he saved. But what drove Lee-Ann I wanted to know.

I was slugging through term papers when the phone rang.

"Hi, Geoff. Working late again?" The digits on my desk clock read eight-forty three.

"No rest for the weary. Reason I called is this task force. You know, the people that Joan's working with.... Well... they'd like to speak with you."

"Me? Why would they possibly want to speak with me?"

"One of the teams on the task force is Israeli. Part of the Israeli Security Service, and when you cross-reference ISS in my book it comes out M.O.S.S.A.D. I don't care what fancy title you use. Anyway the consensus was since you were the last known contact with Lee-Ann they'd like to pick your brains."

"This never ends, does it?"

"Not until we or someone gets to the bottom of it. I'm sorry they want to drag you into this."

"It's not that. I do want to help but I don't see how I can. When does this ah... interrogation take place?"

"Tomorrow. You pick the time and I'll set it up."

"My afternoon class is over at three-thirty."

"Fine. We'll make it four o'clock. I'll pick you up, say a quarter to."

"Okay. See you then."

"Thanks, Sam. I owe you." He hung up. I put my stuff away, having lost the impetus to continue; it was almost nine o'clock anyway. A hot bath and some light reading would put me in the mood to sleep. I hoped. Lately I'd been waking two or three times in the night sweating and my heart pounding.

The bath was wonderful, but why I chose to start reading "A Time to Kill" __ was beyond me. I turned out the light and mercifully fell right to sleep.

The next day, Geoff, true to his word drove up at exactly the appointed time.

"How was your day?" he asked after I settled in. "Sleeping any better?"

"Yes, actually. The last few nights have been much better."

"Speak to your father about it?"

"You kidding? He'd schedule a whole battery of psychological tests and line me up for about fifty sessions."

"Yeah. Psychiatrists," he said.

"Besides it would only give him something more to worry about. And don't you go saying anything behind my back!"

"Sam! Come on. I wouldn't do that."

He sensed my eyes boring into him and glanced sideways adding, "Honest. You know me better than that."

To change the subject I said, "Harry reminded me that we're still on for dinner. His exact words were and I quote -dinner, drinks and an evening of bawdy revelry."

"I haven't forgotten. Sounds good, I could use some bawdy in my life." He looked over at me laughing.

"If you can't make it, Harry said he'd find me a date," I teased.

"Knowing Harry's taste in men, should I worry?"

"Geoff!"

He parked around the corner on St Marc and we got out. I followed him into the station wiping my sweaty palms on my skirt.

Geoff knocked and opened the door to Ouellette's office. The big man was alone. After passing the time of day and asking after his wife and seven kids -two of them twins- he told me I wasn't getting any younger. Jesus, do I need this? I had enough input from my father and Thea Maria. I bit back a remark and smiled feeling foolish. Geoff was standing at the window pretending to be interested in what passed in the street below.

"Sit, sit," he said pointing to a chair. "The _hothers_ will be here in a minute. Make yourself comfortable."

He no sooner said that when they arrived. Joan and two men. Ouellette stood up to make the introductions.

"Joan, you know. And this is Avrum and Simon."

"Call me Avi." He thrust his hand at me with a wide smile. Avi was about my height with very dark, very curly hair that fanned out like the bristles of a bottlebrush around the edges of his yarmulke. A thick mat of hair also bristled out from the vee of his open shirt. His jeans were faded and worn, but with a knife-edge crease.

"Hi, I'm Sam Milland." We shook hands.

Simon was sitting, conserving his energy and acknowledged me with a slight wave. He didn't look like any agent I imagined. Simon was squat and fat, with about thirty or so extra pounds mostly between his waist and knees. His brown hair was limp and thin. Wet rubbery lips were set in a round baby-face that looked as if it was about to burst into tears.

Avi and Simon. No last names. And no James Bonds.

Ouellette sat down when the pleasantries were over and rested his arms on the desk his fingers laced together. I'd never noticed the pinkie ring before. Gold, and studded with little diamonds in the shape of a horseshoe.

"Dr. Milland," he said clearing his throat, "is our last known contact with Lee-Ann, Bill Wexler's wife."

Avi raised his eyes. "Is that right? How long have you known Lee-Ann Wexler?

I went through the history alternating answering questions first for Avi then his partner.

"At any time did Lee-Ann ever tell you anything -anything about her ah, her work?"

"No. Not a thing."

"Not even a hint? You sure?"

"Yes, Avi. I'm very sure." I was beginning to resent his tone.

"And you never had cause to suspect anything, Dr. Milland. Never saw her behave in a way that you found curious, or unusual.

"Yes. I did." Avi's eyes widened.

"I found just about all of her behavior curious. Lee-Ann was unpredictable. That was her gift, her special attraction. Her spontaneity."

Geoff coughed and shifted in his seat and a hint of disapproval flickered in Ouellette's face. To hell with them! I'd really had enough.

"Let me put it another way," Simon said. "Did she ever talk politics, you know. Comment on the news. Express opinions on events occurring in... oh, trouble spots."

"Trouble spots?"

"Yes," Avi butted in. Like Bosnia. Croatia. Some African countries. Palestine, you know."

"No, she didn't." Lee-Ann was one of the most apolitical people I knew. Simon stared at me, his stomach bulging over his belt. The office was cool but large wet patches formed under his arms, marching ahead to join the whitish edges where previous stains had dried.

"To my knowledge, Lee-Ann was never much interested in current affairs. Sarah was her life. And apart from her child and traveling, I don't know of any other interests," I said not mentioning her paintings. "After Bill died, she was totally and understandably devoted to her daughter. Sarah was a very smart little girl. Clever and mature for her age. She was only six, but much older in her ways. They acted more like sisters, rather than mother and child." I had to bite the inside of my lip to keep my emotions in check.

Avi smiled. "You're a good friend, Sam. We can see that. I just hope you're not covering something up out of a mis-placed sense of loyalty."

"My loyalties are not mis-placed, Avi. So far, I'm still not convinced that Lee-Ann is involved with murder. Or mass killings. I don't care how you think it appears. If it hadn't been for the life boat I wouldn't be here for you to give me this... this... third degree!" In spite of trying to control my anger I had raised my voice more and was breathing hard.

"Look," he said raising his palms placatingly. "Try to see it from our perspective. We know you're her friend -probably her only friend. But you are also the last person we know who had any contact with her. We do need your help."

"I realize she's in trouble and involved in some sort of clandestine operation. But I can't help you. These questions. All these little probes and innuendoes. You insist on assuming that I must know something, something vital. It's all beginning to wear a little thin! Quite frankly I'm beginning to think -judging by how you keep digging- that you people are covering something. It's as if you're trying to find out if I've learned something you don't think I should be ... be.. privy to." I said all of this calmly, and in a low voice. Speak softly, my father said, and get their attention.

No one spoke for several seconds. Geoff stretched out his legs, clasped his hands over his stomach and looked at his boss who continued to rock almost imperceptibly from side to side in his chair. Joan might as well not have been in the room.

Simon picked up the ball. "Perhaps we do you owe an apology. We haven't played all our cards but we wouldn't be doing our jobs if we showed you all our cards now, would we? Surely you don't expect us to disclose sensitive information?"

"No. Of course not." I said. "But just as _surely_ there has to be a point somewhere between divulging _sensitive information_ and facts pertinent to pursuing this investigation."

Avi looked at Simon then Joan who seemed about to speak for the first time. Avi waved his hand to silence her.

"You're very astute," Avi said. "And you are right. Lee-Ann is not the focus of our investigation, at least not for the reasons you're thinking. We're not after her to bring her to justice. Quite the contrary, actually. As one of our operators, we're very concerned about her. We've had no word from her since she was taken from the hospital. We want to bring her in for her own protection. That's why all the questions. The subterfuge. Maybe we did go about it the wrong way. And as her friend I'm sure you want her out of danger. And believe me she is in danger. Anything that helps us find her...."

I still wasn't sure I could trust them, but at this point I didn't feel I had much choice; she was one of them. Perhaps my loyalties were mis-placed, and by keeping silent I could be increasing her peril.

"She told me," I said resignedly, "that whoever was running Bill, had also recruited her. That an agent had been sent to the hospital to get her out. This agent was responsible for the deaths of the nurse and police officer. Not Lee-Ann. Maybe you should be looking for him."

"Or her," Simon said.

"Or her," I agreed, "No reason to be sexist." I stared at Avi.

"She also told me that both she and Bill were part a very clandestine group. In the Mossad. The Metsada, I think she called it. She also said that she might know too much and I have no idea what she was referring to. But I could tell she was scared. Afraid that what she knew might come to hurt her."

"She gave no hint?" Avi pressed.

"I'm only repeating what she told me on the boat, okay. And under the circumstances I wasn't about to ask her to elaborate. I really did have something else on my mind. Basically that was it. The other agent, a case officer, was sent to the hospital to help her escape. And that it was this case officer -him or her- who killed the nurse and the cop. She confided she was part of an elite corps and showed me an identifying mark. A tattoo."

"Ah, yes. The tattoos again." Avi shook his head somewhat bewildered. "You do know quite a bit after all. And we appreciate that you decided to share this information with us. Thank you." He scratched his head, poking a finger under his yarmulke and stared at me. I stared back determined not to blink first. To my own surprise the bits and pieces were adding up. I hoped my disclosures weren't driving nails into her coffin.

"Since you have been so cooperative, perhaps it is only fair if we reciprocated somewhat." Simon glanced at Avi, as if for permission to go on. The man shrugged. The way Simon kept deferring to him, Avi had to be the one to watch.

I studied them, trying to read the dynamics and glanced at Geoff. He was taking it all in. His long legs still stretched out and appearing for all the world to be quite bored. I knew he was digesting every syllable, every nuance, and every shade of meaning.

Simon leaned forward in his chair, his elbows on his fat thighs, a contrived, open posture, contradicted by his excessive sweating. The back of his shirt was soaked. He shook his head to show his utter confusion and looked at his partner before speaking.

"Bill was not Mossad. As an Israeli, he was certainly very pro Israel but he was not Mossad. Yes, he was an arms trader. And yes, he was a computer systems expert -which in itself makes for a very good cover as well as a good recruit for..."

"But you said..."

"Yes, I know what I just said, Dr. Milland. You wanted answers? Be patient. Bill, because of his _official_ work was - how can I put it? - in place already. Because of all the traveling he did. There would be no need to create a background because there was always good reason for Bill to be where he was, do you understand? The Mossad," he went on, " is really very small. Relative to other agencies like the, Russians, CIA. And our case officers are few by comparison."

"That's understandable, Israel being such a tiny country."

"That's true, Sam. But that's not the reason. Yes, Israel is tiny. But she is quite unique in the sense that the Mossad can tap into the worldwide Jewish community for support. And for this reason we can afford to keep our agency small. Let me explain," he said raising a hand to parry a question.

"In the case of Bill and Lee-Ann -especially Lee-Ann, since Bill was the one born in Israel- they were what are referred to as _Sayan_. Jewish volunteer helpers. At least that's how it started. The Sayan are those Jews around the world willing to help, give support to keep Israel viable. For example, if a field agent somewhere requires something... oh, say a car. Some sort of special vehicle. He contacts a Sayan. Someone in the car business who has let it be known that he is willing to help is contacted and a deal made. Unlike other organizations. CIA. Russians. The Mossad has virtually unlimited resources throughout the Diaspora, Jews who are willing to help Israel.

"And because of the network of contacts Bill had set up," he went on, "Lee-Ann was a natural, perfect for this role. That plus the fact that she was very highly motivated."

"Because her husband was killed?"

"You could say that. She was a natural. A quick thinker. Resourceful. Perfect for our purposes as she was cool and totally unflappable."

This was not the Lee-An I had known. "Except for one thing," I said to him.

"And what's that?"

"She had a child. Seems unnecessarily cruel on your part to engage her. Lee-Ann was an adult. But to submit an innocent child to obvious risks is irresponsible."

"Yes, I suppose you would think so. I don't expect you to understand the nature of the conflict we are involved in."

"What I understand, Simon, is there is no excuse for manipulating people like that. Especially children. Using them as a shield to hide behind...."

"Sam. Sam." Avi, sat up, his hands out in mock pleading. "A tragedy, we all agree. No one wants innocent children to die like that."

"The fact is, in this case..."

"Please, don't be so naive. What happened was regrettable. But believe it or not. It was a coincidence. A sad coincidence, but it was just that! The fact that the child was killed had nothing to do with us!" Avi was indignant.

"The child had a name. You people brought the conflict here, and Sarah died!"

"This is not helping." Ouellette said. "We have other issues to resolve and personal feelings should not enter into the discussion. "I'm sorry, Sam -you know that. I regret as much as anyone that Sarah was killed."

"Dr. Milland," Avi said, leaning forward. "Lee-Ann knew what was at stake. And as you said so yourself, she was an adult. And as an adult she made her choice freely to become involved. This you must believe. And the fact that Sarah was killed -and you must also believe this- was truly a coincidence. The four Hassid were the real targets. If you are looking for someone to blame, blame the Palestinians!"

"What we are trying to do," Simon said somewhat exasperated," Is maintain a balance of power. Israel is vulnerable, situated geographically in the middle of the Arab world. The Arabs -and I hate to quote them- say insh' Allah. But whatever God's will is, the bottom line is that Jews have to help themselves. As long as Israel exists, people will die. That's a fact."

"What about Bill?" Geoff asked changing the subject. "How did he really die? We know he was killed."

"Bill was double-crossed," Simon said and paused unsure whether or not to elaborate.

Avi continued for him "Yes, Bill was double-crossed. Someone -we still don't know who-tipped the Palestinians. As an Israeli, Bill certainly felt strongly about the conflict. Anyway they discovered -from a leak no doubt- that a shipment of plastic explosive he sold to the Bosnians ended up killing Muslims in Croatia."

"In Croatia?"

'That's right. A Christian militia. Fanatics. Consequently, when the Palestinians discovered that Bill was the one responsible for the sale and its shipment.... they killed him. Anyone dealing in arms, explosives, detonators -you name it- is at a very high risk. Bill knew this. He knew the risks. Claiming civilian status is certainly no kind of protection. To the Palestinians Bill was nothing more than a mercenary. Playing for the wrong team. He sold arms. They ended up claiming Muslim lives so he had to be eliminated. The logic is really quite simple."

"And now Lee-Ann is in the same danger"

"That's right. But not necessarily in the same position."

"That distinction is lost on me. What is the difference?"

"The difference is she works for us."

"Oh. That makes it okay then. You people are the good guys."

"It's not that simple," Simon said. "There's more at stake. Our survival as a nation...."

"Give me a break. There's no end to this, is there? You said Christian fanatics killed Muslims. Muslims kill Jews. Jews kill Arabs. And the Arabs, the Palestinians killed Bill because the stuff he sold ended up killing Muslims. Everybody is killing everybody else. And you say it's all to maintain a balance of power?"

"Dr. Milland, Dr. Milland," Ouellette was twitching his hands, his eyes slits.

"Sam," Avi said. "Bill was killed by the PLO as part of a campaign of terror to discourage and keep people from meddling. To keep out the profiteers, the war mongers, the death merchants.

"What we are trying to do," he continued, "is maintain a balance of power. We can't hope to end the conflict -we're not that naive- but if no one group is stronger than another.... then there is no percentage in mounting a full-scale war. Nevertheless we have to root out the terrorists and their organizations. These loose cannons are upsetting the balance. And it is when that delicate balance shifts its weight that trouble really brews. And that's why Joan is here." Avi was also sweating and wiped his forehead on his sleeve.

Joan finally spoke. "So far we've been pretty lucky. Apart from the crisis in the sixties with the FLQ, we haven't been subject to terrorism. And with the FLQ it was pretty localized. Now we find we're having to deal with terrorism on an international scale. The Twin Towers in New York. The Jews in the van on the Brooklyn Bridge. Oklahoma. And now this right in our own yard. And the conflict isn't even our own. Unfortunately the Arab-Jewish conflict is being fought on our streets. And in a small way, perhaps, we have contributed -from the standpoint of the arms dealers. An outfit right here in our city. They import and sell arms, explosives, detonators -military materiel. We don't have what you'd call a consumer market here, so it's a safe bet that stuff finds its way out of the country to the trouble spots. Bill got caught in the crossfire. But as Avi said, he knew the risks."

"Except for the fact that he was double-crossed." I quoted Simon."

"That's right. And it is one of the risks. In this business there is no such thing as a straight or legitimate deal. No matter which side you're dealing with."

"Bill was a death merchant," Ouellette said, getting into the act. "Doesn't matter whose side you sell to. But my department is really only concerned with the deaths of the four young men who were killed. And of course Sarah. That's my mandate. This is my city. And as part of the law enforcement force here, I have to get to the bottom of this. Organized or not. Terrorist or not. That's my job. But I am hoping for help from you." He looked at the two tired and frustrated men.

"You argue and discuss politics, fate. God. I want the people who shot up my street and killed a little girl. About those spies? Don't ask me how I feel about them. If it hadn't been for this ... this conflict that little girl would still be alive.

"They are barbarians - _des sauvages- we_ say in French. I don't care which side. Animals. I want whoever is responsible, politics notwithstanding. No, no," he said raising a finger to Simon who was about so speak. "The fact is you're involved in a political struggle. And I appreciate that. But your struggle, your war, is being fought in my streets without regard for my citizens.

"Now unless you can help us, give us something concrete to work with, I'm afraid there is nothing more to say here. Dr. Milland has been candid with you. You have no authority here. Just our good will. And unless you can show some willingness to work with us, well..." he left it hanging and stood up showing that the meeting was over.

"You're absolutely right," Avi said. "But we really have very few leads. But we hope you won't refuse to cooperate with..."

"We will cooperate -we are cooperating. But it's a two way street, _mes amis!"_ " He gestured widely.

"Emile," Simon said. "You have. And we are grateful. You've been more than agreeable. But you're right. Your investigation is a priority. If we do come up with anything we will let you know." They both stood, ready to go.

As they were leaving I said, "Are you part of that group too?"

"What do you mean?" Avi asked.

"The tattoos."

He stared at me a moment before answering and said, "No. No, we aren't."

Simon read my disbelief. "Do we have to strip to show you?"

"Not for me, you don't, but I'm not convinced.

Simon stared at me and said to Geoff, "Is there somewhere we can go?"

They followed Geoff out.

Joan was grinning from ear to ear and Ouellette said to me shaking his head, "Sam, you are something, really." I wasn't sure I should take it as a compliment.

"No tattoos," he said coming back into the office. He winked at me behind their backs.

"I hope this satisfies you, Dr. Milland," Simon told me. The mood had toned down somewhat, and Avi and Simon shook hands all around, with Avi promising they'd keep us up to speed if anything turned up. I wasn't going to hold my breath.

Avi added as a parting remark, "So long as it doesn't compromise our investigation. Which is our priority."

"Just had to have the last word," Geoff said, when the door closed behind them

"Ah, you know those people," Ouellette said, dismissing 'those people' with a wave of his hand.

At this point Ouellette made it clear that he had other pressing matters. Geoff and I left. Joan stayed, the pressing matters concerned her.

I don't like those two," I told him in the car. And I don't trust Simon; he sweats too much."

"What? That's logical."

"I know," I said ignoring the sarcasm. "But it wasn't even warm in there. The man was pretty nervous about something if you ask me. And there's something opportunistic about him."

"Opportunistic? What's that supposed to mean?"  
He threaded the car along Sherbrooke, through the maze of dense traffic. As usual one lane was blocked by a road crew patching a hole.

"Don't you ever get gut feelings?"

"No," he said. "Not usually."

"Well, that's what this is. He strikes me like a man who'd stop at nothing to get his way. Talk about fanatics."

"Maybe you're right. Most of these types put the cause ahead of everything else."

"So do terrorists. Call it women's intuition if you want but I would not trust that man. Either one of them when it comes to that. And I wouldn't confide anything to him. I'm thinking I told them too much as it is. Be just like them to use any information against you."

He glanced sideways at me and said nothing. He preferred logic to intuition, analysis to guess work. I leaned to the analytical myself. Brought up by a psychiatrist how else could I have turned out. But sometimes, even my father admitted, you had to trust your instincts.

"Maybe you have a point," he conceded. "It can't hurt if we play our cards close to our vests."

"I wish you people could settle this. Or At least find a way to keep me out of it. It's really playing hell with my nerves." I stood on the curb speaking to him through the open door.

'You're not the only one, believe me! Listen, we really do need a diversion. I'm looking forward to dinner at Harry's."

"Me too. Maybe we should plan to get away again. Our last holiday didn't exactly work out."

"Say that again. But this time we'll drive."

"Right." He pulled away and I went up my stairs, stopping to pick up the advertising circulars that were beginning to scatter. I'd hardly closed the door behind me when the phone rang. Guess who?

"Sammy! Heard you come in. Have you eaten yet?" It was late, Almost seven. The meeting had been a marathon.

"Well, come over. There's someone I want you to meet." Typically he hung up before I could answer. I got out of my work clothes, washed my hands and face and brushed my teeth vigorously to get rid of the bad taste. I pulled on a sweatshirt and jeans and laced up my Reeboks. What celebrity was he touting this week. With that thought in mind I took off the sweatshirt, trading it for a plaid shirt, the one with the cutesy collar and changed into a pair of loafers. I took my keys out of my purse and went next door.

"Oh good! You're here." He guided me by the elbow into the dining room to meet his guest. The table was set with a variety of Greek dishes. Dolmathis, spanakopeta, salads and a rice pilaf thing. There was also that very garlicky sauce in a small bowl. His guest was eating a piece of crusty bread he had dipped in it.

"Sammy, I'd like you to meet Father Mackenzie.

Father Mackenzie stood up wiping his hands on a napkin.

"My daughter, Sarah Ann. We call her Sam."

"Hi," he said offering his hand, "your father has been telling me of your ordeal. I'm glad to see you've recovered so remarkably well."

"Thanks. Almost back to normal, now."

"Sit, Sammy. Help yourself, we were about to start. You said you hadn't eaten?"

I was ravenous and began filling a plate with a bit of everything. Father Mackenzie took it upon himself to fill my glass with wine -that horribly bitter and resinous stuff that I can't abide. His hands were enormous, the knuckles covered in hair.

After topping up his own glass Mackenzie then refilled his plate to capacity. He was a big man, with wide shoulders and dressed in black as he was, cut an imposing figure. I tried not to stare, but I was fascinated. His monk's robe fell almost to the floor, and his beard to the middle of his chest. He caught me staring and laughed.

"My father was a Scot. He died when I was just three and I was raised solely by my mother as a Greek Orthodox." His voice was deep and rich perfect for sermonizing. Even with that laugh he could scare you into believing.

"Father Mackenzie," my father said," is the priest at St George's. Where Maria and Costa go.

"Yes, that's right. They told me of their son's ah, brush with the law." With the skill of a surgeon he cut a dolmatha in half and put it in his mouth washing it down with a mouthful of the foul wine before speaking. "I went to school with Dimitri, knew him briefly. We were never friends, really. But I remember that we did share some of the same classes. That was in the eighth or ninth grade I think. The boy dropped out half way through the year as I recall. Pity.

"And now, because of his mother's concerns, I find myself involved. I was telling your father that Maria asked me to speak with his lawyer, what's his name? Zacaib?"

"Yes, Harry Zacaib."

"Mmmm," he said, nodding and chewing. "Maria says he'll give back the icon -not that the boy has much choice there -but it does indicate good faith. I'm trying to convince Zacaib that since the icon is undamaged and no one has been hurt by the theft, he might use that as an argument in the boy's favor, to convince the Greek authorities to drop the charges. I'm not exactly without influence, I'd like to think."

He was doing it too. Why did everyone refer to Jimmy as a boy?

"Of course," he went on, "the Greek government isn't quite that amenable. They don't treat smugglers and thieves of their art treasures very leniently. Since the so-called Elgin Marbles were stolen by the British, the Greeks have been very sensitive about their national treasures. Anyway, on behalf of Dimitri -for his parents, that is\- I've approached the Greek consulate. And I think we might be able to work something out. Fortunately the boy was born here. And therefore a citizen of this country. Extradition applies but we may be able to keep the Greek government from demanding his return. After all no harm was done and they will get the icon back."

"How valuable is this icon, anyway? I keep hearing it referred to as a national treasure."

"Very!" He helped himself to another heaping plateful of food and refilled his glass. My father damn near dislocated his shoulder reaching around for another bottle.

"Very," he repeated. "It dates, so I'm told to the mid-sixteenth century. Comes from a monastery somewhere in the hills. How Dimitri ended up with it is anybody's guess." He took another large swallow, put the glass down and chewed thoughtfully, pointing with his fork to the food and telling my father that Maria was worth her weight in gold.

"You don't know the details?" I found it peculiar that he'd involve himself without learning some background about Dimitri, as he called him, and how he had come by the icon.

"No, not really. Just enough to convince me that's he's not part of some international gang of smugglers. I don't think he'd be smart enough for them. And not particularly reliable either."

"Oh?"

"My feeling is that he saw an opportunity and acted. It's no secret that icons are valuable. And they don't have to be that old, even. In this case, given that the monastery goes back several hundreds of years, it stands to reason that so does the icon. Even Dimitri could figure that out." He pushed himself back from the table, brushed crumbs from his beard with a napkin. My father had put out the good linen.

"Gregor, that was wonderful. I don't often get to eat Greek food." He laughed. "Ironic, isn't it?"

"Have some more wine, Father Mackenzie."

"I couldn't really, thanks."

"Half a glass then. To digest Maria's cooking. It's quite rich."

"Half a glass, thank you. You twisted my arm."

"About its value?" I prompted.

"Yes. Like I was saying, good thing the boy's not brighter. With his inclinations he might have joined up with a professional group of smugglers and ended up in very hot water."

"Any brighter, and he probably wouldn't have got caught."

"That is a consideration," he said laughing and pointing his finger. No, this is an isolated incident. In this case it was smart to be dumb." He laughed again. "I suppose that sounds uncharitable, but there you have it. Anyway I'm optimistic that I can get the consulate to back off."

"Where is it now? The icon." I wanted to know.

"As a matter of fact, I have it."

"You have it?" I said incredulously. "Not the police?"

"That's right. You see, after Dimitri left the gallery, they called the police. The police, in turn, contacted the Greek authorities. And yes, they have a report of an icon stolen from a monastery, the monastery of St Anastasio. It's on Corfu, one of the Ionian islands, just off the western coast of Greece as it borders Albania. The upper part of the island is actually closer to Albania, than Greece. The monastery is built on a high promontory and faces the mainland, several miles south of the town of Kerkyra. A beautiful place, really beautiful. Claims he was there as a tourist. On holiday. Happening to be visiting the monastery. When he saw the icon he was simply just overcome with temptation." The priest laughed. "I don't mind helping out my parishioners, but that boy must think I was born yesterday."

"How did the police latch onto Jimmy?"

"Well, true to form, the boy left his number with the gallery. The appraiser was suspicious almost from the start and called the cops." He shook his head, amazed at such stupidity. "And of course they nabbed him."

"But you say you have the icon. How come not the police?"

"Dimitri must've had a flash of brilliance. He denies stealing the Icon, would you believe? And the police really have no grounds to search his premises, and nothing to arrest him for. At this stage, they're really only asking questions."

"So why," I asked, "is he in trouble. There's nothing to tie him to the theft."

"That's right. That's right. There isn't. But our boy panics and tells his parents. Figures they'll fork over some money so he can start running again.

"And that's when Maria calls me. She's scared, brings me the Icon, and confesses the boy's crime. Wants me to talk to her lawyer. Costa, on the other hand wants to turn in his own son. The man's totally fed-up with the boy. There was a lot of yelling, let me tell you! You know the Greeks.

"Anyway, Costa relents a bit, but wants the boy to finally start acting like a man. Take some responsibility, turn himself in and give back the icon."

"Costa must've have been beside himself," my father said. "He's quite a devoted church goer."

"Oh, yes. They're both quite committed to their faith. That's what hurt them so much. Not so much that he's ah, less than ah, honest shall we say, but that he actually robbed a church. That, they find unforgivable."

"I can imagine. But I'm still curious. What does Thea Maria expect you to do with the icon?"

"Wants me to act as an intermediary -a go between. She's hoping I can carry some weight with the consulate. I'll do my best, certainly, but I'm only a priest. Sometimes the faith people have in me is an enormous burden.

"Looks like Jimmy's over a barrel," my father said. "Might do the boy some good to spend time..."

"Bite your tongue, Gregor! Any idea what a Greek prison would be like? It would kill his parents. I wouldn't wish that on the devil. He's given them enough trouble already."

"What else is new? In debt. No money. Gets caught trying to unload a stolen art object. And now he wants mommy and daddy to come to the rescue. Again." I made a face.

"How does Harry fit into all of this?" I asked my father. And how the hell did my father latch onto Mackenzie?

"Maria has been so flustered she hasn't known which way to turn so she asked me if I could suggest a lawyer, and I gave her Harry's name."

"Right," the priest said, "And that's how I got into the act." He shook his head as if having second thoughts.

"You're pretty optimistic you can convince the authorities to drop the issue, but what's Harry's opinion?"

"He's of a like mind. Figures as long as the icon finds its way back to the monastery everything will blow over. It's in no one's interest for this to get out of hand. I doubt the Greek authorities want an international incident. So returning the Icon should settle it."

"Except for the money he owes, " said my father.

"Oh-oh. What money is this, now?"

"Yes. That little issue." He was chasing the remains of his rice with a piece of bread. "Jimmy has accumulated some gambling debts. Which is the _real_ reason he stole the icon in the first place."

"Can they come after him for that? Now that he's back home."

"No. And they can't force him to go back. Not over gambling debts," my father said.

"Very true, Gregor. But. The Greek Mafia has very long arms."

"My, God!" I said. "Is there no end to this?"

"As your father said, earlier -before you joined us- unless Costa and Maria bail him out yet again, he's, how shall I put it? Dead Meat."

I shook my head, and got up to pour myself some coffee. They were still working on the wine. "He's going to keep bleeding them dry. I can't see him changing for anything. Jimmy has no loyalties at all."

"And that's the sad part," the priest agreed.

I knew the pattern all too well; criminals rarely change. In this case it was Maria and Costa who kept adapting.

"No," the priest went on, "His parents are the real victims here," he said wiping his mouth and pushing himself with effort away from the table.

"This has been a lovely dinner, but I really must be going. Maria's a wonderful cook."

"Yes," my father acknowledged, "I told her who it was for and I'm sure she went out of her way for you."

"Well, I'll be sure to thank her. It was a pleasure meeting you, Sam I hope we can do this again sometime."

"Nice meeting you too, Father," I said shaking his hand.

"Please. It's Anastasio."

"Like the Monastery."

"Right! I have to insist that my parishioners don't use my last name. Father Mackenzie doesn't have a very Byzantine ring to it." He laughed. "But unlike my name-sake I'm no saint." He smiled.

My father came back with the man's coat and helped him put it on.

"Don't forget this," he said, handing the priest his briefcase.

"Thanks, it did slip my mind. It certainly wouldn't do to lose this!" He patted the case, black and well used.

We said good-bye and closed the door.

"Did he have what I think he had in that case?" I asked, helping him clear the table.

He didn't answer, so I changed the subject. He was scraping plates into the garbage can.

"Are you going to tell me how you met your new _friend?"_

"Through Maria."

"I gathered that much."

"You how she gets. Doctors. Priests. The poor woman is is... almost in awe over anyone who's literate. And we have been close for many years. You've got to admit, Maria is family."

"What has that got to do with anything?"

"She trusts, us Sammy."

"She trusts you; you're the _real_ doctor."

"And her priest too."

"So, you're telling me she wanted her doctor and her priest to have a tête-à-tête over dinner?"

"Well, she wants us to be supportive of Jimmy. You know how she feels about the police. They scare her. And she's afraid for her son."

"Okay, I agree with that, but it doesn't explain about the briefcase. When he said he had it, I didn't dream he carried it around with him. Not very responsible if it's that valuable. Actually, valuable or not, Jimmy's fate rests on its return."

"I know, I know. But I figured on killing two birds with one stone. Since he was coming anyway, I told him, that as an art collector, I had an interest, and asked him if he wouldn't mind showing me the icon."

"Jesus, Dad. Suppose something happens to it?" I shook my head. For a doctor he could be incredibly dense.

"I didn't think about it that way. No way I would jeopardize Jimmy..."

"I know that. I just hope your new friend has more ...... I just hope he puts it somewhere safe. Maybe Jimmy is a dead beat. But this is irresponsible." I went back to clear the rest of the table.

"You've got a point," he conceded, following me. "But that icon, Sammy. It's more than just bits of gilt and paint, it's history. Like the panel. And like the panel, I couldn't help myself."

"Well, if it gets damaged. Or worse -Jimmy will be history."

"Sammy, you're over reacting."

"When will you know?" I asked changing the subject.

"Know what?"

"The consulate. Whether or not they're going to let him off the hook."

"I don't know. A couple of days, I suppose. I hope's it's soon, for Maria's sake. She's really at her wit's end."

"And having him hanging around can't be any fun."

"Exactly. Costa can't stand having him in the house. They argue a lot, she told me, and that makes her feel worse. No matter whose side she takes it's like she's betraying the other. And Costa figures she should be siding with him. It's a real mess, Sammy. A real mess. Not everyone is a lucky as I am."

Jesus, he knew how to pull my strings.

"Look, Dad. I'm sorry if I came on too strong."

"No. You were absolutely right, Sammy. I put my own needs first. I shouldn't have done that"

"What's it like, the icon?"

"Beautiful. Just beautiful, Sammy. You can't imagine. Anastasio figures it has to be a good four hundred years old. It's in pristine condition too. Like it was painted yesterday."

"Easy, Dad. You're salivating again."

"It's what's called a Madonna Enthroned. The Holy Mother Mary, holding the Christ Child. Mary is shown seated in a stylized throne-like ..." He caught my look and laughed.

"Okay, okay. I'm getting carried away again. Let me just say it's easy to see how she would inspire worshipers"

"Let's hope then, that it gets back to where it belongs. And soon.

# Chapter 13

The day for our dinner date at Harry's finally rolled around. Georges was back from Germany after landing a fat contract to design a health facility for a group of dentists opening their own hi-tech clinic; since the wall had come down, buildings had been sprouting like mushrooms.

Georges was tall, Geoff's height, with a good build, in an ectomorphic way. He was slimmer than Geoff but looked in better shape. Squash -according to Harry, "the fool played till he dropped".

Georges greeted us at the door in his sock feet, wearing one of those colorful African shirts, hanging out over his jeans. He was blond with a Fu Manchu mustache that was so fair and wispy it seemed to move even in still air.

"Hi," he said, ushering us in. "I hope you're not on call Geoff. Harry'll just kill you if you have to leave." His voice, soft and modulated would have suited a late-night disc-jockey.

Harry came out of the kitchen to greet us wearing an apron over his vest, which of course covered a white shirt and tie. Harry, I'm sure, slept in a three-piece suit. He waved us into the living room with a pudgy hand.

"Go on in and grab a seat. Drinks are on the way. Do you mind, Georges, I've got my hands full?" Georges made eyes that said living with a gourmet cook doomed him to a life of fetch and carry.

Georges happily played bartender and came back with a glass of white wine for me and a two bottles of Foster's and steins.

"I hear you've been to the Caribbean," he said, pouring beer carefully into his stein. "

"You could say that," I laughed.

"Harry's filled me in. It must've been _dreadful!"_

"It was okay, except for the cruise," Geoff said, laughing.

"I'm sure, I'm sure. Seriously though how are you making out."

"I'm over it now. Almost back to normal." Except for the nightmares.

"Thank God!" rolling his eyes again. "Can I freshen that for you?" He took my glass and topped it up before I could answer.

"Okay, people. Come and get it!" Harry called.

Before sitting Harry took off his 'I love to cook' apron and proceeded to hone a large carving knife.

"You know," he said, deftly running the blade along the steel, "of all the meals I love to cook, I think turkey with all the trimmings is my favourite. He carved and served, and when he handed me my plate he said:

"In your honor, Sam. A Thanksgiving dinner, for your safe deliverance."

I couldn't help myself. Caught off guard, my eyes welled, spilling tears.

"Oh, dear. Harry, look what you've gone and done. I'll get some tissues. Mind you, you'll pee less."

That did it. We all cracked up. I dried my eyes and we dug in. Georges continued to regale us with outrageous stories, which centered around the bathroom habits of people in the many countries he'd been to. Harry, who liked to feign disapproval laughed the loudest. Later over coffee and Black Forest cake the conversation edged around to Geoff's investigation.

"Are you any closer to finding out who killed those people?"

"No. I'm afraid not."

"Well it's awful. Just awful. But you know maybe if you could figure out why those people were killed you might get further ahead."

"What do you mean," I asked.

"Well, I followed the news until the reports petered out. No one claimed responsibility. Unless, of course, the police left that part out."

"No," Geoff answered, "you're right on that score."

"It seems to me, when terrorists strike, they usually stand up and blow a horn. Let's face it -if you're fighting for a cause, you do want to publicize it, don't you?" Georges, using the tines of his fork with surgical precision excised tiny slivers of cake.

"That's right," Geoff said. "That's what usually happens.

"Well, I tell you -I've traveled a _lot._ France. Germany. Italy. Most of the Mediterranean countries. Talk about terrorism and assassinations! As a matter of fact I was in Italy when that banker was killed some years ago. A communist group laid claim to that one, I think."

'That certainly appears to be the pattern," I said.

"Well, it's just a thought, don't mind me. You're the professional," pointing to Geoff.

"Not at all. At this point I'd welcome any ideas. We're at a standstill. And we're scared."

"Scared?" Georges's eyes went wide.

"Well, law enforcement agencies -in the bigger cities that is- have to keep looking over their shoulders. These people -terrorists- don't need a whole lot of motivation other than a fanatical commitment to a cause. They don't usually single out their victims."

"That's true," Harry interjected, "But they often target politicians. And business leaders too. It was a banker in Italy, wasn't it Georges? It's not always random."

"No, you're right about that." Geoff admitted grudgingly.

"That's what I was getting at," Georges said, continuing surgery of his cake. "Sometimes the targets are specific."

"Are you thinking, maybe, they were after those four boys specifically. That they weren't killed simply because they were Jews?"

"It did occur to me, yes."

"Well, Georges, you must have a sixth sense."

"Oh. Why do you say that?" He looked puzzled.

"Because that's exactly the way our investigation is going."

"You're kidding!" his eyes as wide as saucers.

"Not at all. Not at all. But I hope you can keep this under your hat. We're not exactly advertising the fact."

"Not to worry." He closed his eyes and made like he was drawing a zipper to seal his lips.

"On that note," I said, "I think it's time to call it a night. We're all working stiffs aren't we?" It was almost eleven-thirty.

"I hadn't even noticed the time," Harry said looking at his watch. He got by on four or five hours sleep, but both Georges and I had been yawning on the sneak for the last hour.

"How about that Georges?" We were lying quietly exhausted in bed.

"I'll say. Just about gave me goose bumps"

"Do you think he had a point?"

"About what?"

"You know. About figuring what the tattoos might be up to. Like what's really behind, or more to the point, _under_ those black hats and curls."

"Instead of working from the Arab angle, tackle it from the point of view of the victims?"

"It's worth a try, isn't it?"

"At this point what have I got to lose?"

While Geoff worked on his problems I concentrated on preparing my cops-in-training lectures. My father too, was busy. He spent as much time absorbed in his art activities as he did unlocking the mysteries of the mind.

"Understand man's art," he told me, the other morning, when I'd gone over simply to tell him I was going shopping, "and you understand man. And since art reflects society, it's well worth studying."

"But religion is the engine that drives history. And politics. According to the Lorenzo panel."

"More than religion, Sammy. More than religion. All superstitious belief. Look," he said, pointing to an article in the paper.

"Here. The Haitians. Voodoo," he quoted, "a blend of Catholicism and African religious practices, imported with the slaves, is a powerful force that pervades the total fabric of Haitian culture. Voodoo adherents believe in sorcery, witchcraft, and the use of charms and fetishes and are a strong and determining factor in Haitian politics." He slapped the paper.

"And the West views this as just so much mumbo jumbo. But wouldn't we be horrified and offended if they criticized us for being followers of a man who supposedly walked on water."

I made a face, not wanting to get into the argument.

"You can't separate art from religion, and as such they are both an expression of a people at a given time. But you know," he added looking up from the grocery list he was writing," a thought does occur."

"Dad. I haven't got all day."

"I know, I know. But listen. This thing with the Arabs. It's basically a conflict that pits 'my God against your God' —my superstition against yours. "

"I'm listening," I said impatiently and waited for him to wind down.

"Well, in the painting, the dogs, the Domini Canes? They represent the Dominican order which was founded to root out heretics. Non believers."

"So...?"

"So, Sammy. The tattoos. Didn't you say they reminded you of the dogs in the painting?"

"The other way around."

"Okay, then. Maybe this group, whoever they are, are trying to do the same thing."

"I'm not sure I follow."

"This is a holy war, isn't it? The Jihad. Maybe they're part of a fanatical religious group."

"Lee-Ann? I can't see that." I shook my head.

"No? You don't think it's worth at least a thought? At this stage no one seems to be making any headway."

I did think about it, to the extent that I figured I'd better mention it to Geoff.

"Hi, I said when I got through. "Are you busy?"

"Does Minnie love Mickey?"

"I can take a hint. Do you want to call me back?"

"No, no. I need to talk to someone normal for a change."

"I'm glad I qualify."

"Lately all I seem to be doing is talking to people about people who like to kill people and it's depressing the hell out of me."

"I don't think what I have to say will improve your mood."

"Can't make it worse. What have you got?"

"It's about those tattoos. And the painting."

"Go on."

"Remember what he said about the Dominican order?"

"Sure. The Hounds of God wanted to save the Church. Get rid of the rabble rousers."

"Right. That they drove the wolves away from the flock."

"I get all that, but it's only a painting, Sam. What's your point?"

"My point is this. Maybe those four, and Lee-Ann, are part of a secret force out to destroy the opposition."

"Sam. We already know that. Shit, the Jews and Arabs have been killing each other since the dawn of time. Is that what you called...."

"I know that, I know that! But what if -and don't laugh- but what if they happen to be a group of assassins..."

"Assassins?"

"I know it sounds far-fetched..."

"Far-fetched! Sounds like something out of a cheap novel. Jewish Ninjas in the dead of night."

"Putting it that way does make it sound silly."

"I'm sorry, I know you're serious about this."

"I think it's worth thinking about. Especially since Simon and his sidekick seemed to know more about the tattoos than they were willing to admit."

"That's true, I'll give you that. Look, I really have to go. And I promise to think about it. At this point I'd listen to a fortune teller."

"It wouldn't be the first time you guys have consulted psychics."

"Ouch! That was a low blow."

"Call me," I said before hanging up. "We'll see a movie."

"Good idea. As a matter of fact, I decided to quit early. How about tonight?"

I did some fast thinking; it was Saturday and there was still time to shop for a new outfit.

"Tonight's fine."

"Good. You pick. I'll treat. I'll even take you to dinner. See you around seven."

I hung up and poured myself a cup of coffee when the phone rang.

"Sammy?" Jesus, I had to get an unlisted number. I cradled the phone against my shoulder and tried to reach the fridge door, stretching the cord to its limit. I dropped the phone.

"Sorry."

"What happened? You get mugged?"

"Just about. What's up?"

"Can you come over?"

"Did you buy another painting?"

"Not exactly..."

"Okay, I'm on my way."

Never mind getting a new phone number, I'd have to move. To another planet. Pity I hadn't been marooned on a tropical island inhabited with the equivalent of male Amazons.

I grabbed a J-Cloth and made a half-hearted effort to wipe up the coffee. Never mind it would dry. I tossed the cloth into the sink and got as far as my front door before going back for my keys; I still had a thing about leaving the door unlocked.

He had left the door ajar for me and I went in. He was sitting in the living room looking as dejected as hell."

"Who died?"

"Worse, Sammy."

"Oops! I was only joking." Jesus. I really had a knack for putting my foot in it.

"No one died, but I might as well be dead." He could lay it on pretty thick when he wanted to. He was wearing his Viyella shirt, the plaid one and his grey flannel slacks. His face was almost the same shade as his pants.

"What happened? You feel alright?" I put my hand on his forehead."

"I'm fine. I'm fine." He waved my hand away.

"It's a fake," he said, looking up.

"What are you talking about? The icon?"

"I wish! The painting. The Domini Canes. Lorenzo panel, whatever. The damn thing's a fake."

"How can that be? After all that analysis. And Johnson's tree-ring bullshit?"

"That's just it. It's all bullshit! All of it. And I'm standing in it up to here!" He reached over his head and slashed the air.

'It's ironical, isn't it? After all that talk, all that rhetorical bullshit expounded by Dr. Gregor Milland and the damn thing turns out to be a fake." He shook his head, in disgust or embarrassment I couldn't tell.

"How did you find this out?"

"Pure accident, would you believe? And to heap irony on irony, I owe it to Maria's son."

"You've lost me. What's he got to do with it?"

"Well, you remember Father Mackenzie?"

I nodded.

"He had the icon checked out. He's no fool. First he checks - _then_ he talks. He takes the icon to that gallery -what's it called? You know the one with the Rodin in front."

"That statue with the guy in ropes?"

"That one. Well he takes it there. Stern's not there, so he talks to one of his assistants. The assistant tells him all that same stuff about testing -the problems. Reluctance to ruin the item and so on. Especially the expense." He stopped and took a deep breath. "So they talk a bit, and this guy tells him about Dendrochronolgy." He looked at me to see if I was following.

"Yeah, yeah -the tree ring thing. What Johnson was going on about."

"Right. Exactly."

"What's all this have to do with the painting?"

"Be patient. I'm getting to it. The gallery give's Mackenzie the name of a place in New York. Where they do this."

"So Mackenzie can have the icon checked out?"

"Yes. To have the icon checked out."

"Where is all this going..." He ignored my impatience and went on.

"The test is quite reliable. We know that. But -and get this- he tells Mackenzie it may not be conclusive."

"If the test is reliable how can it not be conclusive?" I shifted impatiently. This was going in circles.

"If the icon is made of oak -no problem. But if it is originally Greek or Italian, the test may not be valid."

"It wouldn't be Italian. Wrong style, isn't it."

"I don't mean the icon, Sammy. I mean the wood."

The wood...?"

"Yes, the panel. The actual piece of wood it was painted on. Artists -and don't forget they had to be part of a guild- shopped around for the best materials. And if they had a school, you know, a studio with apprentice artists they would have needed a lot of supplies. But they would've used local materials, if possible. And in the case of wood panels, probably home-grown."

"Okay. Apart from the very large fresco paintings, artists work on wooden panels. Since canvas isn't in vogue yet."

"Right. So, they select their wood carefully. It has to be clean, free of knots, blemishes, cracks and so forth. And it has to be properly aged and dried."

"So what's the problem if the wood is from Italy or Greece. How can that possibly make a difference?"

"Like I said. Artists were very selective about what they used. Nevertheless materials would generally be locally prepared and the panels, would have been selected hardwoods from their own regions."

"Of course. That makes perfect sense. But I still don't see what you're worked up about."

"The problem, Sammy, is that the local hardwood would have been predominately poplar."

"Poplar?"

"Yes, poplar. As opposed to oak."

"And that makes a difference?"

"Sammy. That is the crux of the matter." He got up and paced, running his fingers through his hair. When he was ready, he sat down.

"Poplar," he said, "is a hardwood, but a fast-growing hardwood. It's quite porous. The rings, Sammy, are too obscure to measure. There's no way Dendrochronolgy can be used with certainty."

"Well, did he or did he not have the icon tested?"

"That's immaterial," he barked.

"Immaterial!" I barked back. "What is the point to all of this? Dad. You're not making any sense."

"Sammy. Sammy. The Domini Canes is painted on oak. Not poplar. The Italian artists used poplar!"

It was sinking in finally. Slowly.

"So what you're saying is Johnson's wrong."

"Yes. And no."

"Jesus, Dad. Which is it?"

"Johnson had the panel authenticated. He had it confirmed as to the date it was painted."

"Okay."

"But that's just it, Sammy!" He threw his hands up and started to pace again. "That's just it. That's all he got. A confirmed date as to the age of the panel. It doesn't even necessarily confirm the date that the panel was painted. All we know is that the panel is oak and that it does date from about 1350. Unfortunately, the damn thing is not Italian and couldn't possibly have been painted by the Giotto school."

"You state that categorically."

"Well. What more do we need? It's beyond common sense to stretch the facts and consider, yes, the panel could have been imported. Sure, it's possible, but damned highly unlikely. They weren't hardly planning six hundred years ahead!" He shook his head, devastated.

"Don't jump to conclusions," I told him. His look told me not to be so naive.

"Be realistic," I pressed. "After all the research. Johnson's expertise -and yours- and whoever else had a hand in validating the painting, don't you think that counts?"

"Sammy, there is nothing more I'd like to do than believe your arguments, believe me. But in this case," he shook his head, "I don't think so."

"What does Johnson have to say?"

He didn't answer.

"Dad. You haven't told him, have you?"

"Johnson hasn't said anything. Actually I'm surprised he hadn't a clue about the kinds of wood they used. It's in any good book on the subject."

"Jesus, Dad. What are you waiting for? You 'd better tell him. You know what this will do to him."

"I know. I'm just trying to get up the courage. He'll probably think I did this to discredit him."

"That's ridiculous. But it serves him right, if you ask me. It's his responsibility to prevent this sort of thing from happening. What kind of curator is he anyway?"

"That's true. But this will make him out a fool. Don't forget he had it authenticated in the first place."

"Turns out he was right, sort of."

"Sort of," he laughed. "Sort of doesn't cut it in this business."

"You have to tell him. And soon."

"Of course I have to tell him. But it'll kill him."

"One way to eliminate opposition."

"Great! I can see the headlines -Art expert Killed By Bad News. Rival Suspected. Terrific."

"At least you haven't lost your sense of humor. Anyway, to change the subject, what's the news on Jimmy? The Greeks willing to let him off the hook?"

"I think so. But Costa is still unwilling to bail him out of his debts."

"I don't blame him. But that puts the boy in a pretty tight spot I'll bet. What about Thea Maria?"

"She's tearing her hair out. Spends most of her time in church lighting candles. Mackenzie said he's increasing the fire insurance."

"Pretty sensitive guy, for a priest, isn't he? What about the money he owes? Jimmy, I mean."

"No idea. One way or the other, the debt's got to be paid. Maria's afraid they'll kill him if he doesn't."

"If he's involved in organized crime, the Mafia isn't very forgiving. Then again, maybe this is just what he wants his mother to believe. So she can convince Costa to come across."

"That's entirely possible."

"I got to get back," I said looking at my watch. Shopping was now out of the picture.

"It could be worse, you know," I said as I was leaving. "It's only a painting."

"Only a painting, she says," he said informing the wall.

"You know what I mean. It's not like someone's life is at stake. Look at Jimmy?"

'You're right, Sammy. Putting it that way, it is insignificant. But when a person's reputation is at stake? People have been known to kill for a lot less."

"You think Johnson is hiding a violent streak?" I teased.

"All you need is the right motivation, Sammy. You'd be surprised at what drives people."

"Okay, okay, I'm going. Spare me a lecture on Freudian toilet training."

"Sammy," he laughed, "you can reduce the most complex thing to its lowest form. You're wonderful to make me laugh and I love you for it."

"I love you too, dad." I kissed his forehead, "but I really do have to go. Promise me you won't brood about the painting. Who knows? It may turn out to be more valuable than you ever expected."

I was putting the key in the lock and he stood on the step.

"Hah, such optimism. Go on, get back to your work."

What a turn of events, I thought as I sat at my desk looking at Jennifer's research paper. She'd titled it, How Ecclesiastical Theory Changed in the Middle Ages to Transform the Knight from Killer Assassin to Christian Warrior. A heavy title and ambitious. I looked at her table of contents; if she pulled it off, she'd lead the class. I put it aside, not yet sure whether I'd read hers first or last. Did I want to start or end on a high note?

I couldn't put the panel out of my mind. Authentic or not, it certainly was clear that church doctrine would brook no dissenters. The Hounds of God had a clear mandate. Follow the cross or else. And Jennifer's paper focused on the same issue. Even today, the engine of the conflict in the Middle East was fueled by fanatical fundamentalists in a fevered frenzy to achieve martyrdom. Muslims willing to die fighting were guaranteed salvation, as were the crusading Christians fighting the Infidel. A thousand years of history, and nothing has changed, nothing resolved. People still killed, driven by the belief and promise that their God is right.

I put my work away, not really in the mood to do it justice. It was too late for shopping. I still had a couple of hours before my date with Geoff and since Maria had her own troubles I'd better do a few chores. I hated housework, but not wanting Maria to discover I could happily live like a pig, I decided at least to pick up discarded clothes and run around the place with the vacuum cleaner.

I put in a load of laundry, changed the linen on my bed and sorted what I needed to take to the dry-cleaners. But when it came to ironing, I drew the line. I looked at the pile of shirts and blouses and four pairs of jeans that had accumulated since Maria had otherwise been distracted. I had washed them. But drying them in the dryer had left them unwearable; clothes I had slept in were less wrinkled. I folded and put them back in the basket and decided to take a bath and soak away the guilt for wishing Jimmy would just disappear so my own life could get back to normal.

By seven I was powdered, perfumed, and waiting for Geoff. I was starving. I snooped in the fridge and found a plate of week-old _dolmathis_. I gave them a sniff. I wasn't that hungry and scraped them into the garbage can, then grabbed a two-inch stack of Graham crackers from the box and started munching.

The bell rang. Chewing quickly and brushing away the crumbs, I swallowed hastily then answered. He came in and stood in the hall while I put on some makeup.

"Did you pick a movie?"

"Not specifically." I called from the bathroom.

"I'm in the mood for a few laughs. How about 'Sister Act'? It's at that repertory theatre. Have you see it?

"No, in ages. But I'd enjoy seeing it again. What about food?"

"Feel Polish?"

"Sure."

I went through the ritual of locking up

We laughed, we really did. But the whole time Whoopi was running from the Mob reminded me of Jimmy. Geoff particularly enjoyed the music, and I caught him drumming his fingers. The film seemed to improve his mood and as we crossed Ste Catherine Street to where he'd parked the car he took my hand and kissed it uncharacteristically.

Traffic any night of the week is heavy but Saturday is horrendous. We had to drive about three blocks north of Prince Arthur before finding a place to park on St Denis.

"Cold?"

"A bit. It feels like snow." I shivered again. I hate winter. He picked up the pace and I almost had to run to keep up.

The Mazurka is one of our favorite places. The food is rich and heavy, absolutely delicious! Lots of butter and artery hardening sausage. I always order the same thing, Polish soup and mixed platter. I keep promising myself to try other dishes, but one look at the menu and I pick the same thing.

The place was crowded. Filled with a lot of pretentious university types, you know the kind -bearded men in tweeds and smoking pipes. Most of them I imagined were divorced, judging by the women they were with; what wife went starry eyed when her husband lectured? But there was nothing pretentious about the restaurant; the artwork was positively atrocious.

I knew I would regret my gluttony but that didn't deter me from ordering desert; the chocolate layer cake was to die for. Over desert and coffee I told him about my father's latest dilemma.

"I can see why he's so upset. His credibility is on the line -not the painting. Take away a man's reputation and what have you got?"

"That's what he said. You sure you haven't been talking to him?"

He laughed. "But what I don't get is how come no one until now has tumbled to the fact that painting might be a fake?"

"It's not really that hard to believe. As my father has said to me often enough -check the provenance."

"The provenance?"

"Yes. The history of ownership. You trace ownership back each time an acquisition is made. You determine that the work has been come by honestly. And in this case, it wasn't difficult apparently. It's not like it was a long lost masterpiece newly discovered."

"Then there's probably a good chance the work is in fact genuine."

"That's what I told him, but he shot that down. No, he's convinced. As far as he's concerned a fraud's been committed."

"I'm sure there's an explanation. Who's to say categorically that oak panels were never used by the -did you say- Italians?"

"Yes. I used that argument too. But you know my father.

"Not to change the subject, but this reminds me of what you said. About the tattoos?"

"Yes..."

"Well. You won't like this."

"Come on Geoff. Don't lead me on." Jesus, he was getting as bad as my father.

"You remember Avi and Simon?"

"How could I forget them? Especially Simon." The creep.

"Ouellette's still miffed about how one-sided this investigation is. The four of us met again today." He paused and took a long sip. He and my father should open an academy of dramatic arts.

"Ouellette quizzes them. Tells them, if they don't open up a bit, he's closing ranks. The courtesies he's been extending will come to a halt. So Simon gives a bit. He admits the tattoos are part of an elite force."

"That much we know. He's not giving anything away."

"Right. But get this. He tells us the tattoos are assassins. They're highly trained killers."

"Jesus. We suspected something like that. You believe him?"

"They were pretty convincing, let me tell you. But I'm keeping an open mind."

"You know what that makes Lee-Ann, don't you?"

He made a face, and I said, "Sounds pretty preposterous." I pushed my cup away and leaned back in my chair. "This guy, Simon? I think he's a creep that would stop at nothing. The man has no scruples, Geoff."

"I know, you don't like the guy, but he had some pretty convincing evidence."

"About what? Lee-Ann?" I stared at him."

"Yes. You know, all that money she has stashed away? She claims comes from selling guns or whatever?"

"Yeah, what about it?"

"Well, it's not from selling guns. Not all of it anyway. It's payoff money from assassinating people."

"Come on, Geoff! This keeps getting more and more far-fetched."

"I know it does, I know it does. But I did some checking. Give me a little credit. In several cases. Within a couple of days -the bank deposits coincide with the dates that someone has been killed. And in every case it's been someone linked to high-level talks."

"What kind of _high-level_ talks?"

"Treaties. Trade agreements. That sort of thing."

"I don't get it."

"One of the men killed was an executive with a chemical company. Pesticides or something. Another was with a big company that manufactures farm machinery. Another was an engineer for a company designs hydro electric projects."

"Sounds pretty weird, Geoff. What's this got to do with the Palestinians and Jews? Isn't that the focus of this thing?"

"That's how it all started. Now, I'm not so sure. It is weird."

"What else did he say?"

"That in all of these cases, the deals involved trade agreements that ultimately would hurt the Jewish cause."

"Hurt the Jewish cause."

"That's what they told us."

"Did he say how?"

"Oh, yes. In one case, he gave as an example, it had to do with selling agricultural machinery -Israeli farm machinery would you believe! -to Lebanon. The machinery was resold, or traded, he said, to an African nation in exchange for military equipment. Grenades. Ammunition. And small arms."

"This is getting bizarre."

"It gets weirder. Even more twisted. These arms and munitions were later diverted to radical groups stationed in Lebanon -i.e. the PLO."

"The farm machinery eventually finds its way back into Lebanon in the form of military equipment."

"Right."

"And of course, we know against whom this stuff is used."

"Right, again."

"But why kill the messenger?"

"The people working for the companies?"

"Yes. The people, presumably, Lee-Ann is eliminating."

"Because, in their twisted logic, they see these guys as being responsible. Kill them. Stop them trading with the enemy. Don't sell them anything they can convert to arms, that end up being used against Israel."

"Jesus, Geoff. And Lee-Ann is supposed to have assassinated a whole bunch of these businessmen. Engineers working on hydro projects?"

"That's what they told us. Yes."

"And you believe them?"

"Sam, I don't know what to believe. I can't afford to just dismiss it out of hand. It's certainly conceivable. And there were other examples. Too many to put it down to coincidence. I know Lee-Ann's your friend. But... it looks awfully convincing, Sam. I'm sorry."

"God, Geoff. I keep hoping it's not true. I don't want to believe she could possibly do this. How could I have been so wrong about her?"

"I know. You think you really know someone and then..." He shrugged and signaled the waiter for more coffee. I declined already feeling I would burst.

"Keep in mind," he said, "that Lee-Ann was vulnerable. I wouldn't condemn her outright."

"That's a switch."

"Ouch!" he said, squinting his eyes shut.

"Well you weren't exactly sticking up for her."

"No, you're right. But that was before I heard what Avi, and your friend Simon had to say. She was used. They preyed on her vulnerability after Bill was killed. She was ripe. And we all like to think we can exact a measure of revenge from time to time. It's human. In Lee-Ann's case she had incredible motivation. The PLO killed Bill...."

"Allegedly killed Bill."

"Okay, allegedly killed Bill. She's Jewish. They appeal to her sense of outrage. They appeal to her -I don't know- her sense of Jewishness, maybe. Whatever it was, it was just the thing to push her over the edge."

"Providing all this is true."

"I have to tell you, Sam. I'm pretty much convinced."

"I can see that." I didn't argue.

"I know you don't want to believe it, but let me play devil's advocate. She has a good cover you've got to admit. She gets sprung from the hospital, and in the process, two people are killed. And then you damn near get killed yourself."

"Don't make it sound as if she planned that. It was purely accidental that I saw her."

"Okay, okay. If Jake hadn't panicked, you wouldn't have been set adrift in the Caribbean. Nevertheless, she still admitted being involved up to her whoosis in the arms trade, didn't she?"

I nodded.

"True or not, that remains to be seen. Maybe she's making excuses -she's not stupid. She'll figure we've looked into her financial records. But the fact remains that many of the deposits coincide with several assassinations. You've got to admit it looks more than a little suspicious. And I've checked. Lee-Ann was in those cities when they were killed. More coincidence? Two happened in Germany. The engineer who designed the hydroelectric systems was killed in France. Lee-Ann was in those cities, Sam. I'm not saying it's true. But I am saying it's more than plausible. It's something we have to consider, something _you_ have to consider."

"Why are they trying so damn hard to point the finger at Lee-Ann? If it is true, she'd actually be helping them, don't you think? Even if she is some sort of renegade, she'd be furthering their cause. If anything they should be making her out a hero."

"That idea hasn't escaped me. But that's not the issue. They're concerned about her -so they say. I'm not sold on that story, but let's accept it for the moment. Since she is one of them, it stands to reason they would want to keep track of her, bring her back into the fold."

"I don't know. Something's pretty fishy. Why wouldn't _she_ contact them? She's supposed to be an assassin? Part of some super spy network working for them? And they haven't a clue where she is? Spare me. I think she's afraid."

"Afraid? Sure she's afraid."

"I mean of them. Her own people. Maybe she doesn't trust them. Or someone. She told me Bill was betrayed. And another thing.... Maybe there is something in what she said about _knowing too much_ . Remember how hard they tried to find out from me if she'd said anything?"

"That's right. And they didn't seem all that convinced."

"Exactly. It wouldn't surprise me if that ... that slimy ... Simon still thinks I'm holding out."

Suddenly his face went white.

"What... What's the matter?"

"Nothing. It's nothing." He waved his hand and took a sip of coffee. His hand was shaking.

"Geoff. You're shaking. Tell me."

He put the cup down and took his time speaking. "Sam, I don't want to be an alarmist. But if Lee-Ann's keeping a low profile -if she's not contacting her people. There's got to be a reason."

"Of course. That's what I've been saying all along."

"But. If they don't believe you. If Lee-Ann is afraid because of something she knows or has figured out. And if they think that she told you..."

"Jesus, Geoff. You're scaring me!"

# Chapter 14

We left the restaurant and went to the car almost at a run. He had scared me. I'm not particularly brave anyway and certainly no match for spies and assassins who figure I'm some kind of threat.

"It's probably nothing." He waited for a cyclist to pass before threading his way into the stream of traffic.

"Nothing? You scare the shit out of me, and now you say it's nothing. Great!"

"I mean we shouldn't over react. We'll take all necessary precautions. Are you carrying your weapon?"

I gave him a look.

"I didn't think so. Look, I know how you feel about guns. But under the circumstances, you'd be wise to carry it."

"Nothing, eh?" I stared through the windshield my eyes brimming with fear and anger.

"Have you, at least, kept up your qualifications?"

"Not lately."

He cursed a cabbie and squealed around the car as it screeched to the curb to pick up a fare.

"Not lately," he repeated. "I'll sign you up for some time as soon as possible. Tomorrow. I could use the practice myself."

I wasn't one of those women who shriek and close their eyes when they shoot. When I practice regularly, I'm pretty good. But that's at hitting targets, not human flesh. Think targets, the instructor told me. Sure.

"And tomorrow we'll arrange some security for you."

"Jesus. Not another body guard." Once before, I'd needed protection and Joan had been a constant companion, sticking closer than Peter Pan's shadow. I hadn't enjoyed it.

"If you consider the alternative, it's a discomfort you can live with. In the mean time, would you like me to stay the night?"

"Damn right you're staying the night!" And I wasn't thinking about rats and disaster.

Later, in my living room he said, "If we could only get in touch with Lee-Ann. Talk to her."

"Sure. How are you going to accomplish that when the whole goddam Jewish CIA can't find her?"

"I don't know. You're her friend. Think!"

"It's my job, now."

"That's not what I mean. But you say you're pretty close."

"We were close. I thought I knew her."

"Okay, then. Go with your instincts. You said she would never harm you -that she actually saved your life."

"I'm convinced of that."

"Well, think like her. Put yourself in her place. What would Lee-Ann do?"

"In her place? I'd go back to my apartment -her apartment."

"Maybe that's what we'll do. What are you up to tomorrow?"

"I'm planning to spend it hiding under my bed."

"I'm serious... But speaking of bed...."

"Bed! Who can sleep? I'm worried about staying alive."

He came over, put his arms around me protectively, and stroked my hair.

"Small comfort, from a man who's afraid of spiders."

"That's only because they're too small to shoot."

"Cops. Always thinking with their gun." His hands were under my blouse, his lips caressing my neck.

Sunday was cold and miserable, the sky dark and scowling, threatening snow. The room was dark too, and it was well after eight when we awoke, and another forty minutes before we got out of bed. Geoff is usually quite considerate, a polite lover, who never forgets to say thank you. And on weekends he always made breakfast. Coffee. Stacks of hot buttered French toast. Or eggs and bacon. Even pancakes. Weekend breakfasts were elaborate and leisurely affairs. This morning, however, he grunted, struggled stiff-legged to the bathroom and told me to get the coffee started while he showered.

Yes, sir, I said to the sound of running water and saluted smartly.

Last night was supposed to ease the burden of stress that had been accumulating over the past several weeks. What had started out as an innocent diversion became instead a millstone added to the enormous weight that was already crushing him. The long hours, bad food, frustration and lack of sleep were taking its toll. Now he had to be concerned for my safety.

This case was eating him alive, and if it didn't get solved soon, would consume us both.

I put the coffee on and hunted around for something to toast; I still hadn't done the shopping. I found an unopened package of English muffins in the freezer and thawed two them in the microwave oven, before splitting and popping them in the toaster. I also sliced a couple of bagels. The bagels were dry, so I wrapped them in a dampened paper towel and rejuvenated them with a couple of zaps. What would we do without technology?

By the time he came out, the table was set, breakfast served -if baked dough and old blueberry jam qualifies- and coffee had been poured. I even managed to find a couple of paper napkins. Large ones, left over from Christmas.

"I could eat a horse," he said, tucking his shirt in. He looked energized, but there were still dark circles under his eyes. He needed a haircut too, which always made him look a little seedy.

"You'll have to settle for bagels and English muffins. There's a gallon of coffee, but that's it."

He sat down, and buttered a muffin. "No cream cheese?" he asked, reaching for the jam.

"Haven't done the shopping yet." Why did I feel guilty, damn it.

We ate in silence, the only sound, the crunch of stale bread, toasted. I had brought in the paper and he was studying the front page. Headlines proclaimed Mid-East peace talks were yet again on shaky ground. Two thousand years and counting.

"Leave the dishes. I'll do them later."

"You said, Maria hasn't been in lately."

"No. She's got her own hands full. The dishwasher I can manage, but you can do some ironing if you like."

He ignored me and proceeded to tidy up.

"Go," he said. "Your turn in the bathroom."

By the time I'd showered and dressed, the chores were done, and he was reading the paper again.

"Looks like the PLO are still trying to discredit the Jews."

"What else is new?"

"Not much," he said folding the paper. "Even the Lebanese Christians are blaming the Israeli's for bombing that church. The one in Jounieh."

"They still going on about that? They keep digging it up whenever they need an excuse for their own barbaric acts."

"That's why they tried to kill those Jews in the van. Remember? The Brooklyn Bridge?"

"I remember. I wouldn't be surprised if they use that church bombing to justify killing those four here."

"At this point nothing would surprise me." He stowed the paper in the magazine rack and got up. "You ready?"

"All set," I said.

"The traffic was light, being Sunday morning, and in less than twenty minutes we were outside her Nun's Island apartment. Graham Reed wasn't home, but Geoff dangled a set of keys and assured me it wouldn't be a problem.

"Is that legal?"

"You going to tell?"

"Geoff, that's not like you. Where'd you get them, anyway?"

"Everyone keeps a spare set in a kitchen cupboard, don't they? And don't look at me like that. If we're going to get anywhere we have to be a little creative. It's been weeks and I'm pretty fed up."

We took the elevator up, got out and walked down the carpeted hall to her door. The corridor smelled faintly of fresh paint. I was about to speak but Geoff put his finger to his lips. Gently, he put his hand against the door and pushed. It gave slightly. He put his finger to his lips again and motioned for me to step back away from the door. With his other hand he drew his gun. Mine was at home, locked in the box on the top shelf in my wardrobe.

Using his free hand, he slowly pushed the door open. I cowered, pressed against the wall and peeked around the jamb. A man stood in the middle of the room his hands on his hips and his back to us.

"Don't move," Geoff said.

The man raised his hands slowly, and looked over his shoulder towards us.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same question," Avi answered. He turned to face us, his hands still raised. "Point that somewhere else, would you?"

Avi put his hands down but not before Geoff had holstered his gun.

"Sam," he called. "You can come in now, it's okay."

I went in, using the wall for support. My knees were shaking.

"Nice to see you again, Dr. Milland," his tone slightly mocking.

"Might be safer, Avi, if we worked together." He patted his hip.

"You think so?" he asked, smiling and patting his own hip. What was this -the OK Corral? Men could be such assholes.

"You didn't answer my question? What are you doing here?" Geoff went over to the table, pulled out a chair and motioned to me to sit down. Gratefully, I collapsed into it. Avi, in an attempt to maintain a measure of control, didn't answer.

"I had no idea she was so talented," he said looking at her paintings. He stepped back, tilted his head as if trying to make sense of the shapes, determine if the painting was hanging right side up. Geoff's jaw was set, his teeth clenched. To ease his own tension he deliberately pulled a chair from the table turned it to face the man, and sat down.

Avi took his time with the paintings, stalking, a predator staking his territory. With his back to us he said:

"Look, we are on the same side, you know?"

"Really?"

Avi turned and faced us, then looked directly at me. "We're at an impasse. Figured it couldn't hurt to check out her place. Maybe the police overlooked something."

"Overlooked something? Like what?"

"I don't know." He shrugged, took off his leather jacket and placed it on the table. It was warm in the apartment and smelled of over-ripe fruit.

"We've people on the island trying to pick up the trail, but so far -nothing. So here I am."

"Why are you people so interested in finding her? Or more to the point, why is Lee-Ann making it so difficult to be found?"

"Good questions. Both of them."

"What I'd like are some good answers."

Avi stared at him "I'll let you decide." He sat down, leaned back and crossed his feet at the ankles and fished a pack of cigarettes out of an inside pocket. I could see the butt of his gun. After lighting up and blowing a puff over our heads, he shook the match, then bent it in half before dropping it into the crystal bowl in the center of the table.

"The man you went to see down there. The bank manager on San Marcos?"

"Yes. Jake Myers."

"Right. Myers. Well, Myers is dead."

"Dead!"

"Yes. Both he and his wife. We're pretty sure Lee-Ann's responsible. To answer your question -that's one of the reasons we want to find her."

"I find that hard to believe," I said. "What possible reason could she have for killing them?"

"She's no longer reliable. She's unstable. I don't know. Maybe because her little girl got killed. Could be simply because Jake was the one who set things up for Bill. Indirectly she blames him for their deaths."

"Bill was responsible for his own death," I said. "Sadly that's one of the risks he chose to take."

"Of course! But that's not the way she saw it. She wanted revenge. That's what made her such an easy recruit. But she's gone too far. She's become a one-man operation. And we can't have that."

"Now you want to eliminate her, is that it? You recruit her. You prey on her weaknesses, manipulate her. Now that she's no longer of any use, you want to get rid of her, before she embarrasses your organization." And Israel I wanted to say.

"She's become a loose cannon. Surely you see that. She can't be allowed to run around killing people indiscriminately. And now she's panicked and running scared."

"Indiscriminately! Listen to yourself. It's okay for her to kill people so long as you choose the victims, is that it? Those businessmen. I can see where you want to eliminate someone dealing arms but to assassinate businessmen, engineers... No, I'm sorry. I'll never buy that."

"Don't be naive. It's precisely those industries that have to be taught a lesson. And the men who control these industries -and their agents- have to be sent a message. Don't do anything or deal with people whose interests militarily go against Israel."

"And now Lee-Ann is on your hit list?"

"We have to find her," was all he would say.

"How did Myers and his wife die?" Geoff asked.

"One to the head. They were sleeping."

I felt sick. I took several deep breaths and swallowed.

Avi watched me heave and said, "Your friend isn't what you thought her to be. By trying to help her, by impeding us from finding her, you are in fact, Dr. Milland contributing to more deaths. You are becoming one of those you so righteously condemn."

I stared at him. "You sick son of a bitch!"

"Sam!"

"It's okay," he said. "Dr. Milland, I've been called worse." He stubbed out his cigarette and stood up. "I really must be going. Maybe you two will be luckier, but I found nothing here to suggest where she may have gone."

He left. Geoff brought me a glass of water.

"You okay?"

"I'm just terrific!" I drank about half the contents.

"He's sure trying to convince us she's a monster. I wish I knew why."

He made a face. "You sure do take a lot of convincing, Sam."

"I admit she's running scared, but I doubt that she has panicked. I think he's trying too hard to convince us that she's a killer on the loose."

"You sure you're not carrying this friendship and loyalty thing a bit too far?"

"It's more than that now."

"What do you mean?"

"I'll admit I didn't believe -I didn't want to believe that she's an assassin."

"And now?"

"Now? I'd say she's capable. Lee-Ann was always one for a cause. Justice. Even retribution. And considering how Bill died? Mind you, she was vulnerable and they took advantage of that vulnerability. But I could see her buying into their program. But...."

"Okay, let the other shoe drop."

"Like I said. I don't think she's a loose cannon. And I don't think she's panicked. If she's running, if she doesn't want to contact them or have them find her then she's got a damn good reason."

"I don't know, Sam. What about Jake and his wife? Gloria wasn't it?"

"I'll admit, it looks incriminating." I vaguely remembered her telling me that Jake was a complication she did not need.

"And more than just a little, Sam. I'm beginning to see things more Avi's way."

"I can see that..."

"Don't look at me like that. I'm a cop. Remember? I deal in this kind of shit. Experience tells me, whether you like it or not, that there is an overwhelming chance that they are in fact right about her. And I think you have to start realizing that."

"I do realize it. I really do. But part of me still thinks something doesn't smell right, okay?"

"I'll keep an open mind."

"You know? She told me that Bill kept records."

"Right. But we didn't find a thing in here. Not on the computer. And no external devices. But I think that's what we should still be looking for. His records. And maybe they aren't even on a computer device. Just because he's some kind of tech whiz, doesn't mean we should rule out paper."

"But we looked though all the books and her papers. Nothing. And dollars to donuts, I'll bet our friend Avi and his buddy have thought of that too. Why else was Avi here if not looking for his records? For minute there it looked like he thought the paintings were some kind of code.

"He was here for something that's for sure," he said, then got up and stared at one of the of the paintings, turned to me and said, "It would have been a hell of a lot simpler had she stuck to her art."

"She is talented isn't she? Probably could have made a name for herself."

He laughed. "I think she's done that, Sam. Come on. Let's get out of here."

"You know," he said, when we were driving back, "I think you might be right."

"About what?"

"You know how you keep saying that they must think you know something?"

"Go on."

"It stands to reason, don't you think, since the two of you were so close?"

"Yes. I guess so. But I don't know anything, she didn't tell...."

"They don't know that. And besides, maybe you do know something but just aren't aware of it."

"Come on, Geoff."

"Think about it a minute. You're her best friend."

"So?"

"Granted, we found nothing in her apartment. And if she said Bill kept records then they have to be somewhere."

"Well, I sure as hell don't have them."

"You sure about that? Let's trace the events that led up to all of this. When and where did you last see Lee-Ann?"

"You know that!"

"Yes. The boat. But let's work backwards."

"Before that was the hospital."

"And....?"

"The restaurant... and my.... office?"

"Exactly. Your office.

"What are we waiting for? Let's go."

"Hang on, hang on. It's Sunday, remember?"

"What's that got to do with anything?"

"Maybe nothing. But if they've got a spotter. If they see you going to your office on a Sunday."

"Geoff, you're scaring me again."

"Better scared than sorry, don't you think? Besides at this stage, one more day won't make a difference."

"Well, as long as you're playing chauffeur you can stop at the grocery store."

Pork was on sale so I bought a four pound roast, along with potatoes, broccoli and a large cauliflower. Geoff scanned the wine display and grabbed a couple of bottles of something South African and white. His choice wasn't politically motivated.

He helped me unpack and put away the groceries then went into the living room with paper and pencil. Making lists and reviewing the case he said would help him relax. Sure. I got busy preparing the roast, put it in the oven and set the timer. Then I called my father, leaving a message that he was invited for dinner but not to appear before six-thirty.

In the living room I said to him, "If we're not going to my office to play detective what'll we do for the rest of the afternoon?"

Well, we didn't play detective, but we did a fair amount of exploring. Unfortunately the expedition was cut short when the phone rang. It had better not be my father.

"It's for you," I said rolling over and handing him the phone. "Joan."

"Joan...?" he said, cupping his hand over the mouthpiece, and making a face.

"Yes.... You're kidding. Now?.... Okay. I'll be right there. Give me ten minutes." More than he gave me I thought.

He swung his legs over the side and got up and pulled on his pants.

"What's going on? Why the big rush?"

"You're not going to believe this, but I think we may have nailed the guys who killed Sarah and the four Hassid."

"No!" I said incredulous.

"You can come if you like. They're about to grill them."

"If I like? You've got to be kidding." I scrambled up, grabbed clean underwear and socks. In my haste to keep up I had to fasten my bra after I'd pulled on my sweatshirt.

"Hang on, will you?" I said impatiently. I ran a comb through my hair and straightened my clothes then spritzed myself with perfume to avoid looking and smelling like I'd come straight from an orgy. Geoff, the pig, was grinning from ear to ear.

"Ready?"

He got into the car, reached over to unlock my side, and pulled away before I was strapped in. He didn't bother with the siren, but he should have the way he drove. One irate driver, a kid in a backwards baseball cap gave him the finger for cutting him off. His face was twisted in anger and his mouth was going a mile a minute. Geoff ignored him, but when we stopped at the light, he rolled his window down and stuck the red light on the roof.

"Look at him now, the little punk." Geoff stared at him, the little punk looked straight ahead through his windshield. The light changed and the youth not taking any chances hesitated. The car behind him tooted. Geoff laughed. After hitting another red light at Guy and finally getting the car parked about a block away from the station, we eventually arrived.

"Hi," she said. "What kept you?"

"Had to wait for Sam," he said inclining his head towards me.

Joan looked at me and I'm sure she smirked. My face went crimson, and I suddenly felt naked. Geoff noticed my discomfort and added, "She had to change her clothes." I'd get him back if it took two lifetimes.

"Where are they?" he said.

"In the interrogation room."

"Together?"

"At the moment."

"Okay. Separate them. I'll watch from the other side of the glass. Who's doing the quizzing?"

"Me. Ouellette wants to be there too."

"Good. Make sure the tape's rolling."

"Don't worry. The video's all set up."

"Great. Let's do it. Come on, Sam," he said and led the way.

On the way over he'd told me the three had been picked up in their rooms, a run-down apartment located just outside the student ghetto, not far from the Forum. Two were Lebanese, the other Jordanian, and apparently had ties to the group responsible for bombing the Twin Towers in New York. The Jordanian, allegedly, was a cousin of one of the convicted terrorists.

We entered the darkened room and I immediately could see Ouellette at a table sitting face to face with one of the men. Geoff, already focused on the proceedings had forgotten about me. He pulled a chair forward and sat down. Joan dragged one over from against the wall and shoved it towards me then left. I sat down and looked at Geoff. He face betrayed no emotion. Both men were seated and comparing him to Ouellette I figured him to be a bit on the short side. He had dark Mediterranean features. His hair was short with a bit of a curl and clung to his scalp. When Joan entered, he looked up and at the sight of her filled the room with his contempt. She was followed by a man in a very wrinkled suit. Joan sat down to the suspect's right facing the glass. The wrinkled suit sat across from Ouellette.

"Who's that other guy?"

"Sh!" He put his hand up. "Lawyer.

"For the record," I heard her say, "Please state your name, date of birth, and place of birth. Also your address and occupation."

He ignored her and she repeated the demand.

After a whispered word with the wrinkled suit the suspect gave her a look that could kill and answered. His English was good, heavily accented but easily understood. His name was Hussein Fadlallah, he said. He was twenty-two, his citizenship Jordanian. He lived on Clossé. I knew the building. The sidewalk in front was always covered in pigeon shit.

"I'm a student. Part of an exchange programme." Of all things he was studying political science.

The interrogation lasted about an hour and a half, the three men questioned in turn. Periodically the wrinkled suit spoke to them, and they revealed nothing except what was superficially obvious. They stated their names, their citizenship and insisted they were simply exchange students. All of them in the poli-sci programme.

"You know," I said to Geoff in what served as their lunchroom. "There's no way these guys are going to respond to Joan."

"What do you mean?"

"They're Muslims, Aren't they?"

"So?"

"Women are subservient. Joan may be an authority figure over here. But in their culture? They'll never cooperate with her." I shook my head for emphasis. "And if you ask me, Ouellette lost his shot at them too."

"Why, because he let her take charge?"

"I'd say so."

"Well, as much as I'd like too, we can't use rubber hoses."

"Probably wouldn't work anyway. No way they'd admit to anything. Especially if they're guilty. No greater glory than being a martyr in the name of Allah." I took a sip of the bad coffee and pushed the cup away. "I'm curious about their lawyer."

"So am I!"

"Seriously."

"Seriously, his name is Kouri. Bob Kouri. Syrian, but born and raised here. And he's Christian, not Muslim."

"They trust him?"

"Hell, I'm not sure they do. Kouri says he knows nothing more about them than we do -not that he'd admit to anything if he did. He did say they paid him cash, though. He's very good, and he's not cheap! Don't be fooled by his clothes."

"Why were they arrested in the first place? Do you have anything that ties them to the killings?"

"Not exactly. Not to the killings."

"What then? You seemed sure these are the guys." At this point Joan walked in followed by another officer who used the coffee urn as a mirror to freshen her lipstick before retrieving a large box of crackers from the cupboard over the sink.

"Hi. That didn't get us anywhere, did it?" She went to the coffee urn, and poured herself a cup. After one sip, she dumped it into the sink and went to the fridge. A smell worse than that at Lee-Ann's apartment filled the room when she opened the door. The other woman fanned her face and left hurriedly. Joan, oblivious to the smell, reached in and came out with a can of Diet Coke then sat down with us at the battered and stained table. I don't know how anyone could bring themselves to eat or drink in the room.

"Sam was just telling me why. Thinks it's some cultural thing." I let him explain, interjecting to emphasize that indeed it was culture and not just my own paranoia about downtrodden women's rights.

"We should have thought of that."

"I was asking Geoff, before you came in, what makes you so sure you've got the right guys."

"We are pretty sure, but we're a bit short on solid evidence."

"So how come they were arrested?"

"The terrorist task force I'm with? We kept a number of the Arab students under surveillance. After the killings we did manage to interview quite a few witnesses. It took time. People are funny you know. They'll deny all sorts of things, but they never fail to throw suspicion on someone else. If you're patient..." She shrugged as if to suggest it was all routine.

"Were these guys under surveillance the whole time?"

"No, they weren't actually. It was someone else. These guys weren't even in the Arab Students' League. No way they wanted to stand out. They kept their noses clean."

"How'd you tumble to them then?"

"One of the Arab students we were watching -basically we concentrated on the high profile students. You know, the ones in the Arab associations. Student newspaper and so on. Generally it doesn't amount to a whole lot, but we do have a policy to keep tabs on any student association that has radical political leanings."

"Sort of a McCarthyesque philosophy...?"

"Come on, Sam. Don't go liberal bleeding heart on us."

"She's got a point, Geoff," she said. "Generally, I'd have to agree with you." she said to me. "But under these circumstances it's warranted don't you think?" I nodded. It made sense, but it still scared me.

"One of the Arabs we were surveilling was pretty chummy with our Jordanian, here." She inclined her head over her shoulder. "He visits these guys. Brings them copies of the student rag, trying, I guess, to get them to join the association. Little did he know! Is that irony or what?"

Geoff picked up the thread and continued. "This Fadlallah, has been making regular trips to the States."

"He can do that? A Jordanian foreign exchange student?"

"Oh, yes."

"He's not even a citizen of this country, I didn't think he could cross the border so easily. Especially with all the terrorism the US has been experiencing."

"Well, be that as it may. All you need is a VISA. And it's not hard to get. Just go to the consulate, provide your passport and a picture for the VISA -fill out a few forms and voilà!"

"Voilà. Just like that."

"And you have to show a round trip ticket, if you're flying," Joan added.

"And if you're not flying?"

"If you're driving it might be easy to overstay your VISA but don't forget, they'd have you in the computer."

"Pretty easy to come and go if you ask me. No telling what some people might be up to."

"Our system operates on the premise that most people aren't terrorists or criminals. We don't live in a police state. Yet," he added.

"Anyway," he went on, "This guy, Fadlalah has been to New Jersey several times. Ostensibly to visit friends. Some of his good buddies have been charged in connection with a plot to blow up the UN building, a building with FBI offices and, a Yiddish theatre."

"What about the other two?"

"The two Lebanese? The brothers Aziz? They never crossed the border. Stayed here and kept a real low profile."

"What tipped you? It takes more than association to establish guilt."

"The US authorities, "Joan said, "figured Fadlallah was visiting his friends so he could buy and smuggle guns back to our side. He'd been making regular trips back and forth for some time before the killings."

"They didn't search his car? At the border?"

"Every time. He'd pull up to cross and they'd flag him over. Nothing. Short of taking the car apart, they gave it a thorough search. Absolutely nothing. Nada. He'd smile politely, thank the border guards and come back."

"So he wasn't smuggling guns."

"I didn't say that, Sam. They didn't find any guns. There's a difference."

"Well, what grounds did you have? Is a suspicion enough?"

"Sometimes it is. If you can convince a judge. And we did."

"And did you find any guns..."

"No. No guns. Better than that."

"What could be better?"

"Bombs." Joan said.

"Bombs!"

"Yes. We had them under surveillance, hoping we'd nail them on illegal weapons charges. Plus smuggling. There were a string of charges we were preparing. But we got lucky. One of the Aziz brothers was seen purchasing electronic components. Batteries. Transmitters."

"Batteries, transmitters," Geoff interrupted. "And lengths of galvanized pipe. They were gradually stockpiling stuff to make bombs. They had enough plastic explosive to flatten this building."

"My God! Where'd they get the plastic explosive? The other stuff is easy to get, but the explosives?"

"That, Sam, is what our good friend Fadlallah was smuggling back into the country. When they searched his car at the border they had their minds on guns."

"And all the while he's bringing in plastic explosives?"

"You got it. A bit at a time. Molded and squeezed into the goddam sun visors. They just about stripped the car looking for Uzis and Skorpions and the whole time he's bowing and smiling politely laughing at us."

"And on the basis of the pipes and transmitters, you arrest them?"

"Basically," Joan said. "But we had to put the facts together and convince a judge we had cause to search. Given the trips to New Jersey and having observed them in the course of their shopping sprees, we got the warrant. We really had no idea about the explosives. The sun visors were stashed in a box. In the back of a closet, would you believe?"

I made a face and shuddered.

"Stuff's inert, Sam. Needs to be detonated with an electrical charge."

"I still wouldn't have that stuff around if you paid me. Now that you've got these guys what are the charges? Can you prove they killed Sarah?"

"So far we can charge them with conspiracy, illegal possession of explosives. Unfortunately, they'll probably just be deported."

"Deported! What about the murders?" I asked. He made a wry face and looked at Joan.

"No proof on that, I'm afraid. We're still working on it, but we really have nothing. Sorry."

"Too bad the damn stuff didn't blow them sky high. But at least they'll be out of our hair, " I added resignedly. Mind you, given the opportunity I think I could blow the bastards up myself.

"I'd much rather close the book on Sarah's murder first. Deporting them is to good for them. Much too good."

"It's not over yet," Joan told him.

"What about Avi and Simon? Were they involved with the arrest?"

"Neither one of them is thrilled, to say the least. And Simon would like to garrote all three of them! No way they want these guys to walk, that's for sure."

"We all feel that way, I'm sure," Joan said. "Avi and Simon would have really liked some time in private with these guys let me tell you. We don't exactly share the same principles regarding justice."

"Maybe," I said, "it's not a question of justice for us as much as it's a question of law."

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"Well, we have two groups. Three if you count us. But the Jews and the Arabs are different. Their history is based on tribal warfare and desert survival that goes back centuries. Justice was swift, immediate and final. No negotiation and no compromise. If you hurt me, I'll get you. Or my family will. Enemies were eliminated and that was that. The problem was over and done with."

"This isn't the desert, Sam."

"That's just it, Geoff. But we're dealing with that kind of mentality and we're out of our element. It's still an eye for an eye for them. And that's the crux of the whole conflict."

"Kind of an over simplification," he said. "These terrorists have taken that idea a bit far, don't you think?"

"I don't know if it is. Revenge is still the motive. They kill indiscriminately to achieve it." And revenge was an emotion I was beginning more and more to understand.

Joan shrugged her shoulders. "Ours is not to reason why...."

Geoff leaned back in his chair, yawned and looked at his watch.

"The roast!" I blurted. "It'll be a cinder. I better get back." I jumped up. "Maybe I should call a cab..."

"Hang on. I'm done here. Joan, is that it?"

"Sure. Just wanted you to be here when they interrogated them. You two go on. I've an hour or so of paper work to do, then I'm off myself."

"That wasn't much of an interrogation," I said to her as we were leaving.

"Don't be too sure about that. We still might have the upper hand." She winked at Geoff.

"What was that all about?" I asked in the car. "About having the upper hand."

He laughed. "Would you be keen to be deported?"

I looked puzzled.

"They might not live very long on the loose. Especially if we threaten to pass on a little story. There are certain, ah, groups who would love to know what they were up to. Fadlallah and the brothers Aziz might not even make it home."

"Geoff! Are you serious?"

"Damn right, I'm serious."

"That's blackmail."

"Sam. I told you. Sometimes you have to be creative." He grinned wickedly.

I stared at him, not liking what this case was doing to us. My own feelings sickened me; I couldn't deny wanting revenge. Maybe that was the real reason I refused to carry my gun. Perhaps it wasn't the fear of shooting someone, taking their life, but the fear that I wouldn't hesitate to do so.

Threats. Coercion. Blackmail. Just as abusive as a rubber hose, but with invisible bruises. It was a game I hated, a game I had spent all my life with my nose in books trying to understand, to discover the motivations that drove us to violence. A game in which I was fast becoming a willing player.

"You're awfully quiet all of a sudden."

"Sorry. I was just thinking. Trying to reconcile the means with the ends."

"Hey, Sam. Don't go soft. These guys -even if they aren't murderers- are certainly part of a conspiracy plotting to wipe out a whole lot of people."

"I know that. You're right."

"But..?"

"But it just bothers me that we use the same tactics. Makes us just like them."

"With one difference. And it's a big one. We're the good guys, remember? We're trying to catch the killers."

"Each time we cut corners. Every time we use threats -or blackmail- it makes it easier to go one step further."

"Come on, Sam. We do have limits, you know. I can't take the law into my own hands."

"I realize that. It's just that I see myself making excuses, justifying questionable methods, you know?"

"Like what I said about leaking a story about these guys?"

"Yes, that."

"I'm not breaking any laws, Sam." His tone was cool.

"Maybe not. And I'm not criticizing."

"Not hardly, you're not!"

"Really. All I'm saying is that some methods, even if they are ... are expedient\- they skirt the edge of morality. If not actually illegal."

"Sam, listen to me...."

"Wait. Let me finish. I'm not condemning what you're doing. I understand. Really. And that's the problem. I find myself excusing and endorsing these... these methods. And that's what scares me."

"Of course it's scary; we're human. But I have to put my emotions aside to get the job done. I want these guys off the street. To keep them from destroying us, terrorizing us. And if I can squeeze them, make them roll over on their co-conspirators so much the better. I'm not torturing them. I'm not beating them -which by the way their own culture seems to sanction. But I do want them to sweat, Sam. I want to scare the hell out of them. And if they don't fear for their own lives, I want them to worry about their families back home. I'll use every trick I can think of." He stabbed his chest with a forefinger to make his point.

"You said so yourself, Sam. It's desert warfare."

# Chapter 15

The house smelled wonderful; the aroma of garlic-flavoured pork permeated the place. I tossed my coat on the chair and grabbed my apron from the hook behind the pantry door, which is where I also had my spare house keys, and checked the roast. I had intended to roast a few potatoes with the pork but it was a little late for that; they'd have to settle for mashed. And without gravy.

I washed the broccoli, broke it apart into a pot then peeled a have dozen potatoes. When they were cooking I made a salad of sliced cucumber, tomato and mushrooms, with my father's favourite dressing which consisted of olive oil, vinegar, lemon juice, and lots of crushed garlic. We'd all be good company tonight in a crowded room.

Geoff's not useless in the kitchen but I prefer not to have any one underfoot if I'm doing the cooking, so he set the table in the dining room using the nice place mats, the ones with the Bartlett prints of the Old City.

At six-thirty sharp my father was at the front door ringing the buzzer off the wall. Geoff let him in and they greeted each other like long lost friends. Geoff had become the son he would never have, not to mention the son-in-law he had lost. My fault, that. My therapist had me considering why we'd gotten divorced in the first place. And now with the renewal of our relationship, what was I trying to attain? Or regain. Why did I discard what I had? Was I still trying the catch that elusive dream?

"Are you sure?" she said to me, "that it's not the chase that you relish? You are very goal oriented, you know."

That had upset me. Sure I was goal oriented, but Geoff wasn't a goal. I didn't want to possess him, I told her. She replied by hinting that I was just after a relationship, but once it was established I lost interest in keeping it going.

"After you've got a relationship going," she said, "then what?"

Exactly. Then what? Those two words scared the hell out of me. I avoided thinking about it, afraid of discovering something about myself that I wasn't ready to face.

"Sammy, it smells heavenly in here." He stopped in the middle of the kitchen, closed his eyes and sniffed.

"Go in and sit down. Here." I handed him the corkscrew for the bottle of wine he was holding twisted up in a paper bag. Thank God it wasn't the Greek stuff!

"May we be careful what we wish for," my father said, raising his glass in a toast.

"Here, here," said Geoff. "You never know when a gift may become a curse."

"Look before you leap," I said joining in.

"Sammy, too mundane!"

"Sorry guys. Waxing philosophical is a bit too abstract for me."

"Philosophically speaking," Geoff interjected, "how's your young Greek friend doing?"

"Who? Oh, Jimmy. Maria's son." My father nodded his head vigorously as he chewed. "According to his mother, last I heard he was off the hook, to turn a phrase. At least as far as the icon's concerned. As for the other, the money he owes," he paused to swallow and sip his wine, "I don't know. I don't think his father is too keen to bail him out this time."

"Is it a large amount?"

"Depends how you look at it. Thirty-five thousand I believe."

"Dad! It's a lot any way you look at it." I shook my head, and Geoff laughed. "You can be a real snob sometimes."

"Of course, it's a lot. I didn't mean to make it sound trivial. But to Jimmy -if his father coughs it up- then it is trivial, isn't it? Costs the boy nothing. But for Maria, and Costa it's a damn big chunk of their retirement nest egg. They worked a lifetime to put money away for their -golden years?"

"And now their dead-beat son needs to be bailed out to keep from having his legs broken."

"Or worse, Sammy."

"Well, the line has to be drawn somewhere. If Costa pays to get him off the hook -what's to keep him from getting in over his head again?"

"Absolutely nothing! He'll just continue looking for that big score." Geoff stabbed at an elusive mushroom. "Keeps it up, he'll be wearing cement shoes."

"That's Italy. The Greeks cut your throat."

"The Sicilians do that," I said. "But racist comments aside, his health would most definitely be challenged."

"I feel sorry for his parents. They can't just let it go. If they don't help him... It's their son and they want to do all they can. Watch," he said, stabbing the air with his fork. "Costa will give in. What choice is there?"

"I'm sure you're right," Geoff told him."

"And by giving in they help perpetuate his scheming ways. Jimmy has always been bad news. Remember?" he said to me, "When he forged his mother's name on the Family Allowance cheques?"

I had forgotten. I couldn't have been more than twelve or thirteen at the time.

"What's this?" Geoff asked, his fork poised in mid-air.

"Yes. Forged his mother's name. Can you imagine deceiving her like that? Said it was for cigarettes. But Maria, being Maria, let it go. Told the bank they'd made a mistake. Jimmy her little darling. Should have had him whipped," he added almost inaudibly.

"That's pretty heavy. Did his father find out?"

"You kidding? He'd have killed the boy."

"Now look at him?" I said. "He's still a whining, sniveling kid. A forty-four year old juvenile delinquent."

Geoff snorted in derision. "No juvenile delinquent, Sam. He graduated a long time ago from sneaking cigarette money from his mother's purse. Did he ever work in the family business? -To earn his keep so to speak."

"Oh, Costa wanted him to. But Maria didn't want her son to be stuck behind a stove with an apron on, or worse -washing dishes. No, Maria had loftier hopes for the boy."

"Too bad. Thea Maria's little darling might have learned some values. Developed some initiative."

My father looked at me, his expression saying it was a moot point. The jury was still out, the verdict elusive as to how much and what kind of parenting kept kids on the straight and narrow. Some absolutely horrendous homes produced model citizens, successful in all of society's expectations. And on the other hand the world's worst psychopaths sometimes came from pristine backgrounds. Jimmy was just a nasty piece of work, spoiled rotten and self-centered, a dirty bird who kept soiling his own nest.

He swirled the wine around and drained the glass and said, "Their priest is trying to work with him. Personally I think it's a waste of time, but I guess the man feels he has to try."

"So like a priest!"

"I don't know, Sammy. Father Mackenzie figures the boy's pretty smart."

"Dad! The boy is _forty-four_ years old! And he never finished school, so how smart could he be?"

"Too bad his mother was so protective of him," Geoff said. "Being made to work in the restaurant would have been the best thing that could have happened to him. But like they say -hind sight is twenty-twenty."

"I suppose," my father said, "we'd all change something if we could only go back." His voice caught and he cleared his throat.

"So what's Mackenzie trying to do? -Get some university to recognize his genius and admit him to a special programme for the disadvantaged?"

"Sammy!"

"Well I'm sorry. I'm sick -fed up to here with society bending over backwards to excuse the misdeeds of anyone who had -in your Freudian terms- poor toilet training. Jesus! Here's Geoff trying to nail a bunch of fanatics who kill, make enemies of anybody who doesn't share the same ideologies. And if you get caught in the crossfire like Sarah, well... too bad, it's your tough luck. And if that's not bad enough -on top of that we have people, governments -for Christ's sake- that sell guns, and bombs to make sure the killing doesn't stop. Look at the Iran-Contra affair. And your painting even. The Domini Canes. Tell me we're not a sick society."

"What about the painting, Sammy?"

"The Church. Rooting out heretics. Dissenters. Torturing them because they had an alternate belief. All this to safeguard a doctrine. Maintain conformity and maintain control. Rule through fear and pain. If that's not terrorism, what the hell is?" I grabbed the bottle and filled my glass with a force that made it slosh over the edge. I drained it in one gulp.

"And now this... this... Father Mackenzie. Anastasio to the rescue. Anastasio the do-gooder. Forty-four years later and Anastasio is going to make poor Jimmy all better. Spare me."

They looked at each other.

"Sam. You're over reacting a bit. I haven't met the guy, but if he's a priest, don't you think you're being a little hard?"

"Hard! Geoff. The guy drives a top of the line Buick." I turned to my father. "Did you get a look at his clothes? Under those robes? If that sweater wasn't one hundred per cent cashmere then I don't know how to shop. I don't trust the man. Sorry if that offends you."

"That's true," my father said after some seconds. "I noticed. But..."

"I'm not suggesting," I interrupted, "he lead a life of poverty. And no, I don't think the clergy should be celibate. But I think he's crossed the line. Don't forget most of his parishioners are working class. As a matter of fact in his own diocese an awful lot are unemployed or on welfare. I'm sorry but something about him puts me off. That long black robe. The beard. That oh, so pious get-up somehow doesn't quite fit with the hand-made shoes, the heavy, gold ring and that big Buick."

"If he can get Jimmy on track, who cares who makes his shoes."

"Oh, maybe you're right. I'm too suspicious for my own good. But for Jimmy's sake -no, for Maria's sake- I hope he's sincere about helping him."

"Let's change the subject," Geoff said. "I'm more interested in the outcome between you and your friend Winnie."

"Humph. Winnie." My father laughed. "My friend Winnie would like to hand me over to the Inquisitor."

"That bad?"

"Can you blame him? In his place I'd have been furious."

"You mean he wasn't?"

"Well the way he was playing with the letter opener did have me scared." He laughed.

"Can't have been that bad if you can laugh about it. What really was his reaction?"

"He was speechless, actually. His mouth kept moving but nothing came out. I thought he was going to have a stroke, I really did. That did scare me. I got him some water -ever try to fill one of the little paper cones from a fountain? By the time I got it to him there was hardly a mouthful in it. Anyway he didn't have a stroke. And when he was finally able to talk he tells me he's been waiting for the other shoe to drop?"

"What does that mean?" I asked.

"That's what I said. Told me his whole career had been going like clockwork. Everything had always fallen into place. Buy this, acquire that. All routine. He'd become complacent, he told me."

"What a funny reaction," Geoff said.

"I thought so. This had been his greatest, fear, he said, that he'd have to one day, do what he'd been trained for."

"I don't get it," I said.

"Years of undergraduate work. Postgraduate work in Italy and Holland. Now after all these years he'd finally have to put his reputation on the line to ferret out a fraud."

"If you ask me, he painted himself into a corner. Made his own bed."

"You know, Geoff, a lot of politicking is going on here. First of all, let's not forget that all Johnson did was determine the age of the panel. That's a fact that will hold true. But as for who in fact painted the panel -that's another story. Don't forget I'm responsible for claiming it was from the Giotto School."

"Don't let him off the hook so easily," Geoff told him. "As I remember Johnson backed you up on that."

"Yes, I suppose he did. But he can wiggle out of that easily enough by arguing he relied on the authenticity of previous documentation."

"Without checking back?" I asked.

"Right. Without checking back. Like buying real estate. You expect a title search to be done, to trace ownership, but often the notary relies on the chain of deeds. The search in most cases is a formality. You don't keep re-inventing the wheel."

"So no ownership search was conducted."

"After a fashion. But tracing ownership doesn't authenticate the painting. In real estate its ownership that's in dispute, so the search is important. In the art world, even though provenance is important, it won't necessarily prove the painting. You can buy something and believe it's a Picasso," he said to me, "and a thousand years later ownership is traced back to you. That proves it's the same painting..."

"But," Geoff interrupted, "if the painting Sam bought wasn't really a Picasso..."

"There you have it."

"So where does Johnson stand now? And the painting?"

"Johnson will come out of this okay, I'm sure. It won't advance his career, but he'll land on his feet. I wouldn't be surprised if he twists this around to his favor. I've really nothing to lose if he wants to lay this off on me."

"Jesus, Dad. Let the man take his own lumps!"

"In spite of all this, you know, I'm not convinced I was so wrong. As a matter of fact, I'm going to ask Johnson to let me have the Domini Canes for a couple of days. I still want to study it."

"You really think he's going to let you have the painting? Especially since he blames you for the pickle he's in? Dad! Get real!"

"What if it turns out to be even rarer than we think? And besides -it's value is already rising because of the controversy, figure that one out. However this turns out, I don't think Johnson will come out a loser."

Abruptly he patted his stomach, and looked at his watch. "I've got early rounds tomorrow, so I'd better call it a night, and leave the cleaning up to you young folks." He pushed himself back from the table and I saw him to the door.

"I better be going myself," Geoff said when I returned. "I've still some work to catch up on. Do you mind?"

"No, not at all." I tried to keep the coolness out of my voice.

"I'll give you a hand with the kitchen duties first," putting air quotes around kitchen duties.

"It's alright, Geoff. I can handle it."

"Sam..."

"I'm sorry, Geoff." I said blowing out the candles. "All this has me pretty stressed. It was a lot easier when you were dealing with muggers and rapists and bank robbers."

"Easier?"

"I mean I didn't worry so much. This terrorist thing really has me on edge. And it's wearing you out. It's making victims of us all."

"Crime, we get used to. What a sad commentary."

I hugged him, nestling my head under his chin.

"You going to be okay? I can stay if you're nervous to be alone."

"No, I'll be alright. I want you to promise to be careful, though. You're so tired, I don't want you letting your guard down."

"Don't worry about me. Listen, I know how you hate it, but I really think you should keep your gun handy. Next week we are both going to the range."

"Okay," I said. But I didn't promise.

He left and I went back to doing what he called kitchen duties. The whole world was dishonest; we were all cheats. Manipulate. Subjugate. Annihilate. Johnson manipulating history. Geoff, twisting facts to extract information, make men betray others. And my father? A doctor. A psychiatrist no less, who stood in the wings and pulled strings on his marionette patients. And was I any better? Do this. Read this. Change that. Redo it if you want a better grade. Wasn't that blackmail too?

And when you don't get your own way, when rhetoric and argument fail, well... there's always the sword.

I finished up, took a long hot shower and went to bed setting my alarm for six, and preparing myself mentally to get up and go for a run.

After my run, I was energized, my mood was much improved. Mind you, I had to walk a bit but at least I did it and I felt virtuous.

I got to my office early enough to give the place a going over before I met my first class, although I wasn't as optimistic as Geoff about finding anything.

When I arrived Bob, one of our custodians, was fiddling at the door, a bunch of keys befitting a jailer dangling in his hands. Bob had an eye for women; any post-pubescent female was fair game for Bob's lecherous looks.

"Morning," I said curtly.

"Mornin' Doc." He touched the peak of his hat with a dirty finger. His nails disgusted me. They were long and yellow and cracked. Even his hands were lined and cracked, like dirty parchment that had been folded too many times.

"You change the lock?" he asked accusingly.

I gave him my look, took out my key with a flourish and opened the door without a problem. He grunted and his hand brushed my ass when he followed me in. I hung my coat on the rack, tucked my blouse in and watched him.

"Have to check the rads," he said. "Got enough heat?"

"Place is fine."

"Your friend," he said, making a limp wrist gesture, "complained."

"Not about the heat, he didn't. It was about the cleaning staff."

He grunted again. I noticed the ashtray was still full and the wastebaskets hadn't been emptied.

"Well," he said, hacking a gob and saving it in a train engineer's handkerchief. "Cutbacks ever'where. 'Sides he shouldn't be smoking."

"What about the wastebaskets?"

He grunted again as if to say that was our fault too. We should use less paper. Or make fewer mistakes.

He was on his knees fiddling with the knob on the radiator. I was wearing my silk blouse and when he wasn't trying to read the subtle topography of what was in my bra, he was trying to get a good look up my skirt. I was tempted to yank it over my head, give him a good show.

He struggled up leaning on the wall for support and said, "Workin' fine. If you're cold, you might wear a sweater." I swear the man nodded at my chest.

"Thanks, I'll keep that in mind."

He touched his hat again; the caption said, "I'm with stoopid!" with the hand on it pointing in my direction. He left, leaving the door ajar. No sooner had he gone, when Harry breezed in.

"Morning, Sam. What did Don Juan want?"

"Came to check up on the heating."

"Yours..?"

I gave him a dirty look. He laughed and hung his clothes on the rack.

"You're pretty early for a Monday. What's up?"

I told him and of course, he wanted to stay and help. Harry would sort turds if he could be part of a detective team. He had just stuffed and lighted his pipe, drawing to get it going when Geoff strolled in, his coat open, his hands deep in the pockets. He never wore a hat. Some detective.

They shook hands. Geoff waved away clouds of smoke and asked good naturedly why he was fumigating the place.

"Bob was just in here asking Sam for a date."

I ignored him, but he persisted adding, "Sam gets him pretty hot and the poor man exudes a musky odor."

"Harry, just fuck yourself, okay?"

When his coughing fit was over and he could finally speak he said, "Tried, but threw my back out. Now I have Georges."

"Harry, for Christ's sake -will you...?"

Geoff laughed and Harry roared. What was my problem, he wanted to know.

"Maybe you should consider Bob's offer. Loosen you up."

I raised a book to throw at him and he ducked. I put it down and said, "You'd probably sue me for assault. Geoff would arrest me on the spot, I'm sure."

"I don't need the money, Sam. Or the aggravation." He winked at Geoff, put his pipe in the ashtray and rubbed his hands together, and said, "What are we waiting for then let's get started."

"So's we don't get in each other's way, we need a method." Geoff put his trench coat in the tub chair and proceeded to give instructions.

"Sam. You go through all of Harry's papers and books. Harry will do yours. Any objections?"

"Good idea," Harry said. "That way we're not liable to overlook anything."

"Thanks, Harry, for stating the obvious."

"Oh, touchy-touchy." He laughed at me. I'd get even yet.

"And I'll do the file cabinets. Do you mind, Harry?"

"Not at all. Go right ahead,"

Geoff held his hand out to him.

"Of course." He opened his desk drawer and handed Geoff a set of keys. "This shouldn't take too long, our office is hardly bigger than your friend's _utility closet_."

"Oh? How would you know? Have you and Bob shared a moment in his _utility_ closet?"

"Okay, you two. Knock it off and concentrate. It's too easy to miss something."

Harry continued to laugh at me, shaking his head and coughing. "By 'something' I take it you mean computer disks?"

"It's a good bet that's what's missing from the equation, but wouldn't limit it to disks, or thumb drives." Geoff was removing the contents of the file cabinets going through the folders one at a time, page by page, then moving them to the back ensuring none would be missed.

Harry went through my side with ease. All my books were arranged neatly and loose papers stacked separately on a shelf reserved for them. On the other hand, I was mired in Harry's haphazard arrangement. He had a habit of stuffing papers, clippings, photocopies, scraps of scribbled notes between pages. Each item, no doubt, deliberately placed. I tried to be careful, but more than a few fell out and fluttered to the floor. If this bothered him, he didn't let it show.

We worked for an hour, sifting carefully, checking through each book, every scrap of paper. Nothing.

"I've a class in ten minutes."

"No problem. Geoff and I can carry on."

"Okay, I'll see you after my class." They didn't answer, too involved with their search. I picked up my purse and laptop case and went to the ladies' room; an hour of combing through dusty books had left me more than disheveled.

I was anxious to get back so dismissed them a good ten minutes early and left in a rush to avoid answering any questions. I opened the door and cut a swath to my desk; Harry was fumigating again. Geoff sat in my swivel chair twirling from side to side, his hands steepled holding his chin up.

"All done..?"

"You could say that," Harry puffed. I couldn't read his tone so I looked at Geoff.

"Look what we found,' he said. He held up two disks.

"Thank God!" I said. I entered and collapsed in the chair. "I was wondering what the next step would be if nothing turned up."

"You can stop wondering. Our next step is to see what the hell's on these disks! We've been waiting for you the best part of an hour."

"Where were they?" I asked. I got up and put my case on the desk and pushed his feet away.

Harry smiled, making slits of his eyes, and blew a series of smoke rings. "Right in here," he said, putting a book on his desk blotter. "Right in here," he repeated.

I picked it up. It was Wilson's and Herrnstein's Crime and Human Nature. "How apt," I said.

"Hidden inside the cover. Pretty neat, huh?" Harry couldn't have been more pleased had he hidden them there himself.

"I guess I don't have to ask which one of you found them."

Harry chuckled. "I dropped my pipe and when I bent down to pick it up, noticed the book on the floor. Surprised you didn't miss it."

"You're kidding!" I said. "She must have hidden it the day we went for lunch. I remember she dropped her purse and had to fish it out from under the desk."

"Well? What are we waiting for? You've got a computer at home haven't you?"

"Yes, Harry. I do."

Twenty minutes later we were in my study installed in front of my computer. They sat on either side of me like bookends, Geoff on my right and Harry to my left, wheezing like a broken bellows.

"Harry, if you're going to puff on the damn thing blow the smoke the other way!"

"Sorry, Sam. I'll get rid of it."

"If I can stand my father's cigars, I can put up with your pipe. Just puff the other way." Geoff got up and opened the window a crack.

I booted up and loaded the disk. When the icon appeared I double clicked it watching the files fill the screen.

There were a lot of files, folders with names like: AGRO CHEM, GEN TECH, MULTI PLEX MFG., with locations in Japan. France. Germany. South Africa. There was nothing to indicate an involvement with arms or munitions, nothing remotely suggesting anything military.

"Nothing suggesting arms sale," I said.

"Won't be able to tell from the names of the companies. Or even their product list." He had let the pipe go out, but he still sucked on it and it gurgled obscenely.

"Look at this." Opposite each company, and their locations a string of letters appeared in groups of three, sometimes four."

"Looks like a code of some sort."

"Looks to me more like initials," Geoff said.   
Could represent his contacts."

""Would you look at the list!" Harry gave a low whistle. It scrolled for pages. "Jesus H! The man could have been killed for any of dozens of reasons, just look at that!"

I scrolled ahead. Several more pages of what had to be initials this time. Opposite the letters appeared remarks like: swinger, the gruesome twosome, boys will be boys. The list went on.

"God! Do you believe this? It's a record of their sexual preferences. If anyone of them had an inkling..." Harry tapped his pipe against the ashtray, then blew through the stem. A small piece of tobacco was dislodged and flew out and up, landing on my desk.

"No wonder he got himself killed. If he was blackmailing the people he dealt with he wasn't only dealing in land mines, he was bloody well walking on them." Geoff kept his eyes on the screen periodically telling me to slow down

"Here's one we know." He tapped the screen with the eraser end of a pencil pointing to initials on a page listing what had to be international banks. The letters J.M. appeared opposite M.B G.S.M.

"Jake Myers, you think?" I looked over at him.

"A pretty good bet, I'd say. And look at his comments. _ERRATIC! Panics easily. Not discreet_. I'd say it's a very good bet that he's referring to Jake. Rest his soul."

"I told you I thought he was acting kind of weird. Remember that night? After he came back from the john?" He made a face, not wanting to be reminded, especially since my swim in the ocean had followed as a probable consequence.

"We shouldn't jump to conclusions on this, you know."

"Harry! You said yourself..."

"I know, I know. Still. The lawyer in me says to go slowly. Don't make any rash or snap judgments."

"Normally I'd agree with you," Geoff interjected, "But like they say -if it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck..."

"Well, this particular duck is just a long list of names and places."

"And playgrounds," I said.

"Okay, and playgrounds," Harry admitted.

"Anyway," Geoff said." We're not looking at this for any kind of indictable offenses. Rather as a source to figure what the hell is going on, and hopefully get a line on Lee-Ann."

"That's true," Harry allowed. "I still don't want two of my best friends sticking their necks out. Okay?"

I went back to the beginning and went through the list again scrolling slowly.

"Apart from a few letters that _might_ refer to Jake, I can't make out anything. It's just a list of companies and probable references to Bill's contacts -not really much for us to go on." Geoff ran his fingers through his hair, and scratched his scalp. "What about the other disk?"

I went through the same procedures.

"Looks like it's just a copy." I scrolled through to make sure. I had learned the hard way before getting in the habit of backing up my own files.

"Well," Harry sighed. "If Lee-Ann figured she had to hide these disks, they have to be important. Obviously she didn't want them falling into the wrong hands." He leaned back and started to pack his pipe.

"Oh, sorry, Sam." He started to put it away.

"Go ahead. Smoke." I pushed the ashtray towards him; an old cigar butt lay dry and brittle in it.

"Harry's got a point. I don't see anything on this apart from a lot of sleazy information. If Bill was running a blackmail scheme, I suppose it could be more than enough to get him killed. But I don't see it as part of some world-wide plot."

"Unless he was blackmailing people on an international scale. Important people, politicians." I rolled my head from side to side to ease the tension in my neck.

"Possible. Even likely considering this list. But it's got to be deeper than that. All those companies listed. And the initials? If in fact that's what they are. They can't all be _important_ people." Again with the air quotes.

"Well," I said frustrated. "What do we do now? We've got the disks. As Harry said, they must be important since she went to the bother of hiding them. And Avi and Simon? It's also obvious from their behavior that they've been looking for something. And since Lee-Ann went to the bother of hiding them in my office she certainly didn't want either one of them to get hold of them."

"Which brings us to the question of your own safety." Harry put his hands on my shoulders and kneaded my neck muscles.

"I'd be quite concerned, my dear, about keeping quiet about this little discovery. As a matter of fact, I'd consider finding a safe hiding place for these. I'd also not keep them together. Make it twice as hard for whoever is looking to find them. Know what I mean?"

"Jesus, Harry, you're really getting into this."

"Just thinking ahead, just thinking ahead. You know, they weren't hard to find. And if you don't trust those two -Avi you said, and Simon? How long before they try to search your office. Or your home." He made a wry face.

"Don't say that. I'm paranoid enough as it is."

"Better safe than sorry," Geoff said. "Maybe it's time to put in a security system." He'd been after me for months to have an alarm system installed. I didn't exactly live in a low crime area.

"Maybe at this time the list doesn't mean much to you, or your investigation for that matter. But it's painfully obvious that something on these lists is important enough that it's getting people killed. Which means that whoever is holding this information is in danger."

"I couldn't agree more, Harry. And quite frankly, I don't relish Sam being up against two Israeli agents."

"What the Hell do you two want me to do anyway? Leave the country? Go into hiding like Lee-Ann?"

"No. You can't do that. But three things do come to mind. One: get that alarm system I've been nagging you about for months. Two: get in the habit of carrying your weapon. And three: Hire a security company to watch your back."

"Jesus, Geoff. You know how much that would cost?" He turned away. I knew he was thinking of approaching my father.

To break the tension Harry asked me to scroll through the lists yet again.

"Do you see anything that might -however remotely- refer to those two agents. The Israelis?"

"No, Harry. Not a damn thing."

"Easy, Sam, easy." But like the perpetual optimist that he is, Harry added, "Not at the moment. Not at the moment."

"Harry, we don't even know their last names."

"Avrum Fischer and Simon Gil," Geoff volunteered, his face deadpan.

"Fischer and Gil?" I said

"Right."

I was about to go through the list for the umteenth time.

"Forget it, Sam. I didn't see any AF's or SG's. Might as well turn the damn thing off."

"I'll take one of the disks. If you trust me."

"Jesus. We're not about to implicate you too."

"Nonsense. At this point we're really the only ones who know that the disks even exist. I'll be okay."

"I can't involve you Harry. I'm putting my neck in a noose as it is by not reporting this to my department."

"I'm involving myself. Look, if I drop dead, tell Georges to check my safe box at the bank."

"Harry! You don't sound very optimistic!"

"Harry can keep his disk in the bank and I'll take the other," Geoff interrupted. "I've got an idea."

I gave Harry the disk, after making a copy for myself. Geoff wasn't paying me any attention, arrykeptharyy but Harry, who missed nothing, smiled and waved it before putting it in his shirt pocket. "Bait." he said.

"Here's your copy, Geoff," I said handing him his.

"Thanks," he said slipping it into his jacket pocket. "Bait."

"Bait! I don't think I'm going to like your idea. I was almost shark food myself."

"Don't worry. What I plan to troll for isn't in the water."

He patted his pocket. "I have to get back to my office. Can I drop you somewhere, Harry?"

"Thanks, my car's in the lot."

"No problem." He looked at me.

"Thanks, but I think I'll stay right here. Hide in one of Dirty Bob's closets."

They left. At this point I should have got down to work. I needed a solid two hours to get caught up on my grading and lecture notes but I knew that would be futile. So I shrugged into my coat and put my laptop in the bag making sure I had the disk. The short walk home seemed an eternity.

Finally settled in my study, I crossed my fingers hoping my father wouldn't call or ring the bell off the door and resumed exploring the disk.

I explored the folder contents. Lots of numbers and letters. Names of companies and their business profiles. One folder seemed to be a catalogue of sexual preferences. Jesus, what the hell was Bill up to? No names. Nothing to identify the individuals except initials that held meaning only for him. This stuff fascinated me and I found myself caught up in the role of a voyeur. Most were a manifestation of what I would call fairly innocuous fantasies. Nothing that I thought could be devastatingly used for blackmail. Nothing much that went beyond my own erotic dreams. Handcuffs anyone?

I explored the disk for a while but found nothing other than the sexual stuff, nothing even remotely suggesting pay-offs or bribes or large money transactions. But I was operating in Bill's territory and any incriminating evidence would more than likely exist in some kind of encrypted form.

I even made a few lists of my own, on paper of course, reversing initials, rearranging company names in case they were anagrams. At one point I consulted my atlas looking up the geographic locations and matching them to the world's trouble spots. That didn't work either and nothing emerged to suggest any kind of pattern.

Apart from a predominance of seaport cities like Split and Dubrovnik on the Adriatic, Karachi on the Arabian and a string of Middle Eastern ports, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Montreal even made the list. Anything could be and no doubt has been shipped to these centers. Agricultural or chemical products I didn't think were particularly significant, even if Bill did record the names of his contacts cryptically. Apart from the sexual proclivities of what we assumed were his clients, the list was simply that -a list. A record of transactions and the people involved. Bill and thousands of others, no doubt, kept similar records, the details perhaps more limited than what I was trying to analyse.

Most large industrial companies manufactured products that were sold worldwide. How could we possibly investigate whether their activities were clandestine or not. Chemicals made fertilizers as well as bombs. Tanks could be built as easily as combines. Even a small tool and die company could turn out clips or springs integral to a sophisticated military weapon.

I shut down my laptop, turned off the light and went to the kitchen for something to eat. Armed with a cheese and tomato sandwich I went into the living room. Television -I read somewhere- altered brain rhythm. Maybe it would relax me enough to get a decent night's sleep. I was still dreaming of being adrift in that goddam boat.

I pressed the remote and clicked through the channels looking for something worthwhile. I watched a bit of E.T. marveling at how Mary's make-up is always so perfect. Her exuberance and Hollywood good looks pissed my off, reminding me of my jiggle thighs and the slackness that no bra in the world could firm up.

An old re-run of Batman was on, and I was drawn to watch the campy exploits of Adam West and his ward, Robin.

"Holy hotcakes, Batman. This porridge has lumps in it!"

"Yes," replied the caped crusader, "it's a gruel, gruel world."

I laughed in spite of myself and spent the evening with _Batman, The Brady Bunch,_ and _My Three Sons._ By eight-thirty I was so bored that working on my notes for my lecture series almost became an attractive alternative, but I decided instead to read a few freshman term papers. By eleven o'clock, even with one eye on _Colombo_ , I had managed to grade a few.

When the news came on I decided to call it quits; I had my own nightmare. The magic of video brought wars and its horrors right into your home. I didn't want the tangled masses of the dead and dying, the flyblown corpses of children, littering my living room.

I turned off the television and went to bed. Like the scriptures tell us: If thine eye offends thee —pluck it out.

# Chapter 16

At three-thirty I had to get up. I tried to ignore the urge, rolling over and fluffing my pillow, but I'm getting to that age where I can't sleep the night through without having to go to the bathroom. Fully awake now, I lay in bed enjoying the absolute feeling of peace, bathed in the cool light of the moon's silver glow. In the distance I could hear the faint wail of a siren, the city reminding that fear lurked and danger stalked constantly.

Suddenly it struck me. I threw off the bedclothes, stumbled into my slippers and groped my way to the study. I turned the desk lamp to the wall to avoid the glare and switched my laptop on. "Sometimes you have to read between the lines," she said.

I called up Bill's files and began slowly to scroll through the lists and selected the one about ex practices. Read between the lines, she said. Was she giving me a clue? Or was my imagination running wild, hoping against hope, that just maybe Lee-Ann wasn't what circumstances would have us believe. Read between the lines.

Of course nothing leapt into focus, no secrets suddenly revealed themselves. Refusing to allow disappointment engulf me I tried a last ditch effort before closing the files. I selected several paragraphs of text highlighting them. Then right clicked and selected FONT. In the popup box under EFFECTS I unchecked the HIDDEN box and clicked OK.

Stunned, I sat there staring as line after line of text appeared, embedded between the original lines detailing Bill's transactions.

Dear Lee-Ann. I hope you never have to read this. But in the event you do, you'll know someone in the organization has betrayed me. At this point I still don't know who. I have only been able to determine what he's been doing and how. I have put you and Sarah in Jeopardy, and for that I am more sorry than you can imagine. The best thing you can do is take the money and go somewhere, start over. Whatever you decide DON'T approach anyone in the organization. I'm giving you an account of everything I have been able to discover so far. Maybe, if it comes to that, and I pray it doesn't, you will have something to bargain with, as both you and Sarah are in great peril because of me.

As far as I have been able to discover Lee-Ann, this is what the traitor has done to sabotage the security of my beloved homeland. By studying my transactions, you will see that goods -the same goods- have been traded, then retraded. Note the following from AGROTECH.

In this instance, the deal was that a group representing a very large agricultural concern in what was Yugoslavia would receive several millions of dollars in farm machinery. Because of the political instability and the ensuing chaos, the whole agricultural cycle was disrupted. And apart from normal corruption and the destruction of farm equipment by rebel forces, the situation was very critical. Of course the country needed guns and ammunition too, but because of international agreements it was impossible to arm the country directly beyond the small amounts sanctioned by agreement. But no obstacle, Lee-Ann is insurmountable. Not in the business of war. An order for farm machinery was placed in excess by two-thirds what was actually needed. (It amazes me that no one ever checks whether quantities match need -greed seems to take control.) Anyway, the excess was traded to the Iranians in exchange for arms. The arms originated from the Eastern Bloc, acquired and paid for in large by the machinery which was again traded. The West would not trade with the Eastern Bloc and what agricultural equipment they could get from their allies was inadequate.

This is fine. Everyone is happy. And guns make some people very happy. The problem arose when someone from the Organization urged the Christian forces, the ones who received the guns in what is now Bosnia, to trade a portion of the arms shipment to the Maronite Christian militia in Lebanon who had their own problems with the Muslims. The PLO refugee camp in Lebanon served as a base for their operations against Israel. With Israel retaliating, Lebanon was in absolute turmoil. The Maronites needed to destroy the PLO before their conflict with Israel destroyed them laying waste to a good part of Lebanon. So far it's business as usual in this part of the world.

At some point someone in the Organization leaked information to the Lebanese Muslims. They were able to hi-jack the cargo at Tripoli, where it was off-loaded and diverted to the PLO strongholds in the south. Of course the PLO came out ahead in the deal as all it cost them was a pay-off to the traitor. It was a Jew that sold us out. I must also bear part of the responsibility. These weapons, originally destined to help other oppressed people defend themselves, end up killing our brothers and sisters. Justice and idealism has been corrupted, and I discovered too late that there is really no such thing.

A second example involves defrauding the World Bank. Our traitor again, under the guise of peaceful enterprise arranged with a German group of industrialists (can you believe it?) to build a hydroelectric dam and irrigation system to service an otherwise arid area in a far Eastern country -Indonesia, as I recall. A plan was devised (the same person) to defraud the World Bank of millions of dollars so that these people could use the money to buy arms. Arms and military equipment from Israel. A good deal for us -as death merchants. Israel even supplied PT boats so they could patrol their coastal waters. Our traitor also arranges to sell detecting equipment to the Tamils to help them in their fight against the government forces. He even arranged for Israel to train elite fighting forces. For both sides!

The agreement with the German engineering firm was approved and the money advanced. Local construction companies would build the installations, not the Germans. The reason will become apparent.

Local builders began construction, and in order to continue receiving advances from the World Bank, inspectors were sent to assess the progress. Of course the locals were adept at confusing the inspection teams. Using circuitous routes for security purposes, the inspectors were fooled into thinking the installations were progressing on schedule. They were not aware that construction occurred on a very limited basis, a ploy to mislead the inspectors. Millions of dollars were advanced, most of which was spent on military equipment -which by the way- Israel supplied the bulk. Our traitor also made millions, from the illegal kickbacks, and when Israel's role in this is discovered she'll suffer irreparable harm, greater even than if the guns were trained on her.

If you are not yet convinced, this will show the extent of his greed and his skills at political machinations.

In the African connection our traitor positioned agents where he could best line his own pockets. His liaison officers worked in three stages. His methods were sound and in this case did benefit Israel, but he was taking a very large slice of the pie for himself by manipulating the Africans and demanding large pay-offs. Needing Israel's help they had no choice but to comply.

In the first stage of his scheme his agents would determine the needs of a particular group. Many African countries are ripe for a variety of exploitative enterprises. They would find out what or whom the group feared, who was plotting against whom. He didn't care about their internal politics. And the fact that Israel showed no scruples has given me cause to doubt my own involvement. Once the needs of the group were determined the second phase came into play. The agents insinuated themselves and promised that Israel would back them -one underdog helping another. We could sell them arms. Machinery. Train soldiers, provide intelligence. This was too appealing to pass up. What struggling nation would give up an opportunity to assert themselves against the enemy?

In the third phase of his plan, he tightened the financial noose, making the nation dependent on Israel. In return for Israel's intervention all they had to do was agree to purchase other materials, usually agriculturally related. Agriculture determined whether or not they survived as a nation; if they wanted guns, they also had to buy plows.

The arms deals were so attractive they would be fools not to accept the deals. For Israel, it was just sound business practice, keeping the economic wheels turning.

Lee-Ann, I've had to wrestle with my conscience. The issues are not cut and dried. I thought I was doing a good thing. Working to maintain a balance of power, help Israel stay viable. I've discovered that this isn't so. It's about money and power. Control. And in order to maintain this balance I became part of an enormous deceit, an incredible plot that kept other sides fighting each other in order to keep the heat off Israel. Essentially, I unwittingly became a warmonger inciting people to continue their conflict, fueling their hatreds for profit. I got involved to protect Israel but the worms of corruption destroyed my idealism. The battle is no longer about nationalism or freedom. Or right and wrong. It's about power and control by big monopolies and profit hungry shareholders. What starts out as support for the few idealists fighting for independence, the right for their families to live in peace and go to bed with a full belly, has become a deadly game where death and destruction drives world economy.

I have been able to piece some of this together by keeping track and following the transactions through my many contacts. But no one will name names. If you betray your sources, reveal your contacts, you are a dead man. There is so much at stake, so much money to be made no one wants to jeopardize that. One of my contacts told me, 'War will be always with us, so why not make a little money?' Keep the dictators armed to the teeth, it'll stabilize their own countries, at least.

An old Islamic saying says, 'Better sixty years of tyranny than one day of anarchy.' Order, no matter how harshly imposed, is preferable to the chaos of rebellion.

At this point, Lee-Ann, it's impossible to stop the cancer from spreading. And if you're reading this, it has become too late for me. So trust no one in the organization. Speak to no one. Save yourself and Sarah.

Paint, put some beauty back in the world.

All my love to you both.

Bill. Shalom.

I couldn't believe it, moved by the pathos, the futility of Bill's attempt to expose the roots of corruption in his organization, and further horrified that he had been killed, not as we had originally suspected, but by the hand of someone in his own organization, someone he had trusted. As an agent of death, Bill had lived long and prosperously, judging by the bank accounts. He died trying to correct a moral outrage, killed, ground up by the gears of the very machine he had been part of.

It was only five-fifteen, but I picked up the phone anyway and called Geoff.

"Yeah..?" he mumbled.

"It's Sam."

"Sam. Jesus, what time is it?" He dropped the phone and cursed fumbling for it.

"You know what time it is?" he mumbled.

"I figured it out," I said ignoring his complaining.

"Figured what out? What are you talking about?" His voice faded. I was sure he had gone back to sleep."

"Geoff, you there?"

"Yeah, yeah. Gimme a sec." The phone went dead.

"Okay," he said finally coming back on the line. "What's so important you call me at five in the morning? I'm _not_ going for a run if that's what you want."

"The disk, Geoff. I figured it out."

"The disk!" he said, suddenly alert. "I'll be right over." He hung up without a word, becoming as abrupt as my father. I turned on the printer to churn out two copies.

A half hour later he was at the door, Joan in tow. He knew what I was thinking and looked at me sheepishly. His hair was disheveled and he badly needed a shave. Joan looked surprisingly fresh, managing at least to comb her hair and put on some lipstick. In jeans, a sweatshirt and minimal make-up she was still a knock out. Petite and well proportioned as Geoff would say, and you know what that means. From his apartment to mine was about a fifteen-minute drive, even at this hour. I didn't know where Joan lived. I tried not to appear jealous and smiled at her.

"Okay," I said, when we were in the study. "I'm surprised at myself for not tumbling to it sooner. If you think about it, it was kind of dumb not to see it."

"Don't be so hard on yourself," she said reading one of the copies. "Important thing is you did figure it out."

Geoff ignored us and was already deep into his copy. I had instructed the printer to print out only the hidden text.

"Would you believe this?' he said, shaking his head.

"Actually, I would," Joan answered putting the pages down. "I'm not at all surprised."

"Your view of humanity is pretty jaded," I told her. Geoff looked at me abruptly then glanced at Joan.

"I'm sorry. That was mean. I'd be turned off too, in your shoes. I don't see how you and Geoff can even keep any kind of positive outlook when you deal with this kind of stuff every day."

"That's why I spend a lot of time in the gym. Can't afford the luxury of getting emotionally hung up."

Touché, I thought. I deserved that.

Geoff slapped the sheaf of papers against his thigh and said, "Know what? I'm going to practice a little deceit myself."

"What do you mean," I asked.

"I'm going to pass the disk along to our two Israeli friends."

"You're not serious!" I protested.

"I'm going to tell them we can't make heads or tails of it. It'll probably take them a while to tumble to the hidden text thing themselves."

"They might believe we found nothing, but in fact it wasn't that difficult really. Mostly dumb luck on my part to check for hidden text, but for anyone with the most rudimentary skills it'll be a piece of cake."

"You're probably right about that. I can barely handle email. And another little problem. Where did we find the disk? Tell them in the apartment?"

"Joan was shaking her head and interrupted saying, "They might believe you didn't get to the hidden text, but they won't swallow that you found the disk in her apartment. You can bet they turned the place upside down."

"You're right," he said tapping the rolled papers on the desk.

"Okay. What about in her car? Or behind one of her canvases?" I asked.

"Just give them the truth," Joan said. "Why concoct some complicated story?"

"The truth. Given all that's been happening, the truth would be refreshing, wouldn't it?" He shook his head chuckling.

"Okay, then." He stood and started to pace. "I'll tell then you found it in your office. Which you did. That Lee-Ann hid it in a book."

"The one I actually found it in."

"Okay, okay," Joan said nodding vigorously. "Good cover story."

"And if they quiz me. I'll say I was shelving the books I had been consulting. And the disk fell out."

"Great! It's settled." And rubbing his hands together added, "Breakfast. Picasso's. My treat."

"Picasso's? What's Picasso's?"

"Joan," he said, "you haven't lived until you've eaten at Picasso's." He closed his eyes and kissed the tips of his fingers.

"Geoff likes the place because the waitresses are real Amazons."

"Come on, Sam. You're thinking about the place next door."

"Will one of you please tell me what's going on?"

"Never mind, it's a long story."

It was a longish drive to the West End just to go for breakfast, but at this hour traffic isn't that heavy and we were seated and ready to order in less than twenty minutes.

Breaking my own rule, I ate an enormous breakfast. A couple of eggs with bacon, home fries, tomato slices and a dollop of baked beans, and two slices of toast dripping with butter. I even used up my rations of jam in the little plastic container. While washing it all down with a second cup of coffee, I watched Joan demolish an enormous half cantaloupe and about a pint of low-fat yoghurt. I'd have to log a few hours in a gym. Screw the gym! I told myself and reached for another piece of toast.

After nearly an hour of gourmet dining we were ready to leave, and as Geoff was getting up to pay the bill, Joan reminded him to get a receipt.

The ride back took considerably longer. Trucks double-parked and express buses exercising their priority turned the smooth flow into a traffic nightmare. And jaywalkers, of course, whose nerve and skill would rival the runners at Pamplona.

"I'll call you later," he said. I ran up the stairs stopping to pick up the paper and could see that one of the sections had already blown half way down the street. The paperboy, in spite of a generous tip consistently failed to leave it folded in the rack under the mailbox. I left it in a jumble on the kitchen table and started in on some housework while I still had the urge.

Forty minutes later, in the middle of sorting my laundry the phone rang. I contemplated letting it go to voice mail, figuring only my father would call at this hour, but for some reason I was drawn to answer.

"All hell's broken loose!" Geoff said, beside himself.

"My God, what happened?"

"Those three Arabs..."

"Yes. The ones you figure..."

"Yeah, those. Well. They've been shot. Killed."

"When?" My knees went weak and I sat down clutching a damp towel.

"Sometime in the night -early morning, I guess. Look. I'm at the scene now. I hate to ask you this but can you come? I'd like you to eyeball the place."

"I don't know. It's not like I'm part of the..."

"Don't worry about that. In fact you are part of the investigation, remember? I think you could help me."

"I have to get dressed, I was about to take a shower."

"I'll send a car." He hung up. I raced to dress and was pulling on my panty hose when the bell rang. I struggled and tugged, careful not to ram my thumbs through the sheer material and jammed my feet into my black pumps before running to the door. A baby-faced officer with a downy mustache touched the peak of his cap.

"Docteur Millan'?"

"C'est moi," I answered. " Un instant. Mon manteau." He stood mid-way on the steps while I got my coat.

He didn't use the siren but whenever a car blocked his way, he let it whoop once or twice and swerved ahead. The street was swarming with police cars, marked and unmarked and to belabor a metaphor the place was a beehive of activity. My chauffeur, Yves St Jacques, screeched to the curb pitching me forward against the restraint.

I thanked him and got out. "De rien, Madame," he said.

I could see Geoff standing in the doorway of the building, his coat buttoned to his neck, his hands in his pockets. I braced myself.

"Thanks for coming. Put this around your neck would you?" He handed a plasticized ID card on a small beaded chain then motioned for me to follow him after admonishing me not to touch anything.

"Just look, okay? Mental pictures." He pealed a Tums from a roll, popped it in his mouth.

For the life of me I couldn't figure why he wanted me here or what he expected me to notice. Mental pictures.

Although Ouellette was there, Geoff was the official homicide investigator. I followed him into the apartment holding my breath, afraid of what I was about to encounter. In one of the bedrooms, a photographer moved about snapping pictures, the flash, its irregular strobe freezing the scene in gruesome detail. The man lay hunched up against the headboard. The sheets were tangled as if he'd dug his feet into the bed to propel himself backwards from his assassin. His right leg was angled, his foot caught under his left thigh. The grey blanket, thin and worn, was stained with more than just his blood. I held my hand over my mouth and swallowed hard. He'd been shot in the chest and through the left eye.

"You okay?" I nodded; if I opened my mouth more than words would come out. He went into the next room. The Aziz brothers now shared death as well as the room.

Their single beds were on opposite sides leaving an open space in the center of the room. An old battered desk separated the beds and served the brothers as a night table. A brown goose-necked lamp was angled so Mahmed could study. He had been reading when he died, shot in the forehead. He stared, his eyes cloudy and unseeing, at a spot on the wall above my head. The milky gaze unnerved me.

Lying on his stomach, Rashad too, had gone to Allah, delivered by a shot in the back of his head. A neat little hole where the bullet had entered, a gelatinous mess where brain matter had splattered the wall in front of his face.

I turned away.

"Okay?"

I nodded and stepped back when two men entered. Both wore latex gloves, one carried the proverbial black bag. Black Bag got on with his business. I didn't watch, but I knew he'd be checking body temperature, poking cavities and examining the degree of rigidity to determine the time of death.

"Six heures, sept peut-être. Pas plus." Black Bag said, to his assistant.

No more than seven hours. From what I remembered my father telling me, the body wouldn't be frozen, but stiffness would be pronounced. I didn't look. Instead, I concentrated on the room, tried to take mental pictures.

It reminded me of a college dorm, not an apartment. And not unlike college kids, the place was in disarray. Clothes strewn about. Books piled on the desk and floor by Mahmed's bed. Rashad's side of the room was neater, almost obsessively so. He even slept without wrinkling the blankets and I wondered if this difference in character was a source of friction. The point was academic.

I clutched my purse with both hands and leaned towards Geoff.

"After they take the other one away, I want to look at the room." Geoff made as if to leave and I reached for his arm.

"Sorry." With his hand gently on my elbow he steered me to the kitchen. The apartment was filled with men. One stood by the door smoking a cigarette, but a withering look from Ouellette made the young officer put it out. Not seeing an ashtray handy, he dropped it in a one of the empty beer bottles that littered a coffee table. If they were Muslim, they weren't all that devout.

"Okay," he said, after a gurney was wheeled away with the remains of Fadlallah. The form under the blanket was all lumps. I let him lead, and we went into the room. The photographer was working in the other room now, but the police artist was still putting his stuff away. I never understood the purpose of having someone draw the scene when photography did a better, more thorough and no doubt, a more accurate job.

He smiled at me perfunctorily when we passed each other. I looked around trying to capture the essence of the place. The bed was still a shambles and there was much more blood than I had originally noticed. Head wounds, I didn't think bled that much. But he had been shot in the chest too. Probably the assassin had aimed for his head but Fadlallah had recoiled so quickly that the first shot caught him in the chest.

I really didn't want to stay, but in deference to Geoff I did my best to concentrate.

This room wasn't much different. Just another student's bedroom. And in fact that is what they were; students. Or at least that was their cover. Fadlallah, I figured, must've have been senior to the brothers. His room was a little bigger, not better appointed, but far less cramped, since he was its sole occupant. It had a relaxed spaciousness as if some territorial predator had staked a claim that no one would dare challenge. Apart from a desk and lamp he had one of those prefab bookshelves, the kind you assemble yourself. His books revealed nothing to me other than testify to his status as political science student.

"Let's go," I said to him. I'd seen more than enough, more than I wanted to for that matter.

He didn't answer, just nodded and went over to exchange a few words with Ouellette. I couldn't hear what they said, but Ouellette looked in my direction, shook his head vigorously. Geoff leaned closer to the big man and whispered something. Ouellette nodded. Geoff turned and came over to me.

"I'll take you home," was all he said.

He stopped in front of my place and sat without speaking for several minutes. I could see he was mentally wrestling with what had just gone down.

"I've got to get back to the office. There's a few things I need to do. I also want to talk to the tenant who called the police. You going to be okay?"

"I'll get over it."

"Sorry to put you through this, but I wanted an unbiased observer there."

"How come Avi or Simon wasn't there? I expected to see them under the circumstances."

"Treated it like a regular homicide. Which it was until, we discovered who they were. No reason to notify them."

"They're going to be pretty steamed."

"Let them."

"How did it come to light -that it wasn't a _regular_ homicide?"

"A fluke actually. Mind you, we'd have learned anyway, but one of the officers that responded to the call? She was in the station the day we interrogated these three guys. Remember?" My face told him I didn't.

"Terry. Therese?"

"Sorry."

"The one who commented about the stink in the fridge."

"Right. She answered the call?"

"She and her partner. Terry recognized Fadlallah. After she called in to report what they'd discovered, she asked to speak to me."

"A pretty good cop, I'd say."

"Better believe it. She's studying to make detective. You sure you're going to be alright."

"Stop worrying. I won't shatter."

"Fine. And I'd like you to do me a favor then. If you're up to it."

"What kind of favor."

"Would you write done what you saw. Your impressions. Thoughts. Anything. Write it down in your own words."

Whose words did he expect me to use. "That's it?"

"That's it. The more details, the better."

"Okay. Where's this going? You've never called on me for this kind of thing before."

"I'm not sure where it's going. I would like for once, apart from my own observations, a view, a perspective that's not police jargonese. I want something a little more human. Call it an intuitive interpretation."

"Intuition," I said, "means guessing. Gut feelings. I didn't think that was your style."

"In a homicide investigation you don't want _style_. I want something that doesn't look like elements ticked from a check list."

"Okay. I'll see what I can do. But for the life of me I don't see how it's going to help you."

"You let me worry about that."

We said good-bye and he watched me climb the stairs and let myself in before pulling away. I hung up my coat and put on a pot of coffee before going to my study to transcribe my mental pictures. I really didn't think I could help. I was a criminologist, not a forensic scientist. Crime and criminals was where my expertise lay. And my background, for the most part, was academic. Mind you, I did have a fair amount of experience having counseled and interviewed hundreds of convicted criminals. I might offer insight as to motive, or suggest reasons for crime, anti-social behavior. I could quote facts, statistics, lecture about environment and family life as it impinged on the individual, shaped character. But my observations of crime scenes? He'd be better off picking the brains of the criminalists who were present at the scene.

Nevertheless, I wrote down my impressions as he asked, and in great and boring detail, I was sure.

It took me all of an hour, but I finished in time to prepare for my afternoon class. With my notes in order I packed my laptop case and headed for my office. Bob was checking the rads again, so I shed my coat and went directly to class, not in the mood to be scrutinized or ogled. He was no Paul Newman.

They were a good group, and generally punctual; a few were already milling around and chatting with friends, and by the time the chime sounded we were ready to start.

"Dr. Milland," Arthur had his hand up. "Did you hear the news?"

"What news..?"

"About the Arabs."

"Yeah," said another. "You think it was those guys killed the Jews?"

"I don't know." I tried to keep the shock out of my voice. I shouldn't have been surprised that the killings were already news and that they had heard it.

"I really have no Idea. The police, I'm sure, are following that up."

Arthur gnawed the end of his pencil, then pushed it under his cap to scratch. His long hair was tied in a ponytail. "If they're the ones, they got what they deserved."

Several comments of assent rose from the group. In particular, Henry's voice was loud and clear.

"It's about time someone taught them a lesson." He thumped his desk. "If I had a gun...."

"Not that hard to get guns, Henry."

I interrupted and said, "And just maybe that's part of the problem, Arthur. And do you really think, Henry, that violence is the answer -that the deaths of those three students solves anything?"

"They sure won't kill any more of us!" His eyes wild.

"As far as I know," I said, choosing my words carefully, "it hasn't been determined that they were responsible. Let's not jump to conclusions."

"The news said it has to do with terrorists. That the PLO is here to..."

Henry cut Jennifer off. "That's right! The bastards are everywhere. Not enough they want all of Palestine, they're killing Jews around the world!" He stood to face his classmates. "New York. Buenos Aires. And now, right here on campus. Unless we do something, unless we strike back, Jews everywhere will be targets for revenge attacks against Israel."

"It goes both ways," Jennifer said. "What about Goldstein? And that church? The one in Lebanon that was bombed?"

"It wasn't Jews that did that!" He almost yelled.

"Hold on a sec. Hey, you two. We want to keep this civilized, okay?"

Jennifer apologized embarrassed. Henry scowled, feeling forever victimized, shouldering his perceived persecution as Atlas might have borne the world.

"I've been reading a lot about this," she continued. "The Middle East conflict? Part of the problem is that all those people see themselves as victims."

" _Those people. Those people!_ I'm sick of being referred to that way."

"That's not what I meant, Henry. I mean all the people there. Not just Jews." Henry's wild-eyed aggression didn't cow her. Jennifer was gutsy and stood her ground.

"Victims never see themselves as responsible, they're the underdog, okay? So whenever they retaliate they feel justified. They don't limit themselves, there's no moral evaluation."

"We are victims," Henry insisted. "It's been centuries. Time for Jews to stand up for themselves. No one else will."

"That's probably true."

"Probably? Hah!"

"Okay," she said. "Let's say it is true. But the Arabs also see themselves as victims. And what about the Christians over there? This conflict will never end. Not as long as people keep seeing themselves as victims and look for revenge. As long as you see yourself a victim, you'll excuse any action you take. No matter if the bombs kill innocent people. And about the three Arabs who were just killed? You don't even know the facts -but you're glad they're dead. Just because you're a Jew you hate Arabs. That's unbelievable!" She was getting worked up but controlled herself and sat down.

A few people at the back clapped. Anti-Semites, Henry would say. Arthur leaned forward and whispered something to him. Henry looked at his watch and nodded.

"The issues are complex and obviously very emotional," I said to them. "With centuries of bitterness to overcome. And now the conflict has spread internationally. Right here on our own campus!" I thumped the lectern. "And we are all targets. Not just Jews. Or Arabs. Jennifer is right.

"But are we any better? We're thrilled when a terrorist -or a perceived terrorist gets his." I looked at Henry. "We step outside the confines of our own civility and humanity and applaud their destruction. But Henry has a point too. In a perverse way justice is served. But it's not the justice of civilization. An eye for an eye never settles anything."

At this point someone in the back row decided to contribute. I'd been watching his agitation and he could no longer contain himself.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Milland, but I have to disagree." He stood up politely to speak. A tall student with Mediterranean features. He was well dressed in dark slacks and a Polo shirt.

"The West," he said, trying desperately not to gesture, "uses the words _terrorist, fanatic, madman,_ whenever these groups strike. They're freedom fighters. Soldiers...."

"Right on!" Arthur interrupted, thrusting his fist in the air.

"They're fighting for their freedom," he continued, "a cause no less important than that of the Jews. The Palestinians have rights too. We mustn't forget that it is also their homeland." He sat down, shuffled in his seat. "Unless you come from there," he added, "you can't hope to understand."

"Are you a Palestinian?", someone asked.

"I'm Greek. My parents came from Cypress.

I couldn't remember his name. He usually kept to himself at the back of the room listening and taking notes.

"Very few of us," I said, "can identify with the struggles that many people live with. But these so-called freedom fighters are not the problem. The issue is that the battle is being fought on our doorstep."

"And that's why it's so easy to hate them," Jennifer said. "It doesn't matter whether it's Arabs or Jews if one of us gets killed in the cross fire. People will blame either one, or both. They both get bad press."

"But it makes their conflict relevant," Arthur added. "They want to draw attention to themselves. And by exporting the conflict the whole world has to acknowledge them."

Good point, I thought and looked at the clock.

"This has been terrific, "I told them. "Heated. Animated and passionate. That's okay as long as it doesn't get personal." Henry scowled.

"You might consider putting your thoughts and ideas on paper. Let's say no more than a page. Think about it. About being a victim and about what your reactions might be against your aggressor. Don't worry, I won't collect them. It's a question of conscience for small group discussion. Next class, okay?"

I shuffled my papers into my laptop bag and left. In my office I sat thinking about what Jennifer and Henry had said. And the Greek, boy. I grabbed my class list to look for his name.

They worried me. So quick to justify violence. Henry's hatred for Arabs was so deeply entrenched nothing would sway him. But it was Arthur who shocked me. A Mohawk who always had much to contribute whenever the subject of Native or minority rights came up had never counseled war. His comments about guns bothered me.

Maybe I was over reacting, but if we were going to continue on the topic I had better get more background.

I picked up the phone and dialed.

"Hi, Boots. It's Sam. Fine, fine. You. Great. Say are you free for lunch? My treat. Of course I know where it is. I'll meet you there."

I grabbed my coat and headed for the Union.

The noise, though not deafening, was typically loud with piped in music. Not my taste, but I'm no longer twenty.

Boots had arrived ahead of me and was clearing a table when I walked in.

"Sam!" Boots always greeted me with enthusiasm. He had the rare gift of making one feel they were the center of his universe.

"How have you been? Haven't seen you in ages." He wiped his hands on his pants and kissed my cheek.

"You okay?" he said studying me. Word of my ordeal had traveled at the speed of light.

"Fully recovered", I said and pirouetted.

"Okay, I'm convinced. Here." He pulled out the chair for me, then sat down resting his elbows on the table. He was wearing his field clothes. Khaki shirt, with flap pockets on both sides stuffed with assorted pens and of all things a tire pressure gauge. His pants were a very faded blue, with large patch pockets and button down flaps, bulging with God knows what. He'd discarded his army-style jacket on a chair at the next table. He was a tall man, strong and sinewy, with a ready smile and uncanny nature to drop whatever he was doing to help anyone who asked. Close to forty, he looked nearer fifty from years of tramping in sand and hot desert sun. As far as I knew, he was single.

"How's the book coming?"

"Very slow, Sam. Very slow. Ancient Hebrew is not easy to translate. And the competition being what it is, you've got to make damn sure you can back it all up. Problem is, when you're only working with fragments anybody can shoot holes in your theories."

"What'll you have?" I asked him, getting up and draping my coat over an empty chair.

"Coffee will be fine, thanks."

"You're a cheap date."

"Yeah," he said, patting his stomach. "I've put on a few pounds since I got back." He looked as slim as ever to me. I went over to the counter and ordered two coffees and a yogurt."

"Sorry, Professor. We're all out of the fruit ones." I handed her a five-dollar bill and from the change left a few coins in the paper cup labeled 'tips'. Boots has his nose into an issue of _Biblical Archaeology Revue_ ; __ his secret ambition was to discover the Ark of the Covenant. He closed the magazine and put it aside to make room for the tray.

Slowly he emptied the contents of three sugar packets into his cup and stirred thoroughly then he wiped the plastic spoon on the paper napkin, which he folded back into its original shape. If he was this meticulous in his work, his digs had to be the most methodically excavated in the universe.

"What's this about, Sam? You sounded serious on the phone."

"No, no. Nothing serious, really. Just too big a dose of curiosity probably."

I told him what had transpired in my class. What had prompted the exchange about terrorism and politics in the Mid East and of Arthur's feelings regarding the conflict his own people faced.

"You know, he has a point. Now, I'm no expert on political history. Not exactly my field, you know. But he does have a point. Tribal identity is very strong. Especially in the Middle East. The desert is a harsh and unforgiving environment. But nature wasn't your only enemy. So were the other clans. Tribal kinship was of necessity very strong, the bonds tight. Survival in those days depended entirely on sticking together."

"According to Arthur the struggle facing his people is also one of identity."

"Neither conflict is about territory. At least not per se. In the Middle East it was essentially about water -still is, if you want my opinion."

"And for the Natives it was over hunting, game."

"A question of the buffalo wasn't it? Of course some would argue that the conflicts did arise over territory. In the sense that in controlling territory you could control your access to game. Or water for that matter. Water and grazing rights." He played with the cup, peeling back the Styrofoam, discarding the bits in the little aluminum pie plate. Static controlled where the bits went -everywhere except in the ashtray.

"In America, it was the buffalo. In the desert water is the most important resource. And survival was often at the expense of the other tribe, wasn't it? You or them. Your family or your clan against the others. The Indians have a very strong sense of family too?"

"That's the impression I got from Arthur, yes."

"For both cultures the only law was tribal law. Based on survival needs." He punctuated this last remark by throwing himself back against the chair and folding his arms across his chest.

"If someone wronged you -you'd better watch your back!"

"Exactly. I don't know about the Indians but in the desert tribes would pursue their enemies relentlessly and annihilate them. The whole family wiped out. Finished."

"Pretty harsh."

"So was having your whole family die of thirst. Or hunger. If you wanted to make it, you couldn't afford to have any living enemies around waiting to do you dirty. Of course sometimes a clan could drum up support from other clans."

"Then there'd be a real blood bath."

"Occasionally. Generally though, the other tribes might pressure the offending party to make restitution. Toe the line. Of course wiping them out was more expedient. Your worries were over."

"The conflict is still rooted in tribalism, isn't it?"

"Precisely." He sat forward and scratched a muscular forearm. His deep tan complimented his rugged good looks.

"The problem is these people, Arabs and Jews -and Arthur's people to some extent- these people occupy, or occupied, a particular geographic area. But...." he said holding up a finger, "they still hold fast to their primordial identity. To them the idea of a nation state is an abstraction. Still too new a concept. Borders are not something they really want."

"And in Arthur's case, his people lost the ability to live off the land when the Europeans came over. Killing game and putting up fences."

"Right. In both cases it's not a fight over territory in the feudal sense. Land ownership is a western -a European concept based on an agrarian economy. What we're seeing is a battle to regain what was lost -not territory but survival-resources that the territory held. In the Middle East it's water, for the Indian it was the buffalo."

"Unlike the American Indians," I said, "the Jews and Arabs -the desert tribes- have dispersed around the world. It almost makes sense that the battle is fought on an international level."

"In a weird way that's true. And for them the sword is still the answer. They nail their enemies wherever and whenever. Remember when Assad, back in '82, slaughtered the town of Hamas? He even left the ruins and the dead to remind the people what he'd do if they ever rose against him. The only rule is to play for keeps."

"Pretty ruthless, isn't it?"

"Like the desert." He smiled ruefully and the skin around his eyes crinkled. His whole face was dark and wrinkled from the desert sun.

"You know," he added, "if you're following the conflicts, you'll see in just about every case it's one ethnic group against another. Sometimes it's clans. Sometimes whole communities. Religion, of course, is really the biggie."

"Sadly, that's true." I thought of Bill and his letter. Muslims against Muslims. Christians against Christians. And all of them against the Jews.

"And to help them settle their differences, everybody offers to sell them arms."

"What's that..?"

"Oh, just thinking out loud. Sure I can't get you something other than coffee?"

"Thanks, Sam." He looked at his watch, an old analog with a worn leather strap. "I really should be going. I've an appointment with some people I'm trying to convince to fund my next expedition. With all the cut-backs, regular funding doesn't go very far."

"Well, good luck. And thanks for meeting me."

He stood, put one foot on the chair to pull up a sock, rolling the top down to cover the top part of his boot. They were worn and faded to a dull, dusty grey. I'd never seem him wear anything other than his thick-soled trademark boots.

I let him leave ahead of me, then picked up the debris. The Union was starting to fill and a group of students decided they needed our table. I took my time walking home. It was getting colder, winter in the air.

As usual the phone was ringing off the hook; he could at least give me time to take off my coat.

"Sammy, you're home, finally."

"Just came in this minute. As if you didn't know."

"Never mind that. Come over, will you." He hung up.

"I'm fine thank you," I said to the phone holding it at arm's length. "And how was your day?" My God, I was losing it. Was he this abrupt with his patients? I imagined him saying, "Stop with this depression business, I'm a busy man. Now go, I'll see you next week. Don't be late!"

Again, as was his habit, he had left the door ajar and I let myself in.

# Chapter 17

"Dad. I really can't just drop everything and come over every time you snap your fingers." I shrugged out of my coat and jammed it on a hanger. In my haste the hook caught on the scarf tearing a six-inch rent in the silk.

"Jesus!" I muttered a bit too loudly and went to the kitchen.

"Hello, Sam."

"Oh, hello... uh Father Mackenzie." He stood up giving me his smile and offered his hand.

"Delighted to see you again." He kept smiling and holding on to my hand. There's no way to pull away without appearing rude and I could feel the colour rising in my face. He finally let go and toyed with his crucifix instead, absolving me, I'm sure for taking his Lord's name in vain.

"Anastasio, please call me Anastasio." He sat down and resumed eating his baklava. What the hell would my father serve if he entertained Eskimos? Or head hunters.

My father brought me a piece of pastry but my mouth was so dry I didn't think I could swallow. He sat down wearing the goddam towel as an apron again.

"Gregor was just telling me about his problems regarding the painting. You know -the Domini Canes?"

"Oh?" He brushed a crumb from his robes, then carefully picked off a stubborn flake with a well-manicured thumb and forefinger handling it as if it was the Holiest of Hosts, then took a careful sip of his coffee with the reverence I'm sure he devoted to drinking the Blood of Christ. There was a dribble of honey in his beard.

"I was telling him about the problem. About dating the painting."

"What a fascinating account! Really. Imagine, thwarted by a piece of wood."

"Right. Who'd have thought that the Italians would use poplar, instead of oak."

"Mmmm," he said, nodding his head. "But you know," he said glancing sideways at my father, "I might have been able to help. It's unfortunate we weren't acquainted at the time." He shook his head at the tragedy of the century. My father's bad luck, of course.

"Remember, Sammy? What I had said about anachronisms?"

"Yes. You made an analogy, something about Picasso."

"That's it. Seems I missed a real doozy in the Domini Canes."

"Gregor, don't be so hard on yourself." My, but he was forgiving. Occupational hazard, I supposed.

"A detail like that would be very easy to miss. Unless you know your church history."

My father could see I wasn't following any of this.

"Come. Bring your coffee," he said.

We followed him into the living room. The painting was back on the chesterfield.

"Dad?"

"Relax, I told Johnson I wanted to look at it again. See how I went wrong." He was like a dog with bone, whenever his credibility was in question.

"The painting," he went on, "fit what I knew -or rather what I felt I knew." He looked at the priest.

"Except for a small fact. And a bit of church history would have helped you avoid the pitfall." He stood tall and straight, his hands clasped in front of him, looking more like the Ayatollah than a priest.

"As for your father's expertise on style and origin pertaining to, ah... time period I don't think he can be easily faulted. His analysis in respect to his interpretation of the data is to be commended I'm sure."

"But there's something I missed, Sammy. And as it turns out, it's a real clincher." He approached the painting with the same reverence the Ayatollah was drinking his coffee.

"Like I said, I told Johnson I wanted to look at the painting again. I couldn't get it out of my mind." Couldn't believe he was wrong more likely.

"And I was sitting here in front of it when Anastasio calls. Wanted to talk about you know... Jimmy."

"That's right. I invited myself over. I had an ulterior motive," he confessed. "I remembered Maria's delicious pastry. But we got sidetracked by your father's enthusiasm for the- what do you call it, Gregor? The Lorenzo panel?"

"At this point I'm not sure what to call it!"

"We've been referring to it as the Domini Canes," I volunteered.

"I like that. Quite appropriate in fact."

"You'll see how just how appropriate, Sammy." My father positively beamed in the Great One's presence. I wanted to gag.

"I was pointing out the priests to Anastasio." He pointed to the black and white robed figures. "These two together. Holding the book. In my ignorance, I thought the book represented the Word, Church doctrine. Since it was the Domincans' mandate to spread it, so to speak. Anyway, here I was going on and on about it... Anastasio why don't you tell her the rest?"

"Well, yes. Ah, your father's absolutely right. Fortunately I do read Latin. I spent many long hours as a seminarian learning it, believe me! And as a result -not of my diligence but out of fear of being expelled from the seminary- I remember it quite well." He leaned over and pointed to an inscription in the book tilting his head to read the inverted writing.

_"Malleus Maleficarum," he_ said. The script was so small I had never noticed it was actually legible.

"Malleus Maleficarum," he repeated. "The Witches' Hammer."

"The Witches Hammer? That's it? This is your proof that the panel _wasn't painted_ in the fourteenth century?"

"That's right, Sammy. At least not the oak piece."

"Will one of you please explain? This is getting too complicated."

The priest laughed indulgently, his voice resonant. How understandable that I was confused.

"That book, Sam, wasn't written until 1489." He laughed again, very pleased with himself. "Not until 1489. These two priests? Heinrich Kramer and Jakob Sprenger, I'm sure they represent the two Dominicans who wrote the Witches' Hammer. For witch hunters. Like your father said the Dominican mandate included rooting out heretics!"

"So that's the anachronism?"

"Yes. That's right."

"Wait a sec. This bit about the book is beginning to make sense -there's no way the painting can be dated before -what did you say?"

"1489."

"Yes, 1489. Since the book didn't even exist in Giotto's time. But what's this about the oak part?"

This time my father laughed. The two of them should write a comedy routine. Take it on the road. Entertain his parishioners.

"Johnson was in such a stew he took the painting back to have it tree-ring dated again. And found another surprise."

"What is it this time? I can't believe the ineptitude surrounding this painting. Isn't there anyone in this business that knows what he's doing?"

"It certainly looks bad doesn't it?"

"Looks bad! From the beginning this has been falling apart. Starts out it's supposed to have been painted by Giotto or some.... some... apprentice of his. Now we see where it might date to the fifteenth century. Tomorrow, no doubt, someone will say the paint's still fresh."

"Not as bad as that, Sammy. Anyway, Johnson has it tested again. This time -don't look at me that way, Sammy."

"I'm not doing anything. Really." I sat with my arms folded and tried not to roll my eyes.

"He has it tested again, okay. And this time the tests show that, yes, it's painted on oak. Partly."

"Only partly?"

"Partly it's oak -partly it's poplar. The restored part is oak."

"Partly Italian then?"

"It would seem, yes."

"So it's a hybrid. The Hounds of God are mongrels."

Anastasio erupted in a roar of laughter and slapped his knee. My father didn't quite appreciate the humour, and it showed in his face.

"If you two can contain yourselves for a moment."

"I'm sorry, Gregor. But your daughter's remark caught me totally off guard. Really, I'm sorry. But you have to admit, it was pretty funny."

My father would admit to no such thing, drew himself up to confront indignity and said petulantly, "It would seem the painting spans about two hundred years. Which in itself is not particularly unusual. Restoration, changes, additions are often made. The Vatican has in its collection a great many altered pieces."

"No pun intended, I hope! I'm sorry, Gregor, but I couldn't pass that one up."

My father indulged him, with a humourless but polite chuckle.

"Two hundred years?" I added putting in my two cents. "Must make it twice as valuable."

"You never know," he said glaring at me. "It just might at that."

"Does Johnson know about this?" I said keeping a straight face.

"Of course!"

"I mean about that book. The Malleus whatever."

"Not about the book, no."

"He'll have a coronary for sure!"

"Good thing you're a doctor, Gregor," he said, stifling another outburst.

"No, I think he'll take this quite well, actually. If he gets credit -providing Father Mackenzie doesn't object- will stand him in good stead."

"Object? Why would I object? If it helps the man, he's welcome." The man was a real do-gooder.

"There's something about all of this that still eludes me. You say the painting spans about two hundred years?" He nodded, still peeved with me.

"And originally you said it was early fourteenth century. Giotto school." He nodded again.

"But the panel -the oak part- although dendrochronolgy dates it to the mid-thirteen hundreds, it can't be Italian, because the Italians used poplar." Another nod.

"And even though the panel, according to dendrochronology, is from that time period, the painting on it is actually fifteenth century. Executed after 1489, according to Anastasio. The wood is the right age, but the painting isn't. A discrepancy of almost two hundred years and perhaps more than one country?"

"In all likelihood, that's right." Talking to me again.

"Sounds pretty fishy, don't you think?"

"Just because we find discrepancies doesn't mean something is _fishy._ More like a mystery unfolding."

"A mystery that can make or break a person's reputation."

"I told you, Sammy. Johnson's going to come out on top. You watch." He waved a finger at me.

"No doubt." Anastasio butt in to keep a family squabble at bay, "According to your father the painting's Italian. For the most part at least. And if I'm not mistaken -didn't you say the provenance is solidly documented?"

"That's right. It's supposed to be."

"Supposed to be?"

"Sammy, I can only repeat what I've been told. It's not like I'm part of the museum scene."

"Hang on," the priest said. "For the moment we'll assume the provenance is accurate. Now, the oak is an addition. Part of an addition, you said."

"Right," my father agreed, nodding. "And executed to be part of the original. Obviously as it fits in so well with the whole."

"I'm no art historian, but bear with me a second."

"Certainly. Your insight has already been significant."

"Like I said, I'm only an amateur. Art is not in my background. But I do know a bit of history. And some Latin. I think we're agreed that the Latin inscription has to put the painting in the fifteenth century, and not earlier than 1489."

"Anastasio...." I said, interrupting. "That gives the painting three faces doesn't it? Dad?"

"What do you mean, Sammy? Three faces."

"Well, first of all, part of the painting has been attributed to Lorenzo. Fourteenth century."

"Right. Maybe late thirteenth."

"The oak panel is supposedly a restoration. Or addition, it doesn't matter."

"Okay," he said cautiously.

"And the oak section dates to the right time frame and has been painted to fit in with the Lorenzo. Style and so forth."

"Go on."

"But if the Latin inscription is from a period almost two hundred years later as Father Mackenzie suggests, that inscription could have been added later. To alter or update the painting so to speak. As a second restoration, it becomes the third aspect of the painting. The part with the two priests with that book." I paused a moment. "Is it possible the priests and the book were changes to the original? Maybe an over-painting?"

"My God, Sammy. You make it sound like the painting was an on-going effort, changed and adapted whenever it suited." He rubbed his face. "I have no idea. But it's about time for me to bow out. Let Johnson worry about that." He shook his head sadly. "More tests." He muttered.

I didn't want to rub salt in his wounds, but as far as I was concerned the testing should have been done long ago. I couldn't believe how this whole thing was unfolding. Someone should look into Johnson's credentials. What kind of art expert was he anyway?

"Not to change the subject," I said to the priest, "but can you explain a few things to me? From a historical perspective, church history that is." Might as well pick his brains since he claimed he was such an authority.

"If I can..."

"Art was a political vehicle -especially for the church, wasn't it?"

"Yes, it was very didactic, so you could say that."

"Can you explain then, the significance of this? And this?" I pointed to what my father had described in his lecture as the grotesqueries. The monsters from hell.

"Well," he said stalling, his eyes darting back and forth. "Well," he repeated. "Symbols. To represent evil forces. They show how the souls of the dead will suffer in hell. How God will punish the unbeliever. And over here. This old man, ugly, evil looking. Hooked nose. With the Crescent of Islam on his shoulder. The Infidel. The followers of Mohammed. And over here?" He pointed to the figure my father claimed was a banker. One of the Medici.

"The Jew. The money lender. Bankers to kings to finance their wars. Needed and sought after, but despised, hated and reviled." In his museum lecture, my father claimed the figure represented a patron of the arts.

"As you said so yourself, Sam, paintings were political vehicles. Not only in the didactic sense of spreading dogma. But also in spreading propaganda. To denounce Islam. To discredit Jews. Don't forget. In this painting, the artist wasn't that far removed from the Crusades. And the threat of the heretic Saracen was a major concern to the spread of Christianity."

"You don't think, this figure, the Jew? You don't think it's some wealthy Christian merchant -about to use some of his wealth to serve God?"

"Mmmm. I don't think, so. It's possible. I'm only interpreting the symbols as I understand them, Gregor."

"Which is exactly what you did, Dad. So don't look so crestfallen. I'm sure, if we get another person to discuss the painting we'll have an entirely new perspective. This is all very subjective, anyway."

"Oh, a lot of it is. A lot of it is," the priest agreed. "Still the symbology remains."

"The symbology may remain, but our perspective on it changes with time, doesn't it? Which can lead to considerable speculation."

"Mmmm. Not always. As far as the church and scriptures are concerned the use of pictorial elements has pretty much retained their symbolic meanings. For example these grotesqueries, as you called them, will forever represent evil. Satan. God's mighty but fallen angel."

I looked at my father hanging on to his every word. The priest's arguments as convincing as his own museum lecture was.

"Okay, but whether that character is a Jew, a usurious money lender, or a Christian benefactor, will probably remain a moot point," I persisted.

"I don't know," the priest said. "After four or five hundred years, who can really say. You can argue from several angles. All of them convincing. Maybe these figures -these merchants are actually Christian."

"After the Plague," my father ventured carefully, "it wasn't uncommon for wealthy people to endow churches. Hospitals."

"Possibly, possibly. But I don't know. These little stars. Here on the collar. And on his cape. Might represent the Star of David, don't you think?"

On closer scrutiny, I had to confess that they did.

"It's seems pretty clear. To me anyway," he continued. "I think the painting denounces both Jews and Muslims. You see, at that time Jews and Muslims weren't seen so much as a threat to the Church's survival, but as a way of unifying Christians. Fighting a common enemy -two common enemies- was a feudal way of unifying your forces. And in this case it would bring Christians together. Which was the goal of the Church. Pick a scapegoat and ensure your own solidarity. It was fashionable to blame all kinds of disaster on the Jews. Even the Plague, so I've read. Whole communities of Jews were killed. On that suspicion alone."

"We haven't come far, have we?" I told him. "A lot of people feel the same way today. Look at the reports about who owns the media manipulating public opinion."

"And the economy too, Sammy. Through concentration of wealth. Whenever there's a recession -blame the Jews. Look at the recent wave of desecrated synagogues. The Neo-Nazis. Look what's happening in Russia. Synagogues vandalized over there too."

"Never mind, Russia," I said, "It happens right in our own city. And don't forget the conflict in the Middle East. Like Father Mackenzie said, Muslims and Jews were the Church's biggest enemies and campaigned against them. Today the Church sits and watches from the sidelines as they continue to slaughter each other. You know what they say -if you're not part of the solution...." I got up and adjusted the shades against the late afternoon sun.

Anastasio shifted to a more comfortable position now that the sun wasn't in his eyes, and said, "Then you're part of the problem. History tells us whenever things don't go right, we need somewhere to hang the blame. And what better place than on the backs of Jews? And of the time we're speaking, the Church was drawing the flock together, unifying the herd so to speak. And if it meant finding a scapegoat? Well.... Jews were handy. Easy to blame."

"The perennial scapegoat for over two thousand years now."

"I wish I could disagree with you, Gregor. The Church has certainly failed in that regard. The Church and its clergy must collectively share the blame. Didn't the pope admit to that? We've a lot of damage to undo, confidence to restore. I'm hoping at this next summit some resolution can be made -an entente of some sort- as a prelude to peace. The Church must take an active part- play a humanitarian role-in stopping the hostilities."

"That won't happen until you guys can get them all baptized!"

I realized too late the cruelty of my remark. "I sorry," I said. "That was uncalled for. What I meant was...."

"Don't apologize. You're right. It's that old question of unity again. That's the problem, isn't it? It's differences that we war against." He shook his head. "We have to get past that. We really must if there is to be any hope for peace."

"Peace!" my father snorted. "A cease fire at least. One that is observed."

"You'd have to get rid of all the arms dealers," I said. Maybe differences did start wars, but people like Bill kept them going. Bill, big business and profit hungry, war mongering countries. Israel included.

The priest stood up and put his cup on the table. "An intellectual exercise. But it's not only theories and ideologies that we're up against. We have to contend with the fanatic too. The Baruch Goldsteins. People intent on committing the worst atrocities to stop any kind of compromise from taking hold." He looked at me.

"You said it, Sam. After hundreds of years we still can't agree to disagree." He stood up and smoothed his robes. "Before I go, Gregor, can I talk to you about Jimmy?"

I got the hint. "I really should get back. I've tons of work. So if you'll excuse me..."

"Nice seeing you again, Sam. Enjoyed our talk." He smiled, and extended his hand. It was warm and dry. I was beginning to like the man; he had a sense of humor. I got my things from the closet, said good-bye and left.

It was almost dinnertime and I was starving, but as usual there was little in the fridge other than one over-ripe tomato, a rubbery cucumber and a package of mushrooms already brown. Thea Maria, bless her heart, had left a moussaka casserole and there was still enough for a small serving. I took the lid off the container and sniffed. It didn't smell off, and it looked okay, but it was a week old. I felt a little guilty for flushing it down the toilet, but I was in no mood to tempt fate.

Depressed about the state of my larder, I took the two remaining eggs, and broke them into greased custard cups. After toasting a sliced, stale bagel, and nuking the eggs for forty seconds, I sat at the kitchen table eating and berating myself for my poor domestic habits.

My depression wasn't complete, so after eating I took my coffee into the living room and turned on the news. The war in Nigeria, and others in Africa were all in full swing, judging by the bodies stacked like cordwood. Red Cross workers, masked and gloved, continued the task of separating the dead from the dying, emaciated and ravaged by cholera. Civil war; another tribal battle.

I switched channels. This time the assault wasn't so violent. Just another bombing, the rubble blocking the street. I switched the set off; probably just another Jewish embassy.

I was feeling pretty sorry for myself and about to settle down for a good cry when the phone rang.

Geoff.

"Hi, Sam. How are you?" At least _he_ observed the rudiments of telephone etiquette.

"I'm fine, thank you," I lied. I could at least turn off my television, cancel my newspaper subscription, but he spent his life wading through the detritus of human misery. I should be cheering _him_ up!

"Glad to hear you're finally getting over it," referring still to my dip in the ocean. And oddly enough I had put that behind me. Still the occasional dreams though.

"How are you holding up? You sound tired."

"I'm beat. This case just doesn't want to quit. And now there's a new wrinkle."

"What happened..." I put my hand over my other ear. A garbage truck in the lane was making a hell of a racket.

"The Arabs that got killed? There's always an autopsy in cases like this." He paused and for a second I thought we were cut off.

"Say, Sam...? Are you going to be in? I'd like to come over if that's okay."

"Like now? There's not a scrap of food in the house."

"No problem. We can order a pizza or something."

"Sure, come over. I could use the company."

I hung up and ran around straightening the place up a bit. Picking dirty laundry _and_ clean clothes off the floor in my bedroom and stowing them in the hamper. The bathroom smelled musty so I gave it a shot of air freshener. It was an old building and the skylight served only to amplify sound between the two buildings rather than the intended source of ventilation. I flossed and brushed my teeth then changed into a clean pair of jeans and T-shirt, my Liz Claiborne. The red one. A dab of synthetic pheromones went behind my ears and neck. You never know.

I was wiping the kitchen counter with a soiled dishtowel when the bell rang.

"Hope you didn't phone for the pizza, I picked one up on the way over."

"No, not yet." The truth was I had completely forgotten.

"So what's this new development."? He was devouring a slab and cheese trailed. The way he nibbled at the strand reminded me of the spaghetti-eating episode in _Lady and the Tramp._

He licked sauce from his fingers methodically before saying, "Yes, about the autopsy. Listen to this... I never told you, but Ouellette got a court order to have Bill's remains exhumed."

"After all these years..."

"Yes. And as you know originally we figured Bill's death was accidental."

"Originally, yes."

"And you also are aware that recent events have indicated otherwise. And we both know what was on Bill's mind when we saw what was on that disk. Ouellette figures he's got enough to petition the court to open the grave."

"You told Ouellette about the disk?"

"I have to cover my ass, Sam."

"I can see that. But I thought the disk was your ace in the hole?"

"It was. Still is actually. He didn't compromise what was on the disk."

"How'd he convince a judge then?"

"Hang on a sec. They autopsied the three Arabs."

"That's standard isn't it, so..."

"Sam."

"Sorry." I hated the way he dragged things out.

"They autopsied the three Arabs. Recovered the bullets. And guess what?" I shrugged, restraining myself from biting.

"They run a trace on the bullets through the computer. We're hooked up to a database with the Americans. The bullets that killed Jake and Gloria matched the ones recovered from the Arabs."

"You're not serious..."

"I kid you not, Sam." He let it sink in before continuing.

"Ouellette puts his evidence together and sees a judge."

"How did he convince the judge that there's a connection to Bill in all of this?"

"He told him that Bill was suspected of -if not being an arms dealer- at least being involved in a money laundering scheme, convincing him that Bill's suspected background and involvement were grounds enough to exhume the body."

"And the judge bought it?"

"The unexplained money in Lee-Ann's accounts turned him. Since it was traced to the bank in San Marcos. That and the fact of course that Jake worked there. And add to the pile that Bill was Lee-Ann's husband we had more than enough evidence to convince the judge. Nor did it hurt that the three Arabs were involved in smuggling dangerous materials."

"I can see this coming. They exhume the body and..."

"...and recover a bullet. It matches the ones that killed the Arabs and Jake and Gloria."

"Jesus!"

"You said it."

"How come the bullet was missed the first time?"

"You mean, Bill?" Of course I meant Bill. I nodded.

"He was burnt to crisp, remember? Not suspecting homicide, the pathologist just did a routine examination."

"Seems a bit slip-shod."

"I don't know. Had he been looking for a bullet I'm sure he'd have found it. At that time there had been no reason to suspect foul play. The pathologist wasn't behooved to look for bullets." Behooved? Where did he get these words?

"Now what?

"Exactly. Somewhere there's got to be a link. It's got me stumped, that's for sure. I know there's a connection, but for the life of me I can't see it." He pushed himself back from the table, and put his hand over his mouth to suppress a belch.

"Not to change the subject, but what about our other two friends."

"Avi and Simon? We've a meeting with them tomorrow morning."

# Chapter 18

Geoff left for his office early the next morning and since I had a couple of hours free before classes, I resolved finally to get some groceries. I went down to the garage and got into my Jetta and pressed the remote to open the garage door. I hadn't driven it in ages and I was covered in a greasy film of grey dust. I fired the ignition and it started without a problem in spite of having been idle for so long. I backed into the lane carefully and waited until the door was closed before pulling away, heading down towards Sherbrooke figuring on replenishing my dwindled stores at the Super Carnaval, near where we had eaten breakfast. The traffic was a bitch, but it hadn't snowed yet so the weather didn't make a bad situation worse. Actually we were enjoying a warm front, supposedly, with daytime temperatures in the low fifties. Nights were considerably colder, and frost had long since killed the flowers planted by the city. The flower clock in Westmount Park was a scraggle of brown stems and withered leaves. The ducks in the pond too, were gone. A bunch of young kids were skipping stones across the water or maybe trying to sink the toy sailboat. Young mothers and nannies sat bundled, talking on benches rocking expensive prams, those blue things with enormous wheels. The light changed and the car behind me tooted. I looked in my mirror. The driver, an old man, could barely see over his steering wheel. I eased over to the right lane to let him pass. He was hunched over the wheel gripping it with both hands and staring intently ahead.

The store is one of those enormous warehouse types with fresh produce shipped in from all over the world and piled as high as the pyramids. Everyday low prices guaranteed the best deals in town, but if you shopped the specials and clipped coupons you did just as well at the regular supermarkets. I didn't shop the specials nor was I a coupon clipper so I toured the aisles, picking up essentials like butter, eggs, bread -two loaves of raisin- and fresh fruit and vegetables of course. And some non-essentials too, like six bottles of Chilean wine. Three each of their red and white to go with the chickens and standing rib roasts. I also spent some time at the cheese and deli counter.

The basket was hard to push not because of the groceries but because I am forever cursed with a cart with a crippled wheel. At the checkout, it was another contest. The cashier likes to tabulate groceries faster than I can bag them and the canned goods always end up on top of my strawberries.

I paid with my bankcard, was instantly three hundred and ninety-five dollars poorer and wheeled the cart dejectedly to the car. Half the stuff was for my father anyway. And besides, I rationalized, the special on chicken accounted for at least sixty bucks. Maria was going to be busy but it might be a while before I could count on her culinary skills.

It was lunchtime when I got home, and I ate while paging through the morning paper. Nothing new. Even the comic page was showing re-runs. Bill Waterson apparently was on a much needed vacation. Oh! the stress of being a satirist.

I tidied the kitchen bagged the newspapers for the recycle box, changed my clothes and went to work.

Harry was slaving away, his desk covered in open books with bits of paper sticking out between pages marking important spots. To my great annoyance Bob was on his hands and knees doing something to the radiator valve. His assistant, a pimply faced youth stood mute beside him holding a screwdriver. Bob was muttering obscenities, and berating the boy. Why is it when men can't manage a job it's the helper who's at fault?

"Lookit whatcher doing boy. I asked for the Philips, the one with the square, not the cross." Bob took the screwdriver from him exchanging it roughly for the one he didn't want. The embarrassed youth tried to avoid my gaze and stepped aside so I could sit at my desk.

I caught his eye and said, mouthing the words so Bob wouldn't hear, "You were right." He looked confused for a moment light dawning when I pointed to the screwdriver and he smiled.

Bob cursed a few more times, struggled to his feet announcing he'd have to come back and left with the youth in tow.

"You know, you're gonna hafta learn the right names of the tools. That's what a helper's for." I could hear him scolding and reprimanding him all the way down the corridor.

"Nice man," he said to me by way of greeting."

"He's a real prince, isn't he? You're busy, what's up?"

"Yeah, your friend Jimmy."

"What's he done? And don't call him my friend!"

"Oops. Someone's touchy." He shuffled some papers into a bundle and put them into his case. "I'm not sure yet but he's worried about more than gambling debts."

Discussing Jimmy's problems with his lawyer made me uncomfortable. For some reason people always trusted me to keep their confidences. My curiosity overrode my discomfort and I prompted him, "Oh?"

"Not gambling debts, Sam. I really shouldn't be telling you this, but I have a bad habit of thinking out loud." He snorted, then coughed on the smoke until his face was red.

"Harry! Next time you do that, I'm dialing 9-1-1. I wish to hell you'd stop smoking!"

He continued to cough and clear his throat until I was about to retch. After mopping his face with a gingham bed sheet that posed as a hanky he had sufficiently recovered to talk. His voice was strained and his eyes watered. I swore the first chance I had I'd smash his goddam pipe.

"Jimmy apparently has got himself in a fix. Something about screwing a rich widow. Literally and figuratively."

"Now that sounds more like the Jimmy I know."

"Well, Jimmy's widow is rich and quite young. Unfortunately she's not yet a widow. if you follow." I didn't. But I didn't interrupt or ask questions. Maybe that's why people unburdened themselves to me. If you appear curious, they think you're prying and they clam up. Feigning disinterest spurred them on.

"He's screwing her eyes out. She's desperately in love with him. So nuts that she gives him the grand total of -in our money- about thirty-five thousand dollars."

"That's the amount he needs to pay off the bad guys. At least that's what he told his mother."

"Exactly! But originally the money was for some scheme or other. Jimmy's widow is so ga-ga she gives him the money. But get this.... Jimmy pisses it away at a casino. The whole thirty-five grand!"

"You're kidding!"

"Now Jimmy's widow -who's not a widow... yet- is really married to this old geezer. He's over eighty and not in the best of health. As I understand it, he's actually terminally ill. But there's still some life in the old coot. Anyway, this not yet widow is overwrought with premature grief. Jimmy screws her out of her misery showing her that indeed there will be life after death, her husband's that is. Jimmy boy is playing hide the salami to the tune of thirty-five thousand dollars."

"That's a lot of cold cuts." Well, that got him coughing and sputtering again.

"I choke to death, it's on your conscience."

I tried to ignore him as he pulled himself together.

"Anyway, the old geezer finds out from one of the servants and the shit hits the fan. Now, the husband -who's at death's door- still has some moxie in him. He's mad as hell and ready for a fight."

"Do you blame him!"

"The geezer's pissed for a couple of reasons," he said counting them off on stubby fingers starting with his pinkie.

"One. His wife is sampling other goods. Two, she's going to replace him even before the worms plan their banquet and three? It's his thirty-five grand that's paying to have her greased and lubed by a strange mechanic."

"If the old man gets his money back, will he drop the charges?"

"Are you kidding? That man wants his pound of flesh."

"Apart from all this, what about the icon?"

"Yes, the icon. Claims he stole it to raise the cash to repay the widow."

"That's pretty hard to swallow."

"Tell me about it. Your friend is among other things, a sociopathic liar."

"But he's willing to return the icon."

"Like he has a choice? No, the icon's going back thanks to what's-his-name."

"Speaking of what's his name, I hear the two of you have been plotting."

"You don't like him much, do you?"

"I haven't made up mind," I said frowning.

"Sam. You've a worse opinion of people than I do. And I'm the lawyer. Where's your optimism?"

"He's okay, I guess. Just seems a bit too slick."

"Your friendly prelate has taken him under his wing. I'd say Jimmy boy is lucky to have him in his corner." He repacked his pipe and struck a wooden match to life with a thumbnail, then drew and puffed until the tobacco glowed. An ember escaped and landed on his sleeve. Harry slapped at it, his chair creaking as he flailed his arm wildly.

"You know, the good Father has offered to pay my fee." He said this softly, as if not really wanting me to hear. "Keep this between you and me and the gatepost." He added.

"Maybe I mis-judged the man," I said surprised.

"Mmmm," he said puffing.

I shifted in my chair, removed my shoe and shook out a grain of sand, reminded of the story about the _Princess and the Pea._

"What's going on in your little world these days? Any new developments?"

"Regarding the painting or the disk?"

"Both."

I gave him a rundown on the Lorenzo panel and brought him up to speed regarding Geoff's investigation. He was fascinated that the bullets recovered from the Arabs came from the same gun that had killed Jake and his wife and Bill.

"That's amazing! It's right out of James Bond." He shuddered. I wondered if he was having second thoughts about getting involved.

"Have you given any thought to what Georges said?" I looked puzzled.

"About finding out why those four Jews were killed?"

"Oh, that! I don't know. Geoff hasn't said anything. They're assuming it was a terrorist attack on Jews."

"It wouldn't surprise me if it has something to do with these three that were killed."

"It's certainly something they're considering. That's why they were watching them in the first place."

"Kind of puts a lid on things now that they're dead."

"Looks that way."

"He puffed thoughtfully then said, "About all these killings. And you -the boat thing. And now the bullets matching in the deaths of the Arabs, Bill and those other two..."

"Jake and his wife. Gloria."

"Yes." He paused again, puffing, thinking of his next words. "Sam. Maybe I'm just an old fool. But the way things are starting to connect... And Georges's idea."

"I'm listening."

"Consider for a moment they were specific targets. Not random."

"They weren't random, Harry."

"I know that. Jews, yes, but I mean targeted for another reason. Given what has been coming to light, maybe they were actually marked."

"They were marked Harry."

His deductive powers were uncanny. Neither Harry nor Georges knew that the four Hassid were part of the Mossad. Nor did they know of the tattoo linking them to Lee-Ann and her involvement. When I filled him in, he was stunned. This was the first time I had ever seen Harry absolutely speechless.

"Sweet baby Jesus!" He said finally. "Sweet baby Jesus." He tapped the pipe out in the ashtray.

"This is incredible. Wait'll I tell Georges." He saw the look on my face. "On second thought, it'll scare the shit out of him. Best we keep this to ourselves."

"And he'll worry about you. You told him about the disk?"

"No, as a matter of fact, I didn't. Like you said, he'd only worry. You know what he's like."

"Probably best if you don't say anything."

"Right. Right," he agreed. "But as I was saying before. About them being targets and all. Suppose, Sam -now keep an open mind on this- but just suppose Lee-Ann was a target too, that day."

"Good God, Harry!"

"I know it sounds preposterous. Takes a stretch of imagination."

"More than a stretch, I'd say."

"Just hear me out, okay? Poor Sarah gets killed along with the four Jews. Lee-Ann almost got shot herself. This is followed by the murders of the three Arabs. Then there's Jake and Gloria -and don't forget Bill, he was the first. These you say were killed by the same gun. Now you tell me about the tattoos. Seems to me if Lee-Ann is part of that club maybe she was a marked woman. I don't know about you, Sam, but I'd sure as hell give it some thought!"

"This is too bizarre!"

"Maybe. Maybe not." He toyed with his pipe trying to decide whether or not to refill it. "You might want to mention this to Geoff. If it cracks him up, you can blame me."

"Don't worry on that score. That's the first thing I'm going to tell him."

"I've got to get going, Sam." He got up abruptly and put on his coat wrapping the long scarf around his neck over the collar.

"You take real care now, you hear?" He came over to take my hand and when I stood, he hugged me. He smelled of cologne and tobacco, heady and masculine.

"Tah," he said, and left.

"Tah," I replied as he closed the door. I loved the man.

I sat down thinking about what he had said. If in fact Lee-Ann had been a target, she'd still be in danger providing she was still alive. I glanced at the clock, and panicked. I was ten minutes late. I grabbed my case and headed for class.

As I arrived breathless, I almost collided with Jennifer.

"Oh, good, you're here. We were worried. I was just going to administration." She smiled self-consciously and followed me in. I'm never late for class or appointments, and their relief was so apparent I almost burst into tears. They sensed this and set about organizing themselves into small discussion groups. Jennifer taking charge again.

The class went well, I think. Harry's remarks had unnerved me to the point that I was too distracted to concentrate. When I found myself at home later that afternoon, I was hard pressed to remember what had filled the gap between meeting my group and getting home.

I paced nervously, unable to settle down, getting more and more paranoid by the minute. I had even forgotten to bring my laptop case home. I tried to reach Geoff but he couldn't take the call. Did I want to leave a message? Sure. Tell him his ex-wife thinks there's a plot to kill her and all her friends. Tell him not to worry -it's not urgent.

I paced some more; it's good for the rug. I called my father next. Damn voice mail again. Great! Call me I said. I called the station again, this time asking for Joan. Same answer. Same meeting. I was driving myself nuts.

Maybe a run would settle me down. I changed into my running gear, but realized I might miss a callback, so I abandoned that idea. Thanks a lot, Harry. Just what I needed. Another anxiety.

Suddenly the phone rang and I damn near jumped out of my skin.

"Hello."

"Sam, are you okay...?" It was Joan.

"Yes, I'm fine." Physically, I wanted to add.

"The switch board recognized your voice. Said you called a couple of times. You sure you're okay?"

I told her I was then explained why I had called. She listened attentively, occasionally muttering a yes, uh huh. She gave no indication that she thought my imagination was running wild.

"Leave it with me," she said. "I'll tell Geoff and have him call you. Will you be at this number?" I assured her I would.

"I'll have him get back to you as soon as possible. He's been in a meeting with inspector Ouellette all day. You've got a cell phone -why don't you go for a run?"

I took her advice, and my iPhone.

The temperature had dropped and I was cold in just a sweatshirt and tights, so I pushed it, working up a good sweat. As I turned the corner on Ste Catherine onto University I picked up the pace, dodging and ignoring pedestrians who thought sidewalks where their personal domain. As the hill steepened above Sherbrooke I pushed harder, driving myself, determined not to be beaten. For the first time in months I felt good, in control and when I reached Pine I decided to repeat the circuit easing off a bit to complete the run without taking a walking break. Even the gods of traffic lights were with me.

At Pine I stopped and walked to cool down, savoring the accomplishment.

My father's jaguar was parked crookedly on the street in front of the house and I noticed as I went up my stairs that his door opened slightly, moved by a gust of wind. He normally drives right into the garage so I stepped over the cement divider and went in curious to see what he was in a rush about. At this time he should have been still at the hospital. I noticed too, that the light to his alarm system wasn't blinking. Obviously he still hadn't got the hang of it.

"Dad. Where are you?" I sang out. The place seemed abnormally quite; he usually had some long hair music playing in the background. I went ahead slowly, making a bit of noise to avoid startling him. I considered turning back in case he was entertaining someone; the child playing the parent.

"Hello, it's me," I called striking forth.

Something caught my eye, a metallic glint, and I looked towards the living room. The sun had glanced off the brass base of a lamp stand. It was on the floor, the shade bent. I went over to pick it up and stopped in mid-stride. He was on the floor twisted and slumped between the coffee table and the chesterfield.

"Dad!" I knelt and shook him, then felt for a pulse. What the hell was I doing? I had my cell phone and punched in 9-1-1.

After identifying myself and giving the address, repeating 'heart attack!' several times to the dispatcher, I checked for and felt a pulse in his neck. There was quite a gash in his head where he'd hit it on the table, and the carpet was stained with blood about the size of a saucer. Blood was still oozing from a lump the size of walnut, a good sign since the dead don't bleed. He'd be mad as hell at the stain in his prized Chinese rug.

The paramedics arrived as I was putting a cold compress to his head. He still hadn't regained consciousness.

"He's got a good pulse, Miss.", he said, putting away his stethoscope.. "And his skin is dry. Is he always this pale."

"I think so. Depends if he's had a drink or two."

The other one pulled the blood pressure cuff off with a rip of Velcro, and gently felt around his pelvic area.

"Sometimes, Miss, at this age they break a hip and fall." The older one with the stethoscope gave him a look, then carefully, with rehearsed moves, they placed him on the stretcher.

"I was afraid it might be a heart attack or a stroke. He's been under a lot of stress lately."

"I don't think so, Miss," the older one said. "Looks like he fell and banged his head. He'll be okay."

They wheeled him out strapped and immobilized, so small and frail, his face ashen I hoped in contrast to the blood on the left side of his head and face. I went with them in the ambulance and tried again on my cell phone to reach Geoff, who was still unavailable.

After a frantic forty minutes in the ER, Rose, the doctor who had treated Lee-Ann, came out to speak to me.

"Your father is one tough old bird!" Her smile and casual approach didn't reassure me.

"How is he?"

"He's going to be fine."

"He didn't have a heart attack or stroke...?"

"My goodness, no."

"The paramedic said he might have broken his hip then fallen and hit his head."

"No, that wasn't it either. The ex-rays show no broken bones. The worst is a mild concussion and a nasty bump. He's going to have a wicked headache though. It took twelve stitches to close him up."

"Thank God!" I said, relieved.

"What did he fall against anyway?"

"The coffee table."

"Ah," she nodded, as if to say what else could it have been.

"Probably tripped on something. At that age it doesn't take much."

"I guess." I'd been after him to get his eyes checked. Maybe he tripped over the electrical cord, I thought remembering the fallen lamp.

"When can I see him?"

"Give me ten minutes. We're moving him to a ward, and knowing your father, I'm putting him in a private room. I'd like to keep him under observation for the next twenty-four hours. Just to be on the safe side considering it's a head trauma."

She patted my hand in a motherly way and said, "Ten minutes." Rose had to be five or six years my junior. "Why don't you go over to admissions and fill out the forms while you're waiting?"

I went to the admissions desk and the duty nurse gave me the papers. When I was done, she took them back and after checking gave me my father's room number.

It was a short walk to the bank of elevators, down a narrow corridor that testified to all the cutbacks. The place smelled bad; stale urine underlying the sick-sweetness of disinfectant. Paint peeled and there were damp spots in the ceiling plasterwork. Dust and scraps of paper accumulated in corners and a lethargic lassitude seemed to have washed over everyone from the custodial staff to the nurses. Even the volunteers were surly.

I waited for the elevator under the benign gaze of Queen Victoria, her marble expression Dickensian to say the least, Calvinist at best. The bell sounded, the doors hissed open and I entered the cage. It smelled even worse.

I got off on the six floor and went down the hall to his room, a semi-private, but the other bed was empty. I tiptoed in, and became immediately even more depressed. The sun was low, but what little light it shed would never penetrate the grime-covered window. I dragged the chair over to the bed, raising it a little to keep it from screeching on the floor. I sat down with my hands in my pockets, conscious suddenly of how tightly my fists were clenched when my fingers began to ache. He looked like hell in a turban of white gauze, but his chest rose and fell rhythmically. I thought the idea was to keep a person conscious with a head wound. I watched him breathe. His liver spotted hands resting on his thighs, and I suddenly realized just how vulnerable he was. He wasn't a big man, not tall I mean, and not exactly slim. Funny how lying in a hospital bed diminishes you.

I cleared my throat and at the sound his eyes fluttered then opened.

"Sammy! I didn't hear you come in."

"I just got here. You were sleeping."

"No, I don't think I nodded off. I was thinking. Or trying to. I've got a whopper of a headache." He put his hand to his head, felt the bandage and made a face.

"Twelve stitches and a bump the size of a goose egg."

He groaned and winced. "Help me sit up, would you?"

I took the crank and gave it a few twists. As a physician on staff, I figured he'd merit a better room and an electrically operated bed. Unfair or not, I wanted him to have preferential treatment.

When he was comfortable I asked, "How did you come to fall? Do you remember?"

"Fall! Is that what you think? Sammy, I didn't fall. I was mugged!"

"Mugged? What do you mean mugged? I found you on the floor in the living room." He was still disoriented.

"You hit your head on the coffee table when you fell. You must have tripped on the lamp cord somehow. Were you trying to fix the switch?" It had been faulty for some time now.

"No, I was not fiddling with that damn switch. Wasn't the coffee table did this either." He touched his head again gingerly. "I told you I was mugged. Burgled I should have said."

"What?" I stood up and he pulled his hand away when I reached for it.

"I was burgled, Sammy. I came in as he was fixing to take the painting -the Lorenzo panel, Sammy."

"My God." I sat down heavily. That had never occurred to me.

"It's my own fault, I know. I didn't turn the alarm on. I haven't got the hang of setting the damn code. You've only a few seconds to disarm the damn thing when you come in or it goes off and they charge you an arm and a leg for a false alarm." That had already happened, and I knew he was afraid they'd ignore the calls if it happened too often. The old system was as simple as flipping a switch. This was my fault. I should have known such a hi-tech system would intimidate him; I had to reset his clocks and appliances after a power outage.

"I should have never nagged you about changing your alarm."

"Nonsense. If I wasn't so thick headed... Anyway it doesn't matter now one way or the other."

"Did you at least get a look at the guy?"

"I saw him of course, but he had on one of those ski masks. Like the one you wear jogging."

"What actually happened? Do you feel up to telling me? Maybe I should call Geoff again."

"I can talk, I can talk." He waved his hand at me.

"I was coming from the hospital -to pick up some files and intending to go right back. That's why I left the car on the street. The car. That's another thing. With my luck if _it_ doesn't get stolen the city will tow it away." He glanced at his watch. "Now I'm illegally parked."

"Forget the car. I'll take care of it when I get back."

"If it's there! I get out of the car, go up and open the door. I go in and I startle the guy -like he knows I'm not supposed to be home. We scare the shit out of each other. I'm stunned. I freeze. Instead of running out -and I would have made it to- instead I yell at him. 'What the hell are you doing? Get out,' I said. He's picking up the painting and I move towards him. The bastard picks up the lamp -he doesn't even put the painting down! He picks up the lamp and bashes me."

"Oh, Dad. I'm sorry." I reached over and put my arms around him. He was still gesturing and cursing the thief.

"For me or the painting...?"

"Dad!"

"Lighten up, Sammy. Lighten up." He tried to laugh but the effort cost him.

"How can you joke about this?"

"If I don't joke about it I'll probably jump out that window."

"You'd never get it open." By the look on his face he was thinking about proving me wrong.

I filled the glass with water and he took it from me before I could unwrap that little bent straw. He slopped about half of it down his Johnny gown.

"At least he didn't damage your sense of humor."

"I don't know why I'm taking this so lightly. It's not like me is it? Must be brain damage for sure."

"Probably because Johnson will have an absolute conniption. An apoplectic fit!"

"He'll want to sue my pants off."

"Oh, Jesus. How much is the painting worth?" This time he did laugh.

"So far no one knows, Sammy. We can't really establish a value until it properly authenticated, never mind even what the museum paid for it in the first place."

"What do you mean?"

"Sammy, if the painting's worthless, what can they sue for? The fact they paid an enormous sum for it is irrelevant. Doesn't matter if it's junk. You sue and win... all you get is what the junk's worth!"

"But if it's not junk..."

"If it's not junk, I'm screwed. But you need the painting before that can be determined." He laughed in spite of the pain, then added seriously, "My God, Sammy. The man will lose his job and I'm laughing like an idiot. My God!"

"One thing at a time. First we call the police and file a report. We should have done that already- and I'll ask Geoff to see that it gets priority." I was determined to pull strings. "I'll take care of that. You're going to be in here for a couple of days."

"What! No way," he said shaking his head and wincing. He started to press the button on the cord to summon the nurse.

"Your doctor? Rose? Said they had to keep you at least twenty-four hours just in...."

"We'll see about that. Nurse...!" he yelled and kept pressing the button.

"You're getting worked up. Stop it, please."

"Sammy, I'm your father. Don't do this to me."

"And I'm your daughter. Don't argue. You're staying overnight, at least!"

At this point the nurse arrived. She wasn't one of those sweet young things he could easily manipulate or intimidate. This one looked like she'd served time in the Gulag. As a guard.

"Hattie," he said to her, "would you please set my daughter straight."

Hattie turned to me and said sternly, "Miss Milland, don't you go giving this poor, sick man ideas. There's no way you're going to check him out before tomorrow afternoon."

She turned to him and said sweetly, "You poor man. Not enough you're so sick, you got to fight your own flesh and blood to get decent medical care." She fussed over him, straightening blankets and fluffing his pillow, the whole time keeping up a patter how he shouldn't worry, that she'd see to it personally that he was well cared for. He started to protest but she jammed a thermometer under his tongue and gave me a hard stare. She played the role so well, I was beginning to think it wasn't an act.

She checked his pulse with one eye on her watch, the other on him. After reading the thermometer and returning it to the case, she stuck her hand out and said, "I'm Hattie Semple."

"Sarah," I said shaking her hand and returning the smile.

"Your father is a stubborn old goat." He mumbled something inaudible.

" And a cowardly old goat at that!"

"Hattie, you could at least be courteous enough to discuss me out of earshot!"

"What! And have you accuse me of talking behind your back! Dr. Milland, really. You just settle right down now. Or you'll be getting regular hospital food for your supper."

"At least I can trust it not to be poisoned."

"Dad!"

Hattie laughed and her arms shook. The way the two of them carried on made me wonder.

"Nice meeting you, Sam, your father's told me a lot about you." She glared at him and left us.

"What have you been telling her?"

"Nothing. Hattie and I go back a long way."

"Professionally speaking?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Oh, just that she seems to have your number." I winked at him and his face went red. I know where I inherited the trait. He made a pretense of feeling his bandage, putting his hands in front of his face.

"You appear to be surviving the ordeal so I'll be going." I felt a lot better after seeing him spar with Hattie.

"I'll call Geoff and see about filing a report. You can probably expect someone to come around for a statement.

"All I have is a headache and you are making it worse. My ability to speak and my memory haven't been affected."

"Judging by the color of your face a moment ago, I'd say you were remembering something quite dandy!"

"You... you .. horrid child!", he sputtered. "Go home! Shame on you torturing a sick man. Go on. Go home."

I got up and kissed his cheek. "I love you, Dad. You had me pretty worried there." He grunted and waved me off. At the door I turned and said, "Pleasant dreams."

When I got home I tried again to reach Geoff, but this time was informed he'd left for the day. I called his home number and after letting it ring five or six times he answered somewhat breathlessly.

"I just got out of the shower. You can't believe the kind of day I had." When I told him what had happened to my father he became even more upset.

"He's going to be alright, Geoff. Really. I wouldn't have left him otherwise."

"Well, I'm going over to see him anyway. I'll see you later. You're going to be in?"

"Yes, I'll be in, but.... Geoff..." he'd already hung up. They were enough alike to be father and son. What do they say about people? That they marry their parents?

I managed to keep busy by doing a few detestable household chores. Like cleaning the bathroom. Short of having to dress like a nuclear plant worker, the protection recommended on the container suggests the stuff is more lethal to humans than the black fungus growing between the tiles. While I risked the agonies of a long and lingering death from cleaning my oven, the bell rang. I pulled off my rubber gloves and answered.

Geoff stood there, hands in pockets. The other person I recognized as the fingerprint man from Lee-Ann's apartment. They wanted to checkout the scene of the crime.

Geoff stood in the hall and surveyed the living room, watching as the other man brushed fine dust on several surfaces, including the lamp, then covered the prints with clear tape to collect the impressions. He'd already vacuumed the rug, removing bits of dried mud that must've been left by the intruder. He'd made several passes with the machine over a stubborn streak, suggesting to me that they must've scuffled.

"Maybe you should call in a psychic."

"Not funny," was his only reply. I thought it was. I left them and went back home to finish cleaning my oven. Two rolls of paper towels later Geoff comes in.

"Looks like the guy came in through the basement window. There's broken glass all over the basement. You know you should think about having bars installed."

"Didn't think anyone could squeeze through, they're not that big."

"Big enough."

"He didn't have the alarm turned on you know."

"I know. He says he doesn't like the new system." I explained the real reason.

"Well then, get one he feels comfortable with. Doctor or not, what's he know from technology? Hell, he's two generations older than the stuff."

"I guess that's what well have to do. But this is really my fault. If I hadn't insisted that he..."

"Come on, Sam. Let it go. You can't be responsible for everything. Besides, what's done is done. Any coffee?"

"No, but it won't take a minute." I went to the pantry.

"Sit!" he said, "You've been through enough for one day." God he was getting more and more like him every day.

While he made coffee, I washed my hands again, but the smell of oven cleaner persisted, and I imagined my skin being slowly eaten away. I was going to make sandwiches, for a change I had all the fixings, but to my surprise I noticed a pan of _gallatobouriko,_ a custard dessert, that Thea Maria must've have left.

The rich aroma of coffee filled the kitchen, overwhelming the smell of oven cleaner. Our efforts were perfectly coordinated and he filled steaming mugs as I brought the dessert to the table.

"This is what I call coffee," he said. "The stuff at the office could strip paint off a battle ship."

"You saw my father?"

"Mmmm. Says he's fine. Looks like hell though. He was pretty lucky."

"What did he say? Was he able to remember anything about the guy?"

"Not, much I'm afraid. Said he wore a ski mask and was young. Youthful was the word he used. That he was taller than him, but shorter than me." He stopped to fork a large piece of the custard into his mouth, raising it slowly so it wouldn't fall off the fork."

"That was it?"

"He was wearing jeans and a denim jacket. And running shoes. There was a partial foot print on the rug which might help." The print man had taken a series of Polaroid's of the marks on the carpet.

"Not much to go on is there?"

"No, not really. Sorry."

"Who'd want the painting anyway. It's not something that can be easily sold."

"No, I suppose not. Not on the open market, at least. But you'd be surprised -a lot of rich cats just like to own these things. They're not interested in advertising the fact. Locking it away for their own sick pleasures gives them a real high."

"Makes you wonder how anyone they knew my father had it?"

"There was enough noise about it. And don't forget the newspapers carried a report about the painting and the lecture. I'd say a lot of people knew about it."

"Maybe. But who would have guessed that my father had the painting in his home?"

"Good question. We're going to be talking to quite a few people. And Johnson's name is at the top of the list."

"You don't think he'd be behind this...?"

"Crazier things have happened. Besides Johnson, who else knew where the painting was?"

"What would be his motive? It doesn't make sense."

"I know. But we have to start somewhere. And Johnson's the best bet at this point."

"You didn't mention this to my father I hope."

"Of course not. You want him to have a stroke?"

"What about Jimmy?"

"You do have a suspicious mind."

"Well, under the circumstances wouldn't you?" And as suspicious as I was I didn't bring up Father Mackenzie's name.

"I would. And I do. Don't worry, we'll get to him too. But don't get your hopes up. It's not easy to trace these things. Unless the burglar tries to fence it -or if he's as dumb as Jimmy and brings it to a dealer, you can forget it. Sometimes these things are stolen to order, masterminded. And if that's the case it's a good bet it'll be out of the country before you know it. That'll be another dead end. Years from now it might surface at some auction, but in the mean time we can kiss it goodbye."

"And if it turns out to be Johnson?"

"I don't know, Sam. But it's a good bet he'd know how to unload it. Besides, even if he sells it -the man's not stupid- he knows he can't suddenly start flashing his money. He may be at the top of our list, but I doubt he's involved. What would really help is finding a motive."

"Whatever the motive, whoever took the painting knew what he was after."

'We're on the same wavelength. My gut tells me someone stole it for a collector. But we might get lucky. All the art dealers and galleries in the city are being alerted. And a notice and description will be sent across the country and to Interpol. Which reminds me..." He dug in his pocket for a pen and notebook. "A picture would help. Surely Johnson would have something on file."

"Whose investigation is this anyway?"

"First of all it's a burglary. Being an _objet d'art brings_ in the special investigators who work the art scene. Fraud and counterfeit stuff. You read about the forgeries a while back? This guy was turning out fake Ayottes and Riopelles." I shook my head no.

"Anyway," he said putting the notebook and pen back in his pocket. "I've some more bad news for you... You know your suspicions about why the four Hassid might have been killed?"

"Go on."

"Well, I got to thinking, and mentioned it to Ouellette. So he arranged to have another test done on _those_ bullets. There's no match to the bullets that killed the Arabs. Or Bill and the others. But.... listen to this... the bullets that killed the Arabs? They do match the bullet that killed Sarah."

I went numb.

"My God, Geoff. What the hell is happening here?"

"You know what this means, don't you, Sam?"

"Someone must have been after Lee-Ann all along. No wonder she got out of the hospital and ran. They're still after her if she's not already dead."

"I know you've been through a lot, Sam. But try to think back to that day."

"Geoff, we've been through it a hundred times. Nothing. Just the mob. The people running. Shots. You know the rest."

"And you said something about a man too."

"Yes. A man. A pedestrian, for Christ's sake. He was leaving the parking lot, about to cross the street. Like me, he saw the commotion and turned back, running back towards the parking lot behind the stadium. I'd have run too if it hadn't been for my concern for Lee-Ann and Sarah. That's it. My story isn't going to change, Geoff. That's what happened and that's what I saw."

"Well, I don't know. We assumed the shots had come from someone in the mob. But now.... I don't know. There's got to be a connection. No way I can buy a coincidence. Lee-Ann was a target too. Sarah was just in the way, damn it."

He watched my face.

"What about the disk," I asked changing the subject. "Did you give it to those. Israeli spies."

"Yes. They're working on it, but so far they haven't come up with anything. You believe that I can sell you swamp land in the everglades."

"Maybe they're playing their cards close to their vests."

"How many acres do you want?"

"I'm serious."

"So am I. We are supposed to be working together you know. No way they don't know what's on the disk! Bet on it."

"Now who's suspicious?"

"Like the scorpion said to the frog, it's what I do. And as if I don't have enough on my plate, Ouellette's got me on another detail. I'm supposed to liaise with Joan on the security arrangements for the Peace Summit coming up."

"What's wrong with that man! Is he trying to kill you, or what?"

"It does make sense, considering this business with the Arabs and all. He's scared shitless about a terrorist attack."

"He's not responsible for the security is he?"

"No, it's a federal operation. But there's a lot of coordinating to do between the various security forces that will be deployed here. Don't forget the countries represented will certainly have their security people in attendance. It'll take a lot of work and diplomacy to make sure no one's nose gets put out of joint. Besides I'll be on the inside of the operation, and I'll be able to keep my eye on these Mossad types. I hope."

"Some consolation..."

"They're handling security for their side and will have to work with Joan -i.e.- me." He yawned and pulled down his tie.

"God, what time is it anyway? I feel like I was hit by a truck."

"Eleven-thirty almost. Why don't you stay?"

"I'm pretty bushed, Sam."

"You're never that bushed," I said pulling him into the bedroom.

# Chapter 19

One of my great pleasures is taking the time to leisurely read the morning paper, so after Geoff left I sat down with a second cup of coffee and rearranged the sections.

The Mohawks were protesting again the lagging talks with the government over land rights. The Oka Crisis would not fade. And to make matters worse, marijuana was being grown extensively on several acres of the reservation. The Peace Keepers turned a blind eye, afraid of a confrontation with the well-armed warrior faction, while both federal and provincial police forces stood on the sidelines claiming the area was out of their jurisdiction. But when locals took action and burned the fields they were criticized for destroying evidence, evidence crucial to the apprehension of the pot growers. The pot growers allegedly had ties to Hell's Angels and a distribution network that spread into the New England states.

The good people of Chateauguay, remembering the Indian blockade of the Mercier Bridge, were on edge, threatening to take action if something wasn't done to keep the Indians in line. Several years had passed since that incident but the wounds on both sides were still running sores. Of course bootleg cigarettes and discount gas didn't help matters either. A lot of people -white people- complained about the enormous profits the Indians were making from the illegal trade. Mind you they were the very people who kept the trade flourishing lining up in droves to buy cheap gas and cut-rate cancer.

Just like the arms traders; hatred and animosity shelved temporarily, while you turned a profit. Good white folks saved a buck helping the Indians earn a decent living, unlikely allies cheating the government out of millions in tax revenues. Like the Arab saying goes; my enemies' enemies are my friends.

Of course mutual friendships forged for economic gain are tenuous and the bonds soon weakened. Memory was revived and pictures of the Mohawk behind the machine gun and the standoff between the soldier and masked Indian were flashed around the world. Drug money laundered by the bank in San Marcos was invested in war. Marijuana was openly grown by the Indians and traded, according to some rumours, for the illegal weapons arming the Warriors. Money changed hands; people got rich; many more died.

I finished my breakfast and flipped quickly through the rest of the paper, stopping to read a letter to the editor. The writer wanted the army to move in on the reservation, claiming it was an armed camp, where guns and explosives were available to virtually anyone with the right price.

Another paranoid bigot, I thought and put the paper away. Mind you, Arthur was right, guns were not that hard to come by. Go into any bar, Geoff told me, and within an hour I could be armed and dangerous. The Warrior Marines and Viet Nam vets with their privilege of unrestricted border crossing could easily be dealing in smuggled arms.

These self-styled warriors, formidable in their camouflage clothes and army fatigues, had been trained as soldiers and combat hardened; many still thought they were at war. But webbed belts, uniforms and machine guns don't make an army. They terrorized a whole community and held them hostage. Terrorists, a small number of fanatics, bullies who instilled fear out of proportion to their real strength. Like a child throwing a tantrum, my father would say. But there's a big difference between throwing a screaming fit and throwing a bomb.

Dressed for the weather, I went next door to pick up a change of clothes for my father, packing a pair of brown corduroy slacks and a matching Viyella shirt along with clean underwear and socks, putting the lot in my hard shell overnight bag. I almost forgot his coat and had to go back for it, but I doubt he'd have caught pneumonia in the taxi ride back.

It was cold and damp and snowing. The few flakes that didn't melt on contact clustered and swirled, driven by the wind. I pulled my collar up holding it closed, and leaned into the hill. The weather and traffic tested everyone's patience, and the green light at University is too short to make it across Pine unless you're an Olympic sprinter. I was in the middle of the intersection crossing the path of a car making a left turn. The driver stalled and leaned on the horn startling me. I was about to give him the finger, but the look in his eyes made me reconsider.

I made it across in one piece almost falling when I tripped on the high curb stepping onto the sidewalk. I cursed the weather, motorists and the condition of city streets, mumbling under my breath to the stare of the parking attendant. The lobby was dank and musty. Two boys, their feet encased in plaster, were drag racing their wheelchairs down the corridor ahead of me. The floor was wet and one of them collided with Queen Victoria and fell out of his chair laughing.

My father was awake and alert, his turban reduced to a thick pad held in place with that transparent tape.

"Hi, Dad."

"Sammy! I was just going to call you. Get me out of here before she poisons me." Hattie was standing with her hands on ample hips and had obviously been scolding him. The porridge had cooled forming an impenetrable skin on its surface. The toast would be rubbery and just as cold.

"Would you tell this... this.. harridan to stop harassing an old man."

"Harridan? Who you calling a harridan, you senile old saw-bones!"

"Saw-bones. That does it. Sammy!"

"Glad to see you're back to your sexist self," I said and Hattie threw her head back and laughed.

"I know exactly how to treat sexist pigs." She winked at me, and yanked down the covers.

"Gregor. It's time for your bath." She wheeled the trolley closer and dipped a washcloth in the pan of steaming, soapy water.

"Get me out of here, Sammy."

"Not before your bath. Sam, you'll have to excuse us." She drew the curtain around the bed and I waited in the hall, too embarrassed to stay in the room. Ten minutes later Hattie backed out pulling the cart.

"You can go in now, Sam. That settled his hash." She laughed and continued on her way.

He was sitting, propped against the pillows, his face dark and scowling, his arms folded defiantly across his chest. He glared at me, then turned to the window. The sky was a dark as his mood.

"Just wait until I speak to that woman's supervisor!"

"Dad! I didn't know you were a sore loser? That's what you get for name calling." I had a hard time keeping a straight face.

"Name calling? Whose side are you on, anyway? Did you bring my clothes?"

"Yes."

I picked the case off the floor and put it on the bed. He opened it and grunted, mumbling a grudging, "Thank you."

I'll see about checking you out of here while you're dressing."

"Fine, but I'm telling you I'm not being wheeled out in a chair like an invalid."

He lost that round too. Hattie appeared with the wheelchair and blocked the door; there was only one way he was leaving the hospital. She pushed, I followed. In the elevator he fumed while Hattie smiled and hummed. Jesus, what kind of a bath did she give him?

She pushed him all the way to the door. Rules, she said. At the cabstand, he got up, shoving the cabby's arm away. .

"Thanks," I said to Hattie, and got in. He feigned fury and wouldn't look at her.

"I'm okay," he said testily when I offered my arm to help him up the stairs. "I've only got a head ache, I'm not crippled."

"You're going to have one for a while according to Dr. Evans."

"Sammy, I'm a psychiatrist. Remember? I did go to medical school." He stood at the top of the steps, fumbling with the key, trying to get it in the lock. I didn't dare offer to help. Once we were in, he threw his coat on the chair, went into the living room and picked up the lamp.

"Here. Get rid of it. I always hated the damn thing." I put in the vestibule.

"You must be hungry. Let me make you something."

"Thank you. That would be nice."

I raised an eyebrow but didn't say anything. I knew he liked eggs. Soft-boiled. Not done in the microwave. So I hauled out a small saucepan and set them to boil, then sliced several pieces of pumpernickel, toasted them lightly and lathered on the butter. Everything came together like clockwork and I brought the tray of food out to him in the living room.

"Thank you, Sammy. This is divine." Divine? Eggs and toast divine?

I sat across from him as he balanced the tray on his lap and surgically removed the top from an egg, added salt, and took a dab of butter on the end of the spoon. He scooped out a spoonful and raised it to his mouth. God, it did look divine and I started to salivate.

"I don't suppose you told Johnson yet."

"Not yet, but I'd better before he hears it on the news."

He continued eating, his face breaking into a smile thinking about Johnson's discomfort, I was sure.

"It's not funny. You almost got yourself killed over this damn painting. You doctors. More ego than common sense."

"Don't go getting excited. I didn't get killed." Had I been closer he'd have patted my hand.

"No, but it could have been worse. You could be a vegetable dribbling and drooling." He ignored my remark and I watched him eat, the muscles working as he chewed making the bandage wiggle.

"When are you going to tell him?"

"Can I finish eating first? After breakfast, if it's okay with you."

"I think you should tell him face to face. You owe him that."

"I suppose I do. I'll call after I finish eating. Promise."

"And while you're at it, you should call your handy man, what's his name. Better yet, give me the number and I'll call."

"You mean Pierre."

"Yes, Pierre." I called him two-fingers Pete. The man was totally inept, but my father thought him incredibly skilled.

"Whatever for?"

"To fix the broken window. And install some bars too."

"We're locking the barn door, are we?"

'Yes. We are. And we're going to get a decent alarm system. One you don't need to be a rocket scientist to operate."

"Nothing wrong with the alarm. I was just too stubborn to read the manual. I promise to work it out. I'll take a couple of aspirin and look at the instructions."

I copied Pierre's number from the address book in the hall table, and took my coat.

"And don't forget to phone Johnson," I called from the vestibule. He didn't answer, but I knew he was waving his hand, dismissing his nagging daughter.

I got through to Two-Fingers and after several attempts explaining what I wanted, he assured me he'd be there sometime this afternoon. Apart from his handicap, I was never sure if he understood what I was saying. He didn't seem to be fluent in either language. I gave up before my frustration had me shouting and put him out of my mind. I had work of my own to do.

My teaching load this semester seemed light because my evening session freed up some daytime hours. This made my days more flexible, but I usually ended up filling the time gaps with extra reading and preparation. But I wasn't complaining; it's a real high to have a hundred or so people hang on your every word, eager to hear what you have to say then write it down.

Of course, the more they seem interested, the more I'm determined to give value. The ability to control a large group of people by sheer rhetoric is unparalleled. And I never had to practice with pebbles in my mouth. But there is a down side and the price was in hours of reading and preparation. I paid it eagerly; the world is full of mercenaries.

My night class is quite different, in that they are mostly older adults, people interested in extending themselves, recharging their batteries so to speak. They are seasoned, jaded some of them, but they brought a wealth of experience along with their years. Unlike the raw enthusiasm of my younger students that erupted violently like a rocket then fizzled when the fuel was spent, the energy of my night class had the force and relentless thrust of a slow-moving locomotive, gradually gathering speed and momentum. I liked both groups for different reasons. Youth reacted in a way that was swift and immediate; maturity was slower to motivate but once in motion became a formidable force. They were realists who understood and accepted the flaws and imperfections of an imperfect world. They moved with the tide, not against it. Youth, impetuous and idealistic railed against the establishment unaware that is was unassailable. Of course, if you wore your baseball cap backwards the visor didn't restrict the view.

After making notes for a lecture on Punishment and Personal Responsibility I put together a short reading list for my evening students. Given their maturity, most were parents and very familiar with the problems of raising children in today's world. They had many theories to explain why children and adolescents were becoming more violent. In the past year there had been several violent murders committed by adolescents not yet in their teens. As parents they were scared, fearing for society and especially for their own children.

"They're out of control!" one of them said. "Have you seen how they act when they leave school?"

"Seems more like they're _in_ control, if you ask me." Mavis, in her fifties, was both a mother and grandmother. "You take a good look next time you're in the mall. And I don't mean after school; I mean at night. They hang out in clumps. Block your way. Old people with canes have to go around them to get by. At that hour kids should be home with their families or doing homework."

"You said it, Mavis. Home with their families."

Another had added. "The traditional family is a thing of the past. Trouble is we've found nothing to replace it. Television certainly doesn't teach them values."

And yet another recounted a story of an adolescent girl who refused to give up a seat on the commuter train to an elderly man. "It wasn't even her seat! He said, incredulous, "She put her bag on it saving it for her friend.

"Do you see a relationship, " I asked them, "between the way they act at the mall and the way they act at home?"

"I don't let mine hang out at the mall!" This accompanied by a few murmurs of agreement. And before I could steer them back, one of the men spoke. He was about my age, maybe a bit older. Conservatively dressed in a suit and silk tie, he could have been a banker or executive.

"I think we're forgetting what it's like to be a kid. We did the same things -I know I did. I pushed. My teachers. My parents. And I dropped out of school -that's why I'm here at night. I'm sure many of you..."

"But you came back." Mavis interrupted. "Obviously somewhere along the line you learned certain values."

"All kids rebel," someone else said. "It's the nature of the beast. But I think the difference is that we had limits. We knew we could only go so far. Today limits are nonexistent."

That was the key. Without limits and boundaries; without practicing restraint chaos ensued.

More than once they wanted to know how to raise healthy well-adjusted children. I couldn't tell them. I knew the theories. I read all the research. I had interviewed hundreds of adult criminals and juvenile offenders. But I had no answers, no aphorisms. The best I could do was help them tackle the problem academically, but this fell woefully short of their expectations of how to survive in a threatening world.

In the middle of printing out my reading list, the doorbell rang.

My father stood on the steps, clutching a newspaper.

"Did you see this?" he blurted.

"See what?" It was quite windy and the few strands of hair he had left stood up around the bandage.

"This," he said slapping the paper. He came in and I read the headline.

"No," I said truthfully, "I didn't."

"Sammy, do you mean to tell me you don't know about it?"

"Yes, I know about it."

"And you didn't tell me? Sammy, Sammy, Sammy."

"Dad, come and sit down, before you _do_ have a stroke. I'll tell you if stop yelling."

His face twitched. It really cost him, when he wasn't getting his own way. I took the paper and spread it on the table: _Arab Exchange Students Killed,_ the headline said:

Hussein Fadlallah, twenty-two of Jordan, Rashad Aziz, twenty-four and his twenty-two year old brother Mahmed were found shot to death in their Clossé Street apartment. The three men had been under investigation regarding the October shootings that culminated a university student demonstration. What had begun as a peaceful protest ended tragically when a clash between Jewish protesters and members of the Arab Students' League resulted in the shooting deaths of four young Hassid? A six-year-old bystander had also been tragically killed by a stray shot.

I stopped reading at that point, folded the paper and checked the edition.

"First of all -the day it happened- I didn't tell you because when I came over you were entertaining the Good Father.

"Secondly, this is yesterday's paper and I didn't get a chance to look at it.

"And thirdly, if you feel up to it, and are prepared to listen, I'll fill you in. Let's face it. You were in no condition to hear all of this yesterday."

"Well, I'd have seen it, if I hadn't have been mugged like that."

"And to be sure we'd be having this conversation a day earlier."

He didn't argue, but his headache couldn't have been that bad. I told him about going to the scene with Geoff, and his eyes almost fell out of his head.

"For a doctor sworn to preserve life you sure have an unhealthy interest in the macabre."

"I'm no more curious than the next person," he said defensively.

"That's just my point."

He continued to grill me asking all manner of questions I couldn't answer.

"Look, why don't you just call Geoff? Better still ask him to get you a desk in his office."

"Okay, I get the picture," he said convinced I wasn't holding out on him.

"But I think, you should get an alarm installed too."

"Here? What for? I don't have anything valuable."

"I'm thinking about you, _not_ your possessions. All this business with matching bullets. And people killed. They weren't just killed, Sammy. They were assassinated. And you say Lee-Ann is still at risk. I'm concerned you could be in danger too" He mopped his brow nervously.

"Sometimes, I think it's better not to know these things."

"What? You were ready to put bamboo slivers under my nails to force a confession from me. But you needn't worry. They've already got a special task force investigating suspected terrorists. Geoff said they're following every lead."

"Still, I don't like it, Sammy. They already tried to do you in.... Maybe I should call those people again."

"No way." I said shaking my head. By 'those people' he meant the private detective agency.

"I'm not having someone follow me around all day -that's where I draw the line. The last time I couldn't even go for a pee in private. But if it'll make you feel better I'll get an alarm installed."

"Yes. It would make me feel better. A lot better."

"But you'll have to try not to worry so much. Geoff is on top of this you know."

"I know, I know."

"To use his words -and this is a direct quote- 'Like the fisherman said, I will leave no tern unstoned'."

# Chapter 20

Geoff was busy the rest of the week, but he did manage to get away from his desk one morning and came by to see my father. He was so wrapped up in the case, the security for the summit and now the stolen painting, he could only stay a few minutes. When I heard him leaving, I opened my door and convinced him to come in. He looked so beat my heart ached for him.

I asked him why he was taking such an interest in the stolen painting.

"It's not the painting, so much as your father. It's really his safety I'm worried about."

"His safety?"

"Yes. The news of the theft was in all the papers. Television too. Of course they had to play up the fact that he's a big collector."

"An exaggeration. You know the media."

"Exaggeration or not, the whole world knows -or thinks- that he has more than a couple of million dollars hanging on his walls. You sure he's setting his alarm? And had the bars installed?"

"Yes to both questions."

"And it wouldn't hurt if you had a system installed here too."

"I've already called."

"You know you live in a high risk area. And people who break in aren't always looking to steal."

"You've made your point," I said. The Gentleman Rapist, as the media labeled him, was still at large

"Good. Can't be too careful." He stood and straightened his tie.

"Got to run. Sorry." He bussed my cheek and picked up his trench coat. It was cold and last night's snow still covered the ground. I closed the door and went to my study. I was barely settled in front of my laptop when the doorbell sounded.

"What did you forget?"

"I didn't mention that our two Israeli friends told me officially that they weren't able to find anything on the disk."

"You're kidding?"

"I wish. Simon...."

"Could you come in? It's freezing."

"He said there was nothing in Bill's records that looked suspicious."

"You believe that?"

"No way they didn't see what we found." He shook his head and frowned, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "I wish I knew what they were up to?"

"I never liked Avi from the beginning," I said. "There's something about him that bothers me, but for the life of me I can't put my finger on it."

"We can talk later, if you like. Right now, I'm due at a meeting," he said looking at his watch. I watched him go to his car the wind whipping his coat tails against his legs.

They must think we were pretty dumb I thought as I typed. But suppose they didn't think we were dumb. What if they were toying with us? If they figured we knew what was on the disk, they could be setting us up for something. I yawned and my eyes watered as fear washed over me. There was no end to the intrigue. What with the matching bullets and the dead Arabs, the web of deceit was growing. What really scared me was the feeling we couldn't trust Avi and his partner -members of Israel's highest security service; the Mossad. I vaguely remembered reading somewhere that their motto was, _By way of deception, thou shalt do war._ If that was really their philosophy, then we were in real trouble

I went to my closet, took the box down from the top shelf and brought it to my study. I pushed a bunch of papers out of the way and placed it on the desk. Beautifully crafted of polished mahogany, its satiny finish gleamed. Brass hinges and ornate brass-work around the keyhole of an antique-looking lock gave it a Baroque quality that was more in keeping with my father's taste than mine. It was a gift from Geoff and could have passed as a case for jewelry or silverware. It was a beautiful piece and the care with which it had been crafted was at odds with the purpose for which it had been made. I took the key out of the desk drawer and opened the box. The rich smell of wood juxtaposed with the smell of cold steel and gun oil was perversely erotic. The gun scared me.

I picked it up, handling it carefully, feeling and enjoying the perfect balance, the way it felt in my hand. It was massy without feeling heavy, masculine and authoritative.

"A real good choice, Miss. Official sidearm of the US armed forces," the salesman told me.

I had dismissed a Colt out of hand, simply because I associated them with the cowboy mentality of the Wild West. And I'd tried a Smith and Wesson. I settled on the Beretta simply because I liked the sound of the name. Just like a woman, isn't it? Never mind how it works -buy it because of the color. Isn't that how women shop for cars. And clothes?

Actually, of all the pistols I had tried, I really did prefer my Beretta. Classed as a large-frame pistol weighing a bit over two pounds, with the magazine empty, my beautifully balanced model 92FC Compact was a comfortable fit. I tested and handled a number of smaller models, but I opted for 92FC. The double column magazine held fifteen, nine-millimeter rounds, sixteen if you keep one in the chamber, the salesman told me.

"Double action and semi-automatic," he went on. "It was a new model and safe to handle. Even for a woman," he said chuckling at Geoff who was with me.

I picked up the phone.

"Geoff," I said, when I finally got through to him. "Did you make that appointment yet? You know, for the firing range."

He said he hadn't, but could probably get us in this afternoon. He knew the armourer.

"Why the change of heart?"

"Don't make me spell out all the details, okay?"

"I know how you feel about guns. And I respect that. But it doesn't hurt to be prepared. Better safe than sorry."

He always said that. Carrying a gun meant absolutely nothing. Unless you were prepared to use it. And I was well prepared; that's what scared me. I was a good shot. Taking someone's life was not something I could live with. On the other hand the alternative was even less attractive. And the way things were going lately, I didn't relish being a sitting duck.

"I'd rather wear a bullet proof vest," I told him.

"Body armor? Any idea how heavy and uncomfortable that would be? I don't think it's really very practical, Sam."

Far more practical to carry a gun and kill someone. You could do it in comfort. Comfort was one of the selling points. Comfort and ease of use.

I recalled the salesman discussing the importance of comfort in a weapon.

"This here Beretta, Miss, will serve two purposes in your case. You'll find it easy to handle -a comfort in your hand- and to your friend here, it'll be a comfort to him that his little lady is carrying such fine protection."

So I bought it. Not because of his chauvinistic and penis-powered brain, but simply because I had made up my mind to do so.

"No way I'm wearing it on my person," I insisted. Geoff, like all law enforcement officers felt naked without his sidearm. He didn't wear it to bed and that's about all. I'd come to accept the fact that he carried it everywhere but I'd be lying if I said I was used to it.

"I'll keep it in my purse, but there's no way I'm going to class dressed as Wyatt Earp. And I did carry it around for a while. Gradually I'd taken to leaving it at home, telling him I'd forgotten. Eventually I just left it locked away and Geoff in the end gave up nagging me about it.

But now I was scared. I agreed to meet him at two-thirty for target practice.

The range was located in the basement of an old armory, below the gymnasium where cops went to learn or brush up on their martial arts skills. In spite of the noise of echoing gunshots, the occasional thump of falling bodies could be heard through the ceiling.

The first time I met Réal Giguerre, I was momentarily stunned; he was so much the way I had imagined him to be. Taller than average at over six feet and ramrod straight. His salt and pepper hair was cropped as short as a marine's in boot camp and the waxed ends of his handlebar mustache could themselves be classed as dangerous weapons.

Pétard, as he insisted I call him had retired as a gunnery sergeant after twenty years with the Van Doos. The Royal Twenty-Second was a crack regiment, and they were nicknamed the Van Doos, because _vingt-douze_ is French for twenty-two.

Geoff and I had adjacent firing corridors. Pétard handed me my ear protectors and corrected my stance, reminding me to squeeze the trigger, not pull. After a few rounds, I got my form back, managing to group my shots in the upper right -my right- quadrant of a human silhouette about forty feet away. Most of my shots formed about an eight-inch group, with a few tearing away his shoulder.

"Pretty good, Miss Milland. You won't make the _holympic_ team but they'll never get up, tha's for sure, _hein?"_

I went through three or four magazines of wad cutters and called it quits. I was sweaty, and felt dirty. One woman was so intent on her task she seemed to get off on the raw destructive power of shooting. She was totally oblivious except for her pistol and the obliteration of target after target. The smell of cordite didn't excite me and when I was done I signaled Réal and thanked him. He checked my firearm, jacked out the magazine and handed me the pieces.

I put them in my carry case. Later, at home, I'd reload after stripping and cleaning it. I had to laugh. Small comfort it would be if I suddenly needed it.

Geoff was finishing off the last of his rounds and asked me to wait for him. There was a small canteen upstairs with a couple of cabaret tables surrounded with plastic patio chairs. Unless you wanted cigarettes, potato chips or soft drinks, the canteen offered little else. They sold coffee too, but it tasted the way gun oil smells. The old sailor carried a few copies of the current week's _Alô Police_ , the sensational French language rag, and poor relation to the _National Inquirer_. I called him a sailor because he always had a package of Export 'A' cigarettes tucked into the sleeve of his T-shirt drawing attention to his incredible biceps.

The canteen was on the second floor overlooking the gym and from the tables in front of the window you could watch men and a few women practicing killing techniques with their bare hands. They were young, in their mid-to-late twenties I'd guess. One instructor was explaining what looked like a chokehold, showing how quickly a person can be immobilized. Two suspects had died recently from the chokehold and considering the public outcry against police brutality, the academy no longer taught the technique to its recruits. But this wasn't the academy; this is where cops honed their skills in the grey area of lethal restraint.

Stopping power, the gun salesman told me, explaining different models and the types of ammunition. Stopping power in my books was a euphemism for killing. These young cops, these no-holds-barred community gladiators, were learning all about stopping power. I didn't like being here.

Geoff arrived all smiles, thrilled to the core that his little woman was taking her personal safety seriously.

"Hi, that was good shooting, Sam.

"Thanks," I answered. So why did I still feel so insecure?

"Say, do you want to go grab a bite?"

"I have to get back. I've a ton of work." I really didn't feel like going out and talking about guns and shooting. Shooting depressed me. Geoff on the other hand was energized. Was it a guy thing, or what?

"You okay? Seem a bit tense."

"Coming here does that to me." He looked at me and I could tell he wanted to say, 'better safe than sorry.'

"Let's call it a day, then. For once I'll be home early."

"And you could use the rest. There are dark circles under your eyes." A bit darker he'd look like a raccoon.

"Occupational hazard." He left his coat unbuttoned but knotted the belt, and held my chair when I got up. The urban paladin, chivalrous to a fault.

We parted in the parking lot each going our own way.

I didn't do any work. I was too depressed. I poured myself a healthy shot of Grand Marnier, put on Beethoven's ninth, the old one conducted by Van Karajan, and cried for the duration. Then I went to bed.

# Chapter 21

When I awoke I wish I could say that my mood had improved, but I was still depressed. And to make matters worse the activity I had prepared for my freshman class wasn't going to improve things. I packed my stuff and headed off a bit early so I could stop by the print shop and have copies of the assignment run off in time.

Of all the controversial topics I could have picked for discussion I had to choose gun control. The activity had been in my mind for a while and in light of the recent legislative proposals, a debate on the 'right to bear arms' was not only relevant but topical. More relevant than any of them could imagine. Given their youth and radicalism, I knew the debate would be hot and contentious. But what's a university for?

To my surprise, Harry was in poring over a pile of books.

"What are you doing in today?" I asked by way of greeting.

"Oh, just checking something." He didn't elaborate. I plopped my stuff on the desk and the copies fell to the floor.

"You are a hog for punishment," he said helping me pick them up. "Next to religion and politics, this gun control bill is guaranteed to start a riot."

"They've been a bit complacent lately. Partly my fault, I guess."

"Of course! Adolescents are never responsible are they? You've got to be a goddam vaudevillian to get their attention. And on top of that they've got the hook! Adolescents!" he snorted. "Eat, sleep and jerk off. And not necessarily in that order." He laughed again. "Control their hormone levels, maybe we wouldn't need laws like gun control."

"According to my father, crime and sex drive are closely related."

"Big bad testosterone, eh? I guess I'll always be a law abiding citizen." He started to laugh and choke again.

"It's not that simple. You can't reduce criminal behavior to a sexual component."

"Maybe not," he said. "But research points to testosterone as a strong motivator of human aggression. Male aggression that is."

"And violent women too. Apparently they have more than their normal share of that hormone."

"You know, there might even be a gene factor? They've isolated a gene they think predisposes a person to alcohol and addiction, so why not violence?"

"But does this gene cause criminality? Or is it because the individual can't fight certain impulses and resorts to crime to feed his addictions?"

"Which came first, the chicken or the egg?"

"Exactly."

"Sounds like another good topic for your class."

"You kidding?"

"I'm serious. They should be doing more research, freshmen or not. All this spoon-feeding is making them soft. Look at them out there." He pointed through the window. At bunch of them were chasing each other and throwing snowballs.

"I'll bet most of them should be in class. And when they do go to class they have the audacity to sit and read the newspaper or play on their iPads."

"That's true. I've even had them sleeping in the back row.

"We're not the fireworks, Sam. Our job is to light the fuse."

"I'm not sure I like the analogy," I laughed. "With my luck it would go off in my face."

"To change the subject," he said, "what's the word with your father, and the painting. What's he call it -the Domini Canes?"

"There's a few problems..."

"Let me guess. Insurance, right?"

"The insurance company claims it was only covered while it was in the museum. Or in transit."

"Let's them off the hook."

"Completely. And my father was worried everything would bog down because its true value was yet to be determined."

He packed his pipe and carefully refolded the pouch, placing it on the desk and aligning it squarely with the blotter.

"It shouldn't have been out of the museum. I've no idea why Johnson gave in to my father. It doesn't make sense."

"No it doesn't. Unless of course, he had good reason."

"You're more suspicious than I am."

He shrugged and said, "Think about it. And who would stand to gain."

"Geoff always says, find the motive, find the crook."

"And he's right, you know." He went through the ritual of lighting. "Now what?" he asked.

"At this stage, Johnson is on the hook. There's a rumour the museum wants to sue him and my father. Want the case?" I said, half joking."

"One fraud at a time, please." He blew a few rings in my direction and added, "Your father must be having an absolute fit."

"He's taking it a lot better than I would have guessed. I hope that bump hasn't affected him. He actually thinks it's a bit of a lark."

"A lark!" He sat forward in surprise."

"Figures there's no way they can sue. The value of the painting is still to be determined."

"Wait a sec. Wait a sec." He wagged his finger and rocked in his chair.

"I see what he's getting at. But there is another angle. Since the painting was in his possession, it should be covered by his own policy, I would think."

"But there's another hitch. His policy was voided because he didn't have his alarm system turned on."

"Oh damn! For want of a nail... You can't beat insurance companies, they've got all the goddam angles covered, don't they. That's a real bitch!"

"I know. And I feel awful about it, but my father doesn't seem to be taking it very seriously."

"What's he stand to lose?"

"That's just it. I don't know. I figure it could be a couple of hundred thousand. He figures he won't lose a cent."

"Maybe not in the short term. But if they go to court a settlement could take years. Legal fees in the interim could bury him. Better he settles before you end up having to support him."

"That's not funny, Harry."

"I'm sorry. I know it isn't. Maybe I should talk to him. Why the hell was the alarm off anyway?"

I told him.

"Yeah, they can be a bitch, I guess. Didn't the technician explain it properly?"

"I don't know. I remember him pouring over the instructions."

"Sam, my dear. We might just have the answer." He thumped the desk, his devious eyes twinkling.

"If we can nail the alarm company. Say they were negligent, we've got them. You say, there were a couple of false alarms?

Yes, happened three times, he told me."

"That's good. Any company sells security and protection should make sure the client is comfortable in its use. Not intimidated."

"Looks like you're shopping for another client?"

"You tell your father to call me. And for free! God, I'd really like to stick it to these guys." He was so worked up I thought he'd have an orgasm.

He started to put his stuff away and tidy his desk. "I've got to run. Georges's birthday is coming up and I'd like to do some shopping. He's a real nut for those Lladro figurines. He took his time dressing, making sure the scarf was wrapped the way it should be around the collar of his Sherlock Holmes style coat, an enormous Hunter's green garment that must've cost the Earth. After his deerstalker was arranged to his satisfaction, he saluted himself in the antique mirror I rescued from my father's rubbish bin.

"Don't forget," he said turning to me before leaving. "Tell your father what I said. It might take a bit of time, so make sure he doesn't write the museum any checks." He waved a gloved hand and left.

I got back to my own work; less than ten minutes remained before I had to meet them.

They were receptive, if a bit uneasy, when I asked them to break into groups but initial shyness wore off quickly, and I had to flick the lights several times to get their attention. When the session ended there were groans from the two groups that hadn't presented their conclusions. I couldn't believe they wanted to carry this over into the next session. They left, still talking and arguing. I packed my stuff and went home. It had been a good day.

My father was arriving just as I turned the corner. He parked in front of the house again. By the time he extricated himself, his passenger was already waiting on the sidewalk, and to my utter amazement, I recognized Winslow Emmet Johnson.

"Hello, Dr. Milland. Looks like an early winter."

"It does at that. And please call me, Sam." I offered my hand.

"Will you two come in out of the cold?" My father had rushed up ahead and held the door.

"I've got some work to do. I'll see you later."

"It'll keep. Come in. Hurry, you're letting the heat out."

Being my assertive self when it comes to my relationship with my father, I gave him a dirty look. Then, of course, I went in. When the hell was I going to grow up?

"What's so important I have to be here," I hissed. "I've got a life, you know."

"And a wonderful one it is, Sammy." He put his arm around my shoulder and squeezed, leaning forward at the same time to kiss my cheek. The man was a piece of work. I didn't know whether to be pleased that he needed me or pissed off that he put his needs before mine.

"Winslow!" he hollered. "Take off your coat. Here... " He reached over and took the man's coat and threw it in a heap on the hall chair. I played the valet and hung it carefully in the closet.

"Sammy," he hollered again, "would you...." he saw my look and said more softly, " Sammy, Dear. Would you mind very much making the drinks? Maybe some of Maria's shortbread things too, you know, the ones covered in icing sugar. You always seem to do it just right." He had the decency to look away, but not before I caught his smirk. He could get Tom Sawyer to paint _his_ fence.

In my special way, whatever the hell that is, I poured the Metaxa into tiny shot glasses and placed a half dozen of Maria's shortbread cookies and some Turkish Delight on a fancy dish. The stuff is incredibly sweet so I took a hint from Thea Maria and poured them each a glass of water as a chaser. Then I played the dutiful hostess and prepared a nice tray for my father and his guest. It's not often we get to play house.

I brought the tray into the living room. My father can be a devious old bugger and I was surprised he hadn't engineered the seating plan so Johnson would have to occupy the antique chair. But no, my father was in the torture seat and Johnson sat on the chesterfield. Both men were ill at ease if body language means anything. Johnson sat straight with his hands in his lap, feet planted firmly and squarely on the floor. My father, ever the psychiatrist, doing his damnedest to appear open and relaxed sat forward resting his forearms on his knees. His ploy would have worked better with an open neck and rolled up sleeves.

"Ah, thank you, dear. Lovely. Lovely."

I put the tray down and indicated to Johnson to help himself. He had to have been nervous; it couldn't be normal for someone as thin as he was to devour a quarter pound of Turkish Delight single-handedly. Maybe I should invest in pharmaceuticals; insulin shares were about to skyrocket.

"Try the short-bread too," he said to the museum director." Might as well clog your arteries while you're at it.

"Thank you, Gregor." Old Winslow chose one and nibbled at it daintily. It crumbled, covering his shirt with powdered sugar.

"Oh dear," he said, and made a bigger mess brushing himself off. My father noticing the man's discomfort further embarrassed him by picking up the large crumb that had fallen and rolled over by his foot. It would be a toss-up between him and Mother Teresa for the Albert Schweitzer Humanitarian of the Year Award.

I watched them sip and nibble, each eyeing the other. The way my father kept looking at me gave the impression he had something to say but didn't quite know how to start.

Beginning to feel a bit awkward myself, I said, "This is about the painting, isn't it? Something has come up."

"Mmmm," he mumbled, nodding his head. He bit into a cookie, taking a small bite. It crumbled and most of it fell on the floor.

"Do you want to tell her..?" He asked the museum director."

Johnson nodded, took a breath and said. "We've heard from the thieves."

"What..."

"The people who took the painting. They phoned. If I want the painting back, the museum has to come up with two hundred thousand dollars."

"Two hundred thousand! You're kidding."

"This is no joke, Sammy."

"No," Johnson agreed. "It's not a joke. "I stalled them. Had to think pretty fast. Said we weren't even sure it was worth that much. And even if it was, I'd have to verify they actually had the ah, Domini Canes."

"I don't suppose it occurred to you after hanging up, to dial the code to get the caller's number?" The look on his face gave me the answer. I thought my father was the only one who didn't know the service existed.

"What did the caller say?" I asked, getting back to the point.

"Said he understood we'd want to know what we were paying for. And that something could be arranged. Then he told me how they wanted the money. Small, used bills, nothing bigger than twenties." He waved his hand dismissing the details as if this was some kind of everyday occurrence.

"What did you tell them? Did you agree?"

"Subject to verification. And I told them there was no way I could get that kind of money together -that it would take a few days."

"And..?"

"He laughed. Said it would be too bad if I couldn't raise the money. That they had another interested party. That's when I called your father."

"What does the museum say?"

"Oh, God! I haven't told them. I was contacted at home thankfully."

Light dawned. My father would be the mark, since it was his fault the painting was stolen in the first place. I couldn't blame him.

Johnson sat grooming himself nervously, patting his hair in place and smoothing his tie. "They threatened to sell the painting to someone else. That they had an American who was anxious to buy it."

"Do you believe that? Sounds like they're trying to pressure you. The longer it drags, the greater their risk."

"We know. Sammy, but it could be true -how the hell can we tell? If it is true, and someone else buys it, it disappears for good."

"I think you should call the police."

"Oh no!" Johnson said, horrified, his face spelling disaster.

"Well, I don't see how you can deal with this on your own. It's dumb to even consider it." I turned to my father saying, "And you damn near got yourself killed over this painting once already."

"If we go to the police, Sammy -then it is over. We'll never get the painting back, and who knows where it'll end up."

"That's true. They'll probably destroy it if they can't sell it," Johnson added.

"So now what? Don't tell me you two are planning to handle this on your own?"

"Well, I did tell them I want to see the painting before I got any money together."

"Jesus. I have to tell you -the two of you\- what you're doing is stupid. Stupid and dangerous. That bump must've really affected your brain.

"Sammy, listen. What choice do we have? Can you tell me? And don't mention the police. We want to get back the Domini Canes."

I turned away in disgust. There was no reasoning with him when he got this way.

"Sammy," he said again, almost pleading. "How else can we get the painting back. They don't care who gets the painting. All they want is the money."

"They might be bluffing about having a buyer...."

Johnson interrupted and said, "It might be a bluff, Sam. But I can assure you, they won't have a difficult time locating a buyer."

"They don't need us, Sammy."

"That's exactly my point, Dad. That's the scary part. Don't you get it?" I couldn't believe how dumb these two old coots were.

"Sammy, what choice do we have?" he repeated.

"You're father's right, I think. If we want the painting back, then we have to go through with this."

I sighed. "Geoff finds out, he'll kill me. The both of us. What's your next step?" I asked Johnson.

"They said, they'd contact me."

"When?"

"Didn't say. Just that they would."

"Maybe we should have a trace put on the phone," I suggested.

"That would involve the police. And they were quite specific about that." He looked at my father.

"No. No police." my father said shaking his head. "Besides, didn't you say you can get the number by dialing a code?"

"Yes, you can. But then you'd probably need to involve the police to find out where the number came from. And in any event I'm sure whoever these people are, they would have figured a way around this, making it a waste of time." I couldn't believe I was thinking like them. All Johnson wanted was to cover his ass and get back the painting. Keeping the police out and getting my father to put up the money would do it. He'd be in the clear. My father was right, the man would come out of this smelling like a rose.

"Dad," I said. "Promise me you won't do anything without first telling me?"

"Yes, yes." He waved his hand at me again.

"Dad. I'm serious about this." And to Johnson I said, "And I want to know the minute they call."

"Oh, don't worry about that! I'll phone Gregor as soon as I hear from them." I was sure he would. My father was his way out of this fiasco.

"And I'll tell you as soon as I hear." I gave him a hard long look.

"I promise, Sammy. I promise."

Johnson got up and excused himself, claiming he had an appointment. Some cataloguing to do for another exhibit. He shook my hand assuring me how much of a pleasure it was to have met me again. Now that my father had committed himself he felt more secure.

I let my father show him out. I was mad, furious for letting it get out of hand, for letting him manipulate me again into going along. But if I wanted to keep him from getting in over his head, I had no choice but to get involved.

When he came back, I told him what Harry had said.

"Why don't you give him a call? Maybe you can cook something up with the alarm people, or the insurance company. It might be cheaper in the long run for them to front the ransom money. Save you from digging into your own pockets. Bad enough risking your life without squandering my inheritance." I was on the point of tears again, and it had nothing to do with PMS.

He put his arms around me, and patted my back. "Don't worry. We'll work something out. We won't go in blind. We'll work something, you'll see."

"I have to go," I said, wiping my eyes. "Call Harry."

A week had gone by and still no call from the art thieves. My nails were practically none existent having chewed them down to the quick. To maintain what was left of my sanity I immersed myself in my work and kept putting Geoff off. He wanted to get together, take me to dinner, go to a movie. I was too busy, I told him. My father wasn't feeling so hot, I told him. I wanted to stay close by. He understood. Did I want company? Another day and I would have broken down and told him the truth.

My father was coping amazingly well. He had resumed seeing a few patients at home but was still on leave from the hospital. He was in good spirits too, actually enjoying the intrigue. I was a nervous wreck and he was having fun playing Charley Chan.

Harry hummed a lot, his spirits high, like someone getting it regularly. My father had told him everything, but Harry was fairly closed mouthed, only saying that he had worked a way to 'stick it to 'em'.

"They'll put up the money as long as that fact is not disclosed. If word gets out that a big security company was covering their clients losses.... well you can imagine."

"How did you ever manage to get them to put up the money?"

"Threatened to expose a shoddy operation. Their contract stipulates a thorough explanation of how the system works which includes the salesman calling back to make sure the client is satisfied. That's standard procedure. But in your father's case, it wasn't done. An oversight. Apparently the salesman is a real cracker jack. Won a two-week trip with his wife to Tahiti or somewhere. But oversight or not, they failed to hold up their end of the bargain. The last thing they want is to go to court. Win or lose it would cost them a bundle."

"So they agreed to put up the money?"

"You got it," he said, winking.

"My father will be thrilled. Especially since you're not planning to bill him."

"Georges told me I was out of my mind, so I made your father promise free psychiatric help." He had his hand on the doorknob about to leave. "As a matter of fact I've an appointment with your father this afternoon. I'm on my way there now."

"Who's the client -you or him?"

"Why, your father, of course! If I ever need a shrink it'll have to be a sex-therapist." He laughed heartily as ever at his own joke.

"Well, that let's my father out. He's far too Freudian."

"Tah," he said. "I'm off."

I worked for a couple of hours and as usual no one bothered me. I was pretty wrapped up and the time went quickly, so quickly in fact, that when I looked at my watch I was surprised to see it was nearly seven o'clock. I packed my stuff, put on my coat, and decided at the last moment to leave my work at the office. Enough was enough.

The city was tight in winter's grip, the wind harsh, whipping snow, sharp as crystals, in my face. I tucked my head and turned away from the wind, walking briskly and taking little running steps every few paces. By the time I got home I was frozen and caked with snow.

Better dry off, I could hear him say. You'll catch your death. I let myself in, shook snow off my coat and went into the bathroom to dry my hair. Of course the phone rang, and of course it was my father. Once, just once you'd think he'd count to a hundred before calling.

"Hello," I said musically.

"Hi, Sammy. What's with your bitch voice?"

"Jesus, Dad. You could at least give me a chance to get out of my clothes before you call."

"Okay, change your clothes and come over, would you please? Sorry I got you at a bad time -come when you can."

Now I felt like a shit. I preferred his abrupt ways to his wounded good manners. But when he said _please_ and _sorry,_ I knew something was eating him. I changed and went right over.

"Okay, give. What's bothering you? They called, didn't they?"

"Yes, they called."

"And..."

"They agreed, we could check out the painting."

"I should hope so."

"But there's a hitch, Sammy...."

"Okay, drop the other shoe."

"They want me to go. Not Johnson."

"You! What the hell for? Jesus, Dad. First they damn near brain you... I hope you said no."

"Winslow says they told him they didn't steal it."

"Come on, Dad. What is this...?"

"That's what he said -that they're agents. They got the painting from the thief, but they didn't steal it."

"Sure. Ask them, while you're at it, if they're selling shares in the Mercier Bridge." I shook my head in disbelief. "Good thing we did keep Geoff out of this. He thinks you're pretty smart and I'd hate to disillusion him."

"That's not all."

"There's more?"

"The people we're dealing with?"

"I'm listening."

"They're Indians..."

"Indians," I said flatly." As in Ghandi?"

"No, as in Sitting Bull."

"Sitting duck is more like it."

"From across the bridge." He inclined his head in that general direction.

"Since when do the Indians deal in stolen art anyway?" Guns, I could understand. But Mohawks and art from the Middle Ages didn't quite wash.

"Since they have the Domni Canes, I guess. They want me to check it out."

"Why you, I'd like to know?"

"Winslow said, they didn't want anybody connected to the museum. And they knew from the news it was stolen from me."

"Winslow says this -Winslow says that!" He looked hurt, and I regretted my mocking tone. "Did you consider that maybe\- just maybe there's an outside chance that Johnson is setting you up?"

"Setting me up! For what?"

"Hell, I don't know. Maybe he's just scared shitless to do this himself."

"Well," he said at length. "Maybe he is -as you so indelicately put it- scared shitless. But this mess is my fault and I intend to correct it -or try to- with or without your help!" Like a child he thrust his chin out. But he had me. I really should move to Australia. Correction -Australia was the most sexist place on the planet. Maybe a Greek island. Like Lesbos.

"Your mind is made up, isn't it?" He didn't answer. "And if that's the case, then we're going to work out some sort of strategy."

"We? What do you mean we?"

"I'll be damned if I let you walk into this alone." I threw the napkin on the table, drained my wine glass, and refilled it. I swear I saw a smirk creep into his face.

"Johnson told them, I'd need to see the painting before any money changed hands. As matter of fact I wouldn't have the money with me."

"Well, that's the first bright thing I've heard about this in weeks! What did they say to that?"

"They agreed, but they need a guarantee, a show of good faith."

"Good faith! They have the painting, but you have to show good faith?"

"That's the deal. They're covering their behinds."

"Right. While yours is hanging out in the cold."

"That's the deal," he repeated. "But you have to come too."

"I said, I'd help you."

"I know, you will. But this is one of their conditions."

"What's that supposed to mean..?"

"Since I'm not bringing any money, they want a guarantee when I go to look at the painting."

I could see where this was going. "Sorry, Dad. No way. There's got to be a better way of handling this. Makes us both vulnerable. Let Johnson play the hostage."

"Sammy, listen..."

"I've listened too much as it is. This is crazy. Sorry. We've got to figure another way."

"There is no other way. Besides how dangerous could it actually be? All they want is to get rid of the painting."

"You don't think people get killed for two hundred thousand dollars? You have a short memory."

"This isn't anything like what Lee-Ann was into."

"No?"

"Look," he said, in his goddam psychiatrist's voice. "They can unload it easy without even involving us."

"So why don't you let them do that, for Christ's sake."

"You know why."

"That painting should never have left the museum," I mumbled.

"What..?" He had heard me, and added. "I know that now. But like I said...."

"Okay, okay. I still think we should call Geoff. We're just getting in deeper and deeper."

"It'll work out, Sammy. It'll work out." I wished I could share his optimism.

"I'd feel a hell of a lot better, if Johnson were in the hot seat."

"They were quite specific that you come with me. I wasn't going to repeat it, but they told Johnson to make sure 'that bitch' comes or the deals off."

So they wanted the bitch in on the deal did they? I felt my blood pressure rise. Not from anger and not from the name-calling, but from the feeling of impotence, the lack of not being in control.

"Is there some sort of plan about this?"

"They want us to drive to the reservation. There's a checkpoint, where someone will meet us. They take me to see the painting. If it's the one, I come back for the money. In the meantime, you stay at the checkpoint. That way they know I won't go to the police."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

"Sounds too pat."

"I know. But it's just a simple exchange...."

"Dad. There's nothing simple about this." He shook his head from side to side in reluctant agreement.

"Look. We have to put in a couple of our own guarantees. It's not going to be all their way."

"Sammy. All they have to do is tell us to get lost. Then where will we be?"

"You mean where will they be, don't you?" He furrowed his brow.

"Let's think about this for a minute okay? What the hell good is the painting to them? No good at all, right? They've got to sell it. And I'm not so sure they can unload the Domini Canes as easily as they'd like us to believe. Otherwise why contact Johnson at all. That's pretty risky, if you ask me. Geoff would call it returning to the scene of the crime. And you can bet your last Cuban cigar they wouldn't take that risk if they had other options. They're real hungry for the two hundred thousand dollars, and unless I miss my bet, they'll be a tad flexible in their demands. No way they'll let two hundred thousand grand go up in smoke." A bitch was I?

"You know," I said, tapping the table. "This could work. We demand a hostage too; one of them as a show of good faith."

"You think they'll go for that?"

"For two hundred thousand in wampum? Damn right they'll go for it. This is what we're going to do -they have to call Johnson back, don't they?"

"It's their move."

"Good. This is what I want him to say. When they contact Johnson, I want him to agree to their demands. Let them think they still have the upper hand. After they've made their points Johnson puts in his two cents."

We discussed my strategy, arguing the pros and cons of a couple of variations, finally settling on the following scenario. Before we agreed to meet them, they were to send a representative to a designated place. Once we were satisfied and we had their man in view, then and _only_ then would we proceed?

"How are we going to know the person they send?"

"Dad. All he has to do is carry something, wear a... I don't know! A propeller beanie. That's the least of the problem."

"And who's going to be _our_ go-between?"

"That we'll figure out later. But before we do anything else, I think you should call Johnson. He has to follow this to the letter. He has to be firm in his demands or this whole thing is going to fall through. I wish I was doing the negotiating." I slapped the table with the flat of my hand. He leaned back in his chair and stared at me.

"What..?" I asked.

"For someone who was so apprehensive, you took control in an awful hurry."

"You're not having misgivings, are you?"

"No, no. Not at all. I think you're right. I'm just surprised at you."

"Well, like they say: In for a penny; in for a pound."

# Chapter 22

The Indians contacted Johnson the next day. He called my father immediately. When I got home he was beside himself and looking like he hadn't slept in a week.

"Will you be able to go through with this, you look awful?"

"Yes, I'm okay. Really, Sammy, I'm fine. Don't worry." He was agitated, pacing and smoothing his hair nervously. "They said they want to do this tonight. And they said no to your idea too."

"Tonight? No way. We haven't worked out all the details."

"But, Sammy. They said...."

"Dad. Sit down and relax." He sat down and fidgeted, clasping and unclasping his hands. "It's their way of control. Don't you see? By keeping us off guard, they call the shots. As it is they have most of the cards."

"What do we do then? Winslow is having a bigger fit than I am." That would have been hard to believe.

"Can we get in touch with them?"

"I don't know. I doubt it. Do you want me to call Winslow..?"

"Yes. It would be a good idea. In the meantime, I'm going home to have a hot bath and relax. And try to calm down. If Johnson's so strung out, you'll have to control yourself better than this. Our only way out is to stay calm. Panic now, and we're sunk."

"Okay, okay. I'll try. Have your bath and come back. I'll see if Winslow knows how to reach them."

I returned to my own place and checked my address book for Robert Bellamy's phone number.

"Sam! What a surprise. I've been thinking about you. How have you been?"

"I'm fine thanks. Back to normal. Almost."

"Oh-oh. That sounds ominous."

I filled him in briefly about the painting and my father's injury, laying it on a bit thick appealing to the Sir Galahad syndrome.

"My, God, Sam, that's awful. Of course I heard about it, but didn't make the connection. I'm really sorry, I wish there was something I could do."

"Well, actually there is." I told him what I needed.

"Are you serious!"

"You won't have to reveal yourself, Robert. It'll be perfectly safe. The place is always crowded and no one will even notice you..."

"A black man in the middle of a bunch of Indians? And I won't be noticed? Sam, give me a break."

"Not if you stay in the car. All you have to do is spot him and give me a call. You have a cell phone don't you?"

"Yes, but..."

"Call me from the car," I interrupted. "Then you can leave. Robert, the whole thing shouldn't take ten minutes."

"Sam. I don't know about this."

"I wouldn't ask you if I thought there was a risk. You know that."

"I do, do I?"

"Robert. How can you even think that?" I tried to sound wounded.

"Okay, okay. So you wouldn't _knowingly_ put me at risk. That's the operative word."

"I don't know who else I can trust, Robert..."

"Sure. Tell me about it. This is going to cost you big. A lot more than just a fancy dinner." He was hooked.

"Thanks, Robert. I really owe you."

"Damn right, you owe me. When is all this cloak and dagger shit supposed to go down anyway?"

"I'll have to call you back on that. You won't change your mind?"

"No. But make it soon. The less time I think about it, the better for my ulcer."

"I'll do my best. And Robert."

"What do you want now? My first born?"

"Just to say thanks. It means a lot to me."

"Sure." The phone went dead. God, I hoped he'd keep his word. If we were lucky we'd pull this off in the next day or two, before he had second thoughts and before I regained my sanity. What the hell was I playing at anyway?

I had my bath and was toweling my hair when my father let himself in.

"Sammy, it's me."

I came out wrapped in my terry robe, and a towel for a turban.

"What did he say...?"

"He doesn't know how to get in touch with them. It would've been pretty stupid of them to give him a number don't you think? Anyway he says it's pointless and we should just forget the whole thing."

"What? Ask him if the museum will settle for the money instead of the painting. Then we can consider 'letting it go'. Anyway," I said rubbing my hair with the towel. "That's exactly what I want our new friends to think. Just be patient."

"I don't know, Sammy. It's getting scary."

"That's why we ignore them. Lets them stand there at the goddam check point holding their you-know-whats!"

"Sammy!" he said genuinely shocked.

"I'm serious, Dad. Let them think we don't want any part of this."

"I don't know...." He sat down at the kitchen table holding his head in his hands.

"Unless, I miss my guess, they're going to be in a real sweat. They're going to panic. And when the call comes we'll have the upper hand. Just watch."

"I hope you're right, Sammy." He looked at me, his expression one of total dejection.

"Furthermore, I'm willing to bet they call tonight. No later than nine, ten at the latest. They'll give us an hour and then call."

"I sure hope you're right," he repeated. So did I.

He got up slowly. "I better get back, in case Winslow wants to get me."

"Just a sec. I want him to give them a message, so why don't you call him from here." He dialed the man's number, spoke a few words and handed me the phone. I told him what I wanted him to say when they called.

"What's the Juke Box?"

"It's a restaurant. I don't think it's called that any more, but that doesn't matter. It's the only place on Route 138 looks like a big globe. And it can't be more than three or four minutes from their check point. The place is usually crowded so that'll be a good cover for Robert. And making their man be there an hour before we meet gives us the lead time we need."

"Okay, Sammy. I sure hope you know what you're doing." He went back to his own place and I called Robert Bellamy.

"Sam. What's it matter how I dress? How many black guys do you think hang out there?"

"Just don't wear a three-piece suit. You're not driving your Porche are you?"

"Give me some credit, will you? I may be nuts but I'm not crazy!"

"You'll be fine, I promise. The place is a hangout for the Peace Keepers."

"And who the hell are the Peace Keepers?"

"The Mohawk Police. It's like their Duncan Donuts."

"Great! Just fucking great!" He went on swearing and mumbling about how much I'd owe him if he got out of this alive.

"How do I recognize this dude anyway? By his feathers?"

"Watch for a guy wiping his face or his glasses with a red bandanna."

"Jesus, woman. I been through there. They _all_ wear red bandannas."

"This one will be cleaning his glasses. You'll spot him easy."

"That's not what I'm worried about."

"And what am I supposed to do till he shows? Order a martini, shaken not stirred?"

"Glad you've still got your sense of humor. Try to get there a bit before eight. Told them we'd be watching. If it didn't go right, the deal was off. He shows at eight; we meet the others at the check point an hour later."

"You want me to hang around that restaurant for an hour? You said ten minutes!"

"I know, but it shouldn't be an hour. As soon as you see him, call me then you can leave. But don't be obvious."

"Sam. I'm not brain dead you know. Not yet at least. Is that it?"

"That's it."

"Okay. Let me know if there's a change of plans."

"I will, I promise."

"Sure," he said, and hung up.

Not long after my talk with Robert, my father barged in.

"Sammy," he shouted. "You were right! How you figured it, I don't know, but you were right." He stormed into the kitchen and began pacing and wringing his hands.

"It's set. They tried to out bluff us too. Told Johnson to forget it. He agreed, telling them the insurance was going to make good. They started to hedge, he said, then agreed to meet us tomorrow night like you said."

"That was quick thinking on Johnson's part."

"The man's not as dumb as he looks, is he?"

"Dad!"

"Joking, Sammy. Joking. Even if the insurance were paying -if we knew its true value- it's always better to get the item back. Money is no substitute for history."

"Well the point is moot now."

"Right. The point is moot," he repeated.

"Let's contain ourselves, shall we? It's going to be a long night."

"And a longer day, Sammy. A longer day. Maybe you want to take something?"

"I do not! But indulge yourself, if you feel _you_ must!"

He gave me one of my own looks. "It's not a habit I have ever cultivated.

"And I have?"

"Okay, okay. I'll see you tomorrow. Try to get some sleep. You got classes?"

"Yes. Morning and afternoon."

"Good. Keep you busy. That's good."

"What are you going to do all day? Wear out the rug?"

"I'll be busy, don't worry. I've got appointments."

"When are you going back to work? The hospital I mean."

"As a matter of fact, I'm going in to my office tomorrow."

"Let's try to get through the next twenty four hours with our nerves intact."

"Not until I have the painting back."

"At the museum."

"Yes, yes, at the museum." He waved went down the steps and back up on his side.

Sleep came eventually, but I tossed and turned most of the night. Weird dreams of Indians and war parties invaded my rest and I almost regretted refusing my father's offer to give me a little _something_. The next day wasn't much better, I couldn't concentrate and my students kept looking at each other wondering what the hell had gotten into me. And to make matters worse, Geoff called. Of course my voice betrayed my anxieties.

"You okay?" he asked. "You sound funny."

"I'm just a little tired, that's all." It wasn't a lie. "Been doing a lot of research for my lecture series. How are you?"

"Swamped! I've forgotten what a full night's sleep is. How's Gregor?"

"Dad's just great! His head's all healed up." On the outside at least.

"Glad to hear it. I might swing by a little later if that's okay."

Oh," I said beginning to panic. "He's starting back at the hospital today, didn't I tell you?"

"That's good news. Knowing your father, he'd crawl there on his hands and knees. Got to go. Just called to ask you how he was doing. I could've phoned him, but I know he'd lie."

"You know him as well as I do." I laughed trying to sound light.

"Give him my regards though, would you?" I promised I would and he rang off.

God, I hoped he wouldn't come by. Not today, especially not today. I could never carry off the charade if I had to face him in person. My father could lie out of hand about how sick he was but when it came to something like this he had even less guile than I did. He'd start confessing even before Geoff was out of his car.

Too keyed up now from talking to Geoff, I put my stuff away and went home. In spite of having gotten up early to go for my run, I was still edgy and tense. My chest was tight and I found it hard to breathe. It was cold and damp out, the wind sharp, but I faced it squarely and tried to take deep breaths.

The next few hours were an absolute torment and when my father came over after seeing his last patient, his incessant pacing almost drove me over the edge. He was nervous too and wouldn't let me out of his sight. Later when Johnson came over with the money I almost lost it.

He'd brought it over in a bag. Two hundred thousand dollars in a wrinkled paper grocery bag. Forty packets in five thousand dollar bundles.

I took the bag from Johnson who was only too eager to get rid of it, and put it on the sofa. My father sat as far away from it as possible. I was about to count the packages but my hands trembled and I couldn't make my fingers work.

"They said used bills and nothing over a twenty. Not fifties," my father protested, scolding Johnson.

"They won't turn it down, Dad. Believe me." He shrugged, unconvinced.

"I hope you're right, Sam," Johnson said. "I told the bank I wanted it all in twenties but they didn't have enough bills. As it is they had to call around." He took off his coat and draped it over a chair, then the hat. It was one of those dumb things with the fur flaps that hang down. It made him look like a Cocker Spaniel.

"This is ridiculous," I said, wiping my hands on my thighs. "Three grown adults and look how we're acting. It's only money."

I spilled the contents of the bag on the sofa and began to count and stack the packages on the coffee table. At this point my nervousness left me. Two hundred thousand dollars in your hands has a calming effect. You could settle a lot of differences. I thought of Lee-Ann and the bank on San Marcos. When we were through counting I went to my bedroom to fetch my knapsack. This was how they wanted the money delivered and since the point was minor we conceded. I started to pack the money when a thought struck me, hitting me with a surge of confidence.

"Dad. Winslow," I said. "Screw them!" I started to unpack the bag.

"Sammy, what are you doing? Are you crazy!"

"No, I'm not crazy. These bastards are only going to get a hundred thousand. Not two!"

"What...?"

"We're giving in too damn easy! They think, if you'll pardon an expression, Winslow, that they are real hot shit! But they're a bunch of vile bastards that have held us hostage. I've been scared absolutely shitless for days over this." I thumped my chest. "They want to play hardball? We're going to show them."

Johnson looked at me and kept pursing his lips, his nervous hands brushing the few pathetic wisps of hair trying to cover his baldness.

"Sammy, that's taking an awful chance. We've no experience in...."

"No experience! This is all the experience I need, Dad. Now listen to me. The two of you.

"Robert is probably on his way there now." I looked at my watch." It's five after seven. He's going to be a bit early. When he spots the guy he'll phone you."

"I know, we've been through that."

"Just so we got it all straight. We can't afford any screw-ups, that's for sure.

"When he calls, that's our signal, and we get going. Winslow?" I pushed the knapsack towards him. "You remember where you're supposed to wait?"

"Yes. In the parking lot. The shopping centre near the LaSalle off ramp from the bridge."

"Yes, I want you facing Clement. So you can flash your lights at us. Any problem, with that?"

"No. I've already been through a dry run with your father. He knows where I'll park. Now all we have to do is wait for your friend to call."

"Actually, I think we should get going. Winslow, I'll follow you in my father's car to the parking lot. Okay?"

"Fine."

"Let's do it. Don't forget the money."

I waited outside at the curb for my father to bring the car around. Johnson waited in his own car, the motor running. I was going to tell him to lose the hat, but decided against it. It was so ridiculous no one would give him a second thought.

I got in, and Johnson eased into the flow of traffic with us behind. We all knew the way and would meet up at the parking lot if we couldn't keep together.

Traffic was light, with a gentle snow falling, imparting a surreal sense of peace and tranquillity which none of us felt. Taking it easy in the light traffic, he drove down to the expressway and along to the Ville St Pierre exit, made a left, then followed La Fleur to the Pont Mercier Shopping Center. Luck was with us, so far. We parked beside Johnson. I checked my watch. Ten to eight. Johnson came over and stood at the window.

"Get in, Winslow, it's too cold." He pressed a button to unlock the back door.

"Dad. Do you have to?" He had unwrapped a cigar and was licking it all over in that disgusting habit. Johnson was sitting behind him, clutching the knapsack. He clamped the cigar between his teeth but didn't light it. The way he rolled it from side to side almost made me gag. I looked the other way.

"As soon as Robert calls, we high-tail it. It shouldn't be more than six to eight minutes to the checkpoint. Certainly no more than ten." "Even if we hit red lights," my father added.

"And I'll just stay in the car with the money, until you come for it, Gregor."

"Right. I hope it's not too cold for you."

"And for God's sake," I said, "Don't sit with the engine running. We don't need another casualty!"

"Don't worry about me. You two just be very careful. My job's the easy part."

"Let's hope it all goes _easy!",_ he said toying nervously with the cigar.

"Why does this guy have to go to the restaurant?" Johnson asked. "I don't get it."

"So he can identify their man, of course." My father's impatience was beginning to show.

"I _mean_ their man. What's the purpose?"

"I'm hoping in the event they're planning a double-cross, they'll think twice. Unless Robert hears from me that the exchange went okay, he's to call the police. Their man won't know who we have watching him. If he doesn't show, the deal's off. And if he leaves before I give Robert the okay, then cops are called in."

"So they just can't rip you off for the money, and keep the painting."

"That's it. Only after we've got the Domini Canes and we're safely away -then I'll call Robert."

"You're in the wrong business, Sam." He laughed.

"Let's just hope this goes without a hitch, okay?"

"Don't worry, Dad. They want the money more than the painting."

"I sure hope you're right considering they're only getting half what they asked for."

Johnson sat clutching the knapsack, looking sorry and small in his ridiculous hat." Don't take this the wrong way, Sam, but for a women you've got damn big balls."

My father laughed so hard the cigar fell out of his mouth, the end disgustingly chewed and soggy.

"I'll take that as a compliment."

The phone chirped cutting short our bantering. "That's Robert!" I said picking it up.

"Sam?"

"Yes." I looked at my watch. Eight-o-two.

"I spotted, him. Right on the button. A real big guy, Sam. He's wearing a pair of those camouflage pants and a dark windbreaker with a picture of an Indian on the back. You know, with the sunburst behind an Indian head."

"You sure it's him?" There had to be a half dozen Natives at the university with the same jacket.

"Not to worry, Sam. As a matter of fact I'm watching him now and he's wiping his face with that goddam big red hanky."

"Thanks, Robert."

"Okay, it's up to you now. Good luck. I'll keep him in sight and wait for your call. I might go in for a coffee, sitting here like this is kind of obvious."

"Well, don't be long. I need you by the phone."

"Don't worry, I'll put it on vibrate?"

"I'd still feel better if you were in the car."

"Dammit, Sam. Have you any idea how a black guy sitting in a parked car attracts attention? And like you said, the Peace Keepers are all over the place."

"Okay, okay. Just be careful."

"You do your thing, Sam, and don't worry about my end, okay? I'm hanging up now. Good luck." Jesus, he was consoling me.

"Time for us to move." Johnson reached over and shook my father's hand then patted my shoulder.

"Take care now. And don't do anything foolish. And if you change your mind, Sam. I've got the full amount." He opened the sack to give me a peek. I could see the money and the original paper sack.

"Just say the word." He patted the sack and got out.

He started the car and pulled carefully into the street. We caught the lights, went through the intersection under the span and in seconds were on the up ramp to the bridge.

At this rate we'd be there in four minutes; almost an hour ahead of time. Good, I thought, keep them off guard; no way we were getting screwed on this deal. Besides I had my friend in my purse.

My father's a pretty good driver and he loves his Jag, the throaty rumble of power, but tonight he took it very easy, keeping it just under the limit. As he approached the exit ramp to 138 he signaled a right turn and slowed as he entered the curve. A moment later bearing right, and again signaling, we approached the checkpoint. The small hut, a lone sentinel, stood silent in the yellow glow of a dim bulb, its shade reminding me of a Darth Vader helmet. The lamp hung over the door from a wire stretched between the hut and a utility pole across road. Shadows were pushed and pulled as the lamp swung on a short arc.

We approached the hut cautiously, the space in the road cut in half by two yellow and black-striped sawhorses, leaving barely enough room for one vehicle to pass through. He pulled up to the checkpoint, put the car in neutral and rolled down his window. A Mohawk in camouflage gear, one of the two in the hut, and carrying an assault rifle approached the car. The rifle angled down from his right shoulder pointing to a spot on the ground ahead about fifteen feet.

He leaned in and said in a flat, unfriendly tone through the bandanna covering his face:

"Where youse going?"

"To look at some arts and crafts," my father answered belligerently.

The Warrior stepped back into the shadows, away from the car. There was a crackle of static as he keyed his walkie-talkie.

"Youse two are early. Park over dere and wait." He pointed with the barrel of the rifle to a small clearing on the side of the road. My father pulled over and parked beside a Bronco. The other guard came out of the hut and stood in the doorway under the lamp, pulling his bandanna up to cover his face. He signaled his partner who came over and motioned we were to stay put then took a position behind us at an angle where he could see both the car and the check-point hut. We were a good forty minutes early and I could see the sentinel was getting edgy. He paced and scuffed the dirt with the toe of his boot, glancing nervously up the road whenever he heard a vehicle. The noise from the highway was a low throbbing hum. He had moved into the shadows to pull down his bandanna and smoke. When he was chain-smoking his third cigarette another four-wheel drive vehicle pulled up and skidded to a halt in front of the hut. The guard under the lamp approached and opened the door. I couldn't hear what was said, but could see the exchange was heated.

The driver covered his face like a bandit before getting out. Like the others, he was dressed like a revolutionary soldier, and carried a holstered gun on his hip, slung low, cowboy style. Walking like he had just single-handedly put down an insurrection he approached the Jag. Our guard threw down his cigarette, crushing it under his boot.

"You Milland," he stated.

"That's right."

He leaned down further, his hand on the roof and peered in at me. Even in the dim light I could read the anger in his eyes.

"You the bitch daughter." Another statement.

"I'm the bitch." I answered. And he'd better believe it.

"Look," I said. "Can we move this along? We don't have all night."

"Hey, Miss. Relax, okay?" He turned abruptly at the sound of an approaching Jeep. They had a thing for sturdy four-wheel drives. I wanted to laugh at their soldier games, but remembered just how serious the Warriors were when they held the bridge for over two months.

"Okay, get out. Nice and slow like." He opened my father's door and stepped back watching me as I put my iPhone in my purse.

"Follow me." He led us over to the hut and raised his hand for us to stop.

"Turn around and face the wall." The Mohawk with the rifle took a threatening step towards us. The Commander's boots crunched on the gravel behind me. I recoiled and ducked when his hand touched my shoulder.

"Take it easy, lady. I'm going to put this blindfold on you." I reached up and pulled it way. "That's not part of the deal."

"Look, Miss. We don't want you to see where we're going is all. I won't tie your hands if you promise to leave it on. No big deal, okay?"

I stared at him a moment. "No big deal," I said. The other man from the Jeep was doing the same thing to my father.

"Take my hand," he said. He grabbed my arm, not all that roughly but securely and pulled me along. He smelled of machines and sweat.

"Okay, I'm going to help you up, Miss. In the Jeep."

"Where are you taking us?" I heard my father say. "Sammy?"

I stopped and pulled down the blindfold.

"Look, Miss. We're just taking him to check out the painting."

"Why are you separating us..."

"Just a precaution. Put the blindfold on, okay? We want to get this over too." I could see the other man talking to my father. I couldn't hear them but there was a lot of gesturing and head shaking, then my father got into the vehicle.

"Okay, let me get in. Then I'll cover my face, what the hell difference would that make."

"No difference, Miss."

I got in, sat down and tied the blindfold securely behind my head. After checking it that it was tight enough he went around and got in beside the driver. He started the Jeep and we rumbled along the bumpy road. I hoped my father would keep his cool and stay calm. I hadn't figured we'd be separated and lose control of the situation.

I don't know how far we drove; we could've been going in circles as far as I knew. I roughly calculated we'd been moving for ten or so minutes before we stopped. The Jeep lurched and I was thrown forward, bumping into my captor.

"Sorry, Miss." I'd been elevated from bitch status. They both got out and I waited for one of them to help me down. He started to steer me, but I shrugged his arm off and took hold of his elbow.

"I'll follow," I said, testily. We walked for several yards on uneven ground. I stumbled once and clutched his arm to keep my balance. The other one laughed, the bastard.

"Two steps up, Miss. That's it. Okay?" We had entered some kind of cabin. It felt small and cramped and smelled rustic, like my Mohawk captor.

"You can sit here." He steered me to a chair. I mis-judged my space and fell.

"Fuck!" I spat. More laughter. One of them helped me up, pushing me firmly into a low, upholstered chair. It felt cold and greasy and I shivered. The leader came over and tugged at the blindfold to make sure I still couldn't see.

"Keep your eyes closed and don't touch it okay." He ordered. I shivered again, the place giving me the creeps.

"You cold?"

"No, I am not cold!" I'm scared, don't you assholes know the difference? I had my coat but it did nothing to keep the chill of fear away. Jesus, I said to myself. Calm down, Sam. You're not hurt. You're not even tied up. You can get away any time. Besides with your hands free and if you have to, you can get into your purse. I willed myself to relax, taking slow, deep breaths. Sure, I could reach my gun. That was the scary part.

"Relax, Miss. Your eyes are covered, that's all. No big deal."

I could hear him pacing, and a match strike. A few seconds later the smell of cigarette smoke drifted over me. Sure. No big deal. Would they shoot me if I pulled the damn thing off? I was a scientist, but this was one hypothesis I hoped I wouldn't have to test.

They must have retreated to the far side of the room; I could hear their voices alright, but not what they were saying. Another match was struck.

He started pacing again. I could hear him approaching, his boots taking slow deliberate steps. I felt like Audrey Hepburn in _Wait until dark_ and had to work hard to control my bladder.

He stopped pacing and I could tell he standing over me. Only my eyes were covered. My hands were free and I was unrestrained, but I felt totally and utterly helpless.

"This won't take long, Miss. When your old man sees the painting all he has to do is go get the money. When we have the money then you can go. Won't be long."

"You guys are really something else."

"Yes," the driver said, "we're really something else. Now don't talk."

I sat there numb and mute while they paced, smoked and occasionally laughed. At one point one of them went out, and I swear I could hear him pissing against the side of the cabin.

"Time you got?" he said coming back in. He must've showed him his watch because he didn't answer.

"Still time," the driver said. More pacing and more smoke. Better than the smell of the cabin and the chair I sat in. I imagined a nest of mice or worse burrowed into the upholstery beneath me.

"Look," I said. "Isn't this a bit silly?"

"That would be a real mistake, Miss." His voice was cold, not like the driver's. That's all he said, but there was no mistaking the metallic sliding and clicking of his rifle.

"This ain't no fucking game, Lady. This is war."

"You call stealing a painting war?"

"Hey, Lady. Bitch. Get one thing straight. We didn't steal your precious fucking painting. And we didn't beat up on an old man."

"Well, you have the painting. That makes you an accessory."

"An accessory?" he mocked. "You hear that? I'm an accessory. Listen to the bitch. Look, bitch. This painting thing is just business, okay? We took it in payment for some goods. That's all. Now we're converting our assets." He laughed clearly enjoying his own turn of phrase.

"We saw in the paper about what happened. So we thought you people would want it back. As a courtesy."

"As a courtesy? My how gallant of you."

"Don't press your luck, Miss." Another metallic click.

"Whatever this is about you're still dealing in stolen property. It was a pretty dumb risk, if you ask me."

"No one's asking you anything. So shut the fuck up."

"You got some mout'," the driver said. "But who's going to tell? You?"

I didn't answer, and I heard him walk over to me. I held my breath. "Who's gonna tell?" he repeated, "You? There's no risk here. For us. Maybe you're tinkin' you take the blindfold off you can finger us? That would be a bad, bad mistake. We don't give a shit about the painting. Even the money don't mean shit if you don't got any respect. You're on our turf, bitch. You can disappear like that!" I heard his fingers snap and I flinched. Ain't nobody gonna touch us." I didn't start breathing again until I heard him walking away.

"You just sit, Miss, and mind your business and everything will work out. You don't want to piss my friend off."

I couldn't tell how much time had passed but they both made trips to the bushes. Finally I heard a crackle from the walkie-talkie. The driver went outside so I couldn't overhear.

"Okay," he said, coming back in. "Your father said it's the same painting." He's going for the money. Just a bit longer."

'You got a bathroom here?" They both laughed.

"Outside," said the mean one. "But you ain't no man." More laughing.

The driver came over to take my arm and steer me out to the bushes.

"Thanks, but I think I'll pass. I don't like the audience."

"What do you care? You won't see nuttin." He even had a mean laugh.

"The leader came over and said, "You know, Miss. You're lucky we're such nice guys."

"Yeah. Real angels."

"Better believe it! Compared to the dudes whacked your old man, we're fucking saints. Now do you want to go out for a piss or not?"

"What dudes are you talking about?"

"Nuttin. He didn't mean nuttin, okay?"

"Let's just say, these guys weren't interested in trading for cigarettes."

"What does that mean....?"

"Forget it, Miss. Okay? What you don't know won't hurt you. Know what I mean?"

I tried to relax and take my mind off my bladder. I couldn't.

"Look, guys. I really got to go..."

"Like I said before, Miss...."

"Fine. Just take me outside." There was some murmuring then the driver said, "I'll take you."

"Thanks." I got up and he took my arm guiding me over the threshold and down the two steps.

"You can go in the bushes. And don't take off the blindfold."

"Don't worry. Where the hell would I run to anyway?"

'That's right, Miss. That's smart. You keep thinking like that. Shout when you're done."

The snow crunched when he backed away, but I couldn't have cared less if he wanted to star me in a video. If he was that hard up he needed to watch me squat and pee then let him enjoy himself.

The relief was incredible. After an eternity I arranged myself, called him and extended my arm. When I felt his hand in mine I came forward. Back in my chair I waited patiently for word my father had returned with the money.

The crackle of static startled me and I jumped. Again the driver took the call outside.

"Okay," he said seconds later. "We got the money. You can call your guy now."

"Not until we're back at the checkpoint and I see my father's okay. And he has the painting."

"That's fair," the leader said. "Let's go."

"I was led back to the Jeep and after a circuitous route, I was sure, we were back at the check point.

"You can take it off now, Miss."

I yanked it off, and blinked a few times to get my focus back. I could see my father standing by his car and holding the painting still wrapped in the damn tablecloth.

The Indian helped me down out of the Jeep and said, "Hey, no hard feelings, okay? This isn't personal."

I ignored him and ran to my father.

"You okay, Dad?"

"Yes, Sammy. I'm fine.  Fine. They treat you right?"

"Yes, yes. No problem. Let's get the hell out of here."

"Hey, Miss. You forget something?" I didn't like the way he held his hand on the gun butt. "That phone call?"

I had forgotten. I took the phone out of my purse and punched the numbers.

"It's done," I said, Robert's signal to get the hell away from the place.

My father was getting into the car when the one with the rifle raised his hand.

"Wait!" he called. The driver of the Jeep was speaking into a handset. I could see him nodding. He turned to face the leader and raised his hand with his thumb up.

"Okay," the leader said, taking his hand away from the gun "You can go."

My father fired the ignition and pulled away in a shower of dirty snow and gravel.

# Chapter 23

He drove under the highway to the cloverleaf and accelerated gradually on the access ramp. It was snowing harder now. Heavy, wet flakes taxed the wipers leaving the window wet and streaky. It was dark and we were both shaken by the ordeal. Visibility was bad and he sat forward peering through the distorted windshield. About to merge, a blast from a semi scared him and he swerved, momentarily blinded in the slushy wake as the big truck plowed by.

"Jesus. Let's not get killed in an accident!"

He laughed nervously and gripped the wheel hard with both hands. "Not after what we've been through."

He eased back on the accelerator, but the bridge was slick and I found myself unconsciously pressing the floor with my foot to slow us down. He wasn't a bad driver, but I would have preferred to be the one behind the wheel. No matter how bad conditions are, there are those who will always pass and tonight was no exception. He ignored them, put the wipers on high, and relentlessly bored through the blizzard.

When we got home, Johnson was sitting in his car waiting. Parked a few spaces behind him, was Robert's Porche. My father pulled into the vacant space in front of Johnson, got out, and hauled the painting out of the back seat. Car doors slammed, as we all emerged and met on the sidewalk.

"I think we all need a very stiff drink!" he said going up the stairs.

Snow raged, and in the few seconds it took to get into the house we were covered in it. My father wasted no time, getting the drinks and glasses from the bar in the dining room and while he did so, I saw to getting the hats and coats put away. I showed Robert and Winslow into the living room, invited them to get comfortable, then helped my father with the drinks. Philistine that I am, I would have preferred paint remover, but under the circumstances I took the brandy without complaint.

"Thank God, that's over!" He drained his glass in one swallow, and refilled it generously indicating we should do the same. "Doctor's orders," he said.

"How did it go, Robert?" I was about to ask him the same question.

"Without a hitch, Dr. Milland," then turned to me and added, "Never ask me to do anything like that again!" He reached for the bottle and refilled his glass with a shaking hand.

"Was there a problem?" Winslow asked.

"No. No problem, but I'll never get my underwear clean!" That broke the tension.

"It went fine," he said when we'd stopped laughing. "But I didn't realize the place was so small. From the outside, that big globe is pretty deceptive. Luckily there was an empty table facing the door and I sat down and ordered a cup of coffee. When she brought it, I figured I better order a sandwich too. A cup of coffee wouldn't last long and I needed an excuse to linger. Anyway, it was lucky I got there early because so did he." He took a healthy sip and held it a moment before swallowing.

"Am I glad that's over! Freaked me out when he came to sit at my table."

"What?" I gasped.

"He was at the bar, then looks around and comes to my table. It scared the crap out of me. Figured the jig was up. He sits right down. The place was busy and everybody seems to know one another. They were laughing and bantering back and forth like it was some kind of club they all belonged to. All Indians it looked like except for me. And if you didn't notice I don't look very Indian. My skin tone is far from red."

For the second time he had us in stitches, my father wiping his eyes and shaking his head. Even Johnson, anal as he was, saw humor and laughed.

"So he sort of smiles and plops himself down. Before the waitress comes over he digs out his red hanky again and mops his face, all the while looking around sort of sneaky.

"The waitress comes over and he orders a sub with everything, a plate of fries and a large regular coke. Judging from his complexion he could have used some nutritional advice let me tell you. Anyway he starts stuffing the sub into his face. I sip my coffee and take a couple of bites from the sandwich to kill time. I had to wait a few minutes before going back to my car to call you, sorry about that. Couldn't very well car from the table. Would have been rude."

"Rude?"

"Sam! Think about it. You're in the middle of a meal. Someone comes in and sits at your table. You take one look at him, push your food away, then get up and leave. Not very good manners. Even worse when you're black and the other guy is white. Or red in this case. Not to mention how difficult it would be to scalp me."

Robert was on a roll, the brandy loosening his tongue. I was enjoying his self-effacing humor, never having seen this side of him. I hadn't laughed or felt this relaxed in a very long time.

"I choked the damn thing down, left the coffee and went to the cash. That took some time too. I had to wait until the waitress was through flirting with some guy before I could pay. Then I went out to the car and called."

"Did you go back in?" my father asked.

"No, Dr. Milland I stayed..."

"It's Gregor," he interrupted.

"No, Gregor, I stayed in the car. And that damn near traumatized me too! I couldn't borrow a car and I had to use the Porche. And like I already told you. I was scared the cops would want to know what the hell a black man was doing sitting in Porche in the middle of winter, in a snow storm. I mean it, Sam. This is the first _and_ last time I play I-spy!"

"He knocked back the brandy and started to pour himself another. He paused and said, "What the hell!" and filled the glass.

"So you stayed in the car the whole time...?"

"At one point, I got out and started walking towards the door. I really needed to use the washroom, know what I mean. But at that point I'd been sitting in the parking lot about forty minutes. If I go back in and he sees me, he 's going to know I'm the spotter. Let's face it I don't exactly blend in very well. And I couldn't very well, go behind the building. Any idea what it's like?"

"Oh, I think so." I confessed to having to hide in the shrubs.

"I mean being black. That's all I need is to be picked up for exposing myself."

"I'd say, at that hour you'd have blended quite well with your surroundings."

"Dad!" I needn't have been shocked as Robert laughed the loudest.

"So I stayed in the car and waited for you to call. And now here I am getting drunk on this excellent brandy. How did it go at your end?"

I filled him in. My account was far less entertaining but I compensated by embellishing the blindfold routine and exaggerating the discomfort of the disorientating drive. He was absolutely aghast to hear that the place was an armed camp guarded by a rabble of ex-marines.

"Before I'm totally blotto, Gregor, how about showing me what I risked my life for?"

"Of course, certainly." He brought it out and propped it against the chesterfield and removed the cloth. Robert bent down and sat heavily on the floor.

"Let me put it where you can see it better." He picked it up and placed it carefully on the upholstered chair. Robert struggled to his feat and steered himself unsteadily onto the antique chair.

"It's stunning!" he exclaimed. "No wonder so many people are fighting over it." He took another sip and said, "No damage, is there?"

"I checked it pretty carefully. They kept it wrapped in the cloth."

"Gregor, we got it back, that's what counts!" Johnson was sipping his brandy; it would have evaporated faster.

"That's what counts," Robert said, "That's what counts," he repeated slurring his words.

"I suppose that's the main thing I said. I'm surprised they didn't make a noise over the money though."

"What's this?" Robert asked straining to stay alert.

I explained about only giving in to half their demands.

"Why that's great! Sam, that was brilliant."

"Well, not exactly," Winslow said.

"What do you mean, not exactly?"

"Sammy, I gave them the whole amount."

"What!"

"I had no choice. They said.... they said that if I tried to _fuck them_ , they'd hurt you. I had no choice, Sammy."

"Your father's right, Dear. The money was the least of it at this point. That was the agreed price and it's paid. Over and done with. We got the painting back and no one got hurt. If you ask me, that's a hell of a big plus." This time Johnson took a decent swallow.

"Exactly" Robert agreed. " So don't look so crestfallen. Except for being scared shitless we all came out of it fine."

They were right. "It was stupid of me to even suggest it. They could have killed us and no one would have been the wiser."

"That thought did cross my mind, Sammy. We'd have disappeared off the face of the earth, I'm sure of it. No, we did right. In spite of the crookedness of it all, they did play square with us."

"That's true, isn't it?" Robert said, "They did actually. Who said there's no honor among thieves?"

"And that's another point. They kept insisting that they didn't steal the Domini Canes. They told me they acquired it as payment for something. Dealing with us was strictly business. They knew the museum wanted it back and then asked for what they thought was a reasonable price."

"Still makes them accessories," my father said. "Accessories after the fact, I think is the term."

"Maybe. But as far as they're concerned they're just traders."

"I can see their point -I'm not excusing them," Robert said, seemingly sober. "But I doubt there's any love lost between the Indians and -I was going to say _us_ , but I'll exempt myself on cultural and ethnic grounds," -that brought a laugh- "but I'm sure if it really was the Warriors you were dealing with they wouldn't give a rat's ass about the museum. Aren't they at war with the so-called Whiteman's establishment? They're not all that different from the Black Panthers. Remember the sixties and seventies? If you ask me I'd say the Redskins are just beginning to catch on. And about time too. All in all, I'd say it was an absolute plus that no one got hurt. Anyway, folks, I have to go. Another one of those and I wouldn't be able to drive." He looked at me as if expecting an invitation to spend the night. I was tempted.

I saw him to the door and handed him his coat.

"Thanks, Robert." I reached up and kissed him. Before I could draw away his arms were around me pressing me close. My heart pounded. I almost resisted and I would've except for the damn brandy. I pulled away and his hands slid around, cupping my breasts. Jesus! I almost swooned.

"I think you'd better go," I said hoarsely.

"If that's what you really want, Sam."

"No. Yes! I mean it's pretty late."

I opened the door to a welcome blast of cold air and Robert left. I leaned against the door unsure of my feelings. My pulse was racing and I was as excited as a schoolgirl. I felt guilty. Shit. Don't be a fool, I told myself. You're single. Adult. This is the twentieth century. Maybe it was the aftermath of an ordeal. The rush of adrenaline clouding my judgment. What did Geoff say about rats? I took several deep breaths and went back into the living room.

"I'll be on my way too." Johnson stood up and smoothed himself. He had dressed in a suit and tie; the man never relaxed. "Thanks," he said to me. "You were great in all of this."

"It's over now," I said. "We can breathe again."

"Right." He turned to my father, "Do you mind keeping the Domini Canes, Gregor? I know it's an awful imposition considering."

"Not at all. My alarm is working fine, now. The barn door locked finally." He laughed and touched the spot on his head.

"I'll arrange to have someone from the museum pick it up."

"By the way," my father hesitated. "Any development on the appraisal?"

"I had arranged to bring it to New York, but there was a slight change of plans. Now that we've got it back I'm going to have it sent by special courier."

"Good idea. Good idea. Can't be too careful. You haven't considered bringing the experts down here. Might be safer in the long run."

Johnson had put on his coat and was tugging at his hat, fiddling with the chinstrap.

"I did, actually. But this time I'm having them do some lab work. It's about time we got to the bottom of it. We could argue about symbolism and interpretation for years. It's time to let science have a crack at it."

"Well take all the precautions you have too. The Domini Canes has survived a lot of abuse. We can't keep relying on luck."

"Don't worry. It's going down in an armored truck. I may follow. I'd like to be there while they do the tests."

"One way or another it'll be a load off our minds. Yours especially."

"Better believe it! Definitively documented and then adequately insured. This hanging in limbo is very nerve wracking." He got the straps fastened and said good-bye. I watched him brush off the car. He cleaned the windshield and a small patch on the back window, stamped his feet, got in and drove away.

The snow had stopped and the sky had cleared quickly. Stars, hard and flinty, their brittle light splintering the dark sky.

"Thank God!" I flopped down on the chesterfield and kicked off my shoes. "I think I could use another brandy." My father reached for the bottle and poured me a healthy shot.

"I'm thinking seriously of getting drunk."

"I might even join you. Trouble is I'll feel like hell in the morning."

"It _is_ morning! Look at the time." It was four AM.

"Sammy, I really don't give a shit!" We both laughed at his unaccustomed use of language.

"Seriously. How did it go? You've been making pretty light of the whole thing."

He rolled the glass between his palms. "It went alright." He looked at me. "It really did. But I'd be lying if I said I wasn't scared. Especially for you. Those people are fanatics. You can never trust them. I'm glad we didn't try that game with the money."

"That was stupid of me. I see that now. Mind you the two I was with seemed reasonable. At least one of them was."

"Don't be fooled. We both know enough about human nature. They're capable of acting any way the situation demands. It's very easy to smile and be polite when you're holding a machine gun. Don't forget that." He put the glass down and dug a cigar out of his pocket, drawing out the ritual.

"It would have been a mistake to corner them. Cornered, we'd have seen their true colors, believe me!"

"Where did they take you? Any idea?"

"None at all. They kept the blindfold on my until I could see the painting. It was a room of some sort. Quite small, no windows. The Domini Canes was on a table under a florescent light. I could see it was the painting from the table cloth."

"Then what? That couldn't have taken long."

"That's true. But I took my time anyway. For moment I had them thinking they had made a mistake. I tell you I was making one of them pretty nervous. He kept saying, fuck this -fuck that! This is stupid and so on. From their talk I gathered he had wanted to get rid of the Domini Canes in the States. They do everything through a network of reservations. I tell you, Sammy. They are organized. And talk about guns? I never saw so many. Those guys who held the bridge a few of years ago? They were the tip of the iceberg, if you ask me."

"They have to have quite a network, just for the cigarette smuggling operation. And if you can believe the media, there are more than just a few new millionaires thanks to smuggled tobacco."

"So I've heard. But it's supposedly just the Warriors who are really raking it in. They control all the illegal trade. None of the money is going to help their people."

"Sounds like the Mafia."

"Right. Mohawk Mafia! And there's something else I picked up." His cigar was burning unevenly and he puffed hard a few times making it glow fiercely.

"You'll say my imagination is running away." He puffed some more.

"Go on," I encouraged.

"They're using the money to buy guns and ammunition. I had the very real impression they were building an army."

"Dad. How could you tell all that? Come on!"'

"Sammy," he said leaning forward. "When I was checking the painting. The one who was so impatient, he leaves the room. The room I was in was -I don't know - maybe once a storage room. Anyway, he goes out into the main area. We came through it when I was blindfolded. He leaves and closes the door. But it's an old place and it doesn't close properly. It opens a crack, big enough for me to see in a bit. Enough to make out boxes and cases stacked up. Some of the boxes were open, and I could see a few men moving around in there.

"Sammy," he said again, leaning still closer. "They were moving rifles. Those boxes were packed with rifles like the ones they carried."

"Assault rifles!"

"Yes. Those assault rifles. Now this is where you'll think I'm nuts. But I'll bet that whoever stole the painting and damn near killed me took the Domini Canes and traded it for weapons."

"Jesus, Dad."

"I know, I know. It sounds incredible. But I know what I saw, Sammy."

"I'm not disputing that. But you got all this from a glimpse?"

"Sometimes a glimpse is enough."

"Then what?"

"Well at that point I'd seen enough. Of both the place and the Domini Canes. I told them I was satisfied. They put the blindfold back on and we left. But... on my way out I pretend to stumble. I bump into the man in front of me. I was holding his arm and rubbed my head against him to dislodge the blindfold. So I could see if I looked downwards."

"That was pretty dumb. Talk about my idea to rip them off."

"Relax. Nothing happened. Anyway, all I could see was the floor." Another theatrical pause.

"So? What did you see? Floor tiles. Ceramic. Parquet?"

"No. Wax paper."

"Wax paper. Dad. For God's sake. These guys probably live there."

"I didn't say food wrap, Sammy. It was that tarpaper kind of stuff. Brown and greasy looking."

"So what?" This was getting tedious.

"Like I said, I'm an old man. But I'd bet again it's the kind of paper you could use to wrap guns."

I was in no position to argue. I hoped he was wrong. I picked up the bolster and held it close, hugging it.

"You're not that old, and I do trust your judgment. Given the shit that went down you could be quite right."

"But I have to say, I'm positive about what I saw."

"Now what do we do?"

"You know the answer to that, Sammy. Like it or not, you've got to tell Geoff."

"Me! Why me? I didn't see any of this."

"Okay, you're right. I have to tell him." He looked at his watch.

"No time to be calling him now. As it is I doubt he's getting enough sleep."

"No. In the morning. _Later_ in the morning." He picked up the bottle, what was left of it, and held it up to me. I shook my head and he screwed the cap on. He took the bottle and the glasses out to the kitchen. I could hear him running the tap. I checked my watch. No sense in going home; it was almost time for my run. I went into the kitchen after him.

"No point in going to bed," he said. "Better to just follow through, less chance of screwing up our systems."

"Less chance of a hangover too."

While he washed glasses, I dug in the fridge for breakfast. There were bagels and cream cheese. He even had a package of smoked salmon in wax paper, not the tarred layer kind.

We ate like we hadn't eaten in weeks.

"Amazing what a shot of excitement will do for an appetite. Once that adrenaline wears off your stomach starts complaining."

He was working on a second bagel.

"Are you treating any anorexics?"

"You suggesting what we went through as a tonic?"

"Not hardly! I'll stick to running and swimming, thank you."

Adrenaline worked its magic on other appetites as well. I thought of Robert. I ate like no tomorrow and went home. I didn't go to bed, but I did flake out on my living room sofa.

When I awoke it was to the persistent ringing of the doorbell.

Groggily I stumbled to my feet, disoriented and stiff. The ringing persisted. I could see Geoff through the small pane of pebbled glass.

"Hi!" I said brighter than I felt. "Come in." I yawned and groped towards the kitchen, my eyes crusty slits. More by touch and familiarity I located the orange juice and drank from the open container holding the fridge door open with my hip. I wasn't hung-over exactly, but I had an incredible thirst. He followed me into the kitchen, uncharacteristically quiet, and leaned against the wall. His hands deep in his pockets, his coat open over his unbuttoned jacket. He carried his holstered gun on his left hip worn in the way comic book cowboys called a cross-draw. The butt gaped black and deadly.

"Want some juice?" I asked, and yawned again.

"Thanks, I think I'll pass. You seem tired. Everything go okay last night?"

"You heard, did you?" I went on with what I was doing.

"I heard. Just spoke to your father. I came right over after he called." He took the container out of my hand and placed it on the counter.

"Sam. I don't know whether I should be pissed off at you, or overjoyed you're still alive. Both I guess. That was the absolute dumbest dumb-ass thing the two of you have ever done. That anybody has ever done. You should have told me."

"That would have been the smart thing. But didn't my father tell you? We really didn't have much choice."

"There's always a choice, Sam. We would have worked it out. I thought you trusted me."

"That's not fair!"

"You still don't get it do you? This isn't about what's fair. You're an amateur. You played a deadly game with professionals. Ruthless professionals. It's just pure dumb luck the three -the four of you came out of this in one piece!"

I wasn't giving him my full attention and he took me by the shoulders turning me around roughly.

"I'm serious. If your father is right about the guns and their smuggling of what God knows what -they wouldn't hesitate to eliminate anyone. Have you forgotten about Lee-Ann and Sarah?"

He let go and walked to the table and sat down. What you and your father did was pretty stupid. And I told him so. This is my job!" he said stabbing his chest. "And I wouldn't go in blind."

"Well, you haven't exactly been making much progress, have you?"

"Now who's not playing fair?"

"Let me finish!" I snapped. "You're not making much progress, and I don't mean you're not trying. Sometimes your way doesn't work."

"Give me a break! Are you saying that going off half-cocked the way you did is better? Better than all the resources I have at my finger tips?" He rubbed his thumb and fingers together.

"I don't want to argue with you, Geoff. But I really didn't believe we had any other choice. It was that or lose the painting."

"The painting? For Christ's sake, Sam, listen to yourself. You risk the lives of four people over a fucking painting? An old, chipped piece of wood that so far no one can figure out if the goddam thing is worth anything."

He wasn't shouting. Geoff didn't shout, and he rarely got angry. He was angry now, and his voice had an edge to it, hardness I had never heard. He stood up and took off his coat, folding it carefully, deliberately and draped it over the back of the chair. With the same care he unbuttoned his collar and loosened his tie. His actions slow, deliberate, a sign he had reached his boiling point. He sat down calmly.

"Sam. I didn't come here to fight with you. I love you. Always have. I care about you and your father very much. Had anything happened to you, I don't know that I could have handled it.

"Being divorced is one thing. I know you need your space and your career. I accept that. But I have my job too. And can't do it well, if I have to worry about what kind of stunt you're going to pull. Know what I'm saying? We had something pretty good going for us."

"Yes," I said. "I care about you too. I like what's been happening between us. I don't want it to end. But it did work out, didn't it?"

"Yes. Thank God. But this is the second time the angels were looking after you. Don't press your luck." He drummed his fingers on the table and blew out a deep breath.

"Your father tell you where the money came from for this little caper?"

"Yes, Johnson brought it, I assumed he convinced the museum to put it up."

"Another false assumption, Sam. You want to play detective, you got to learn to ask more questions. It's your father's money."

"What?" I thought it was the alarm company money.

"That's right. Did you think the museum would just come across? They didn't lose the painting. They're still planning to sue your father, so why in hell would you think they put up the money?"

"I... I don't know. I just..."

"What does it take to convince that you are out of your depth? I know you're smart, but you're too moral -too civilized to go up against these kind of people."

"I never even gave the money a thought."

"I can see that. The museum lost the painting, they weren't about to throw good money after bad."

"Well, according to Harry, the alarm company is going to make it up."

"And that's what burns me. The money was going to be paid. And the museum would have settled for it. But you two decide to go off on some quixotic adventure."

"We wanted to get back the..."

"I know, I know, we're back to that again."

He mopped his face with his hands and shook his head. To my surprise I saw that he was close to tears.

"I really am sorry, Geoff. That I put you through this."

I got up and put my arms around him and kissed the top of his head. There was the beginning of a bald spot on the crown. He turned and pulled me down to sit on his lap. We held onto each other tightly, kissing and caressing.

Later when we lay comfortably exhausted in each other's arms he positioned himself for an encore.

"How long have you been away?" I asked playfully.

"Too long, that's for sure. If I hadn't been neglecting you, there's no way you'd have pulled this fool stunt."

A little later we showered together soaping each other. I sudsed and kneaded the taut muscles in his back and shoulders. He was strong and still had an athlete's build. I continued rubbing and massaging and he soon responded in true athletic fashion. I was all for making it a hat trick, but having scored twice already I could see my teammate had been benched.

"How about we go out tonight. Something with style. We could have dinner down by the Old Port."

"Sounds good." We hadn't had much time together lately.

"Okay. Why don't you pick. And make the reservations if you don't mind. I have to put in a few hours at the office, but I will try to get a way a bit early."

He left whistling and happy. A far different mood from the one he walked in with early this morning.

Today, being Saturday, I didn't have to work, at least not at my paying job. Geoff, on the other hand, was on call twenty-four hours. And with this case, he was putting in a double shift almost every day. With so little time to relax and unwind, I was afraid he'd burn out. But as he said he had his job and he wanted to do it well. In spite of the hardships, I know he loved his work, and was doing what he wanted to do most. It helps, I guess, if you can choose your own devils.

I went through the house giving it a lick and a promise. Now that Maria was getting on in years, expecting her to do more than cook and the occasional load of laundry was unreasonable. I made a mental note to talk to my father about hiring someone to do real housework, like windows.

When Geoff called I was in my study on the laptop.

"Hi," he said, "Can you meet me at the office?"

"Sure. How come...?"

"Had a blow-up with Ouellette about money again. He's over budget and finance is chewing his ass and with the extra hours were logging on this case he's trying to cut corners."

"Bureaucracy at its best," I sympathized.

"Better believe it. Anyway, he's cut back on the use of department vehicles. You have to log out and back in again at the end of the day. Would you believe he told me I was abusing the system? Jesus, and I've hardly claimed half the overtime I put in. Anyway why I'm calling is because my own car is in the shop."

"No problem. But I'd be tempted to keep track of all the extra time. He'd soon see where it's cheaper to let you use the damn car."

"Oh, I intend to. I've been living this case twenty-four hours a day, and he acts like I'm on the take. I'm going to account for every second."

"Don't get too worked up about it, I'm sure he's only reacting to pressure."

"Hey, I'm as sympathetic as the next guy. But he went too far, Sam." His voice faded, muffled for a few seconds. "I got to go. See you an hour?"

"No problem."

"Thanks."

I parked on St Marc, around the corner from the station and checked to make sure I was legally parked. Cop or no cop, Geoff would never arrange to have a ticket fixed. After identifying myself at the desk, I was allowed to go up.

"Hello, Dr. Milland," the Zulu Queen said. "Mr. London is still at his meeting. Said you could wait in his office."

I knew the way, but she led me over anyway and offered to bring me a cup of coffee.

"Thanks, but I don't think I'll be very long. She smiled and left me sitting in a chair as beat-up as the rest of the furniture. I picked up an old _Time_ magazine and leafed through it. The cover pictured the massacre in Beijing -the killing of hundreds of civilians when the People's Liberation Army crushed the student revolt. I was jolted back to the demonstration between the Jews and Arabs. I flipped through and stopped at an article on Jounieh, the city in Lebanon where the Maronite Church had been bombed some time back. Jounieh had been shelled by the Syrians for two solid months. Hundreds of Christians had been killed by the Syrians and their Druze allies. I closed the magazine and threw it back on the scarred table, disgusted at how the violence relentlessly continued year after year. Across the hall I heard a door open, then loud voices.

"I haven't time to do this, Emile. Give it to someone else."

"Geoff. I got no one else. Just you and Joan. And she's stretched."

"I'm not stretched? Look! "

I didn't hear what came next because several people were talking at once. I edged closer to the door to hear better and to glimpse who the voices belonged to. I could see Geoff through the partially open door across the hall. He stood in the doorway blocking my view of Ouellette who was seated behind his desk. Standing between them, Avi was shaking his head and gesturing wildly.

"London," I heard him say, "I don't care who does it. You or Joan. But it has to be done. Those students are going to be questioned." He was waving a piece of paper. Geoff grabbed it from him."

"I'm sorry, Geoff," I heard Ouellette say. "I agreed to cooperate. You know that."

"Avi continued. "We can't interfere, at least not overtly. We have no official jurisdiction to investigate or question these students. You must interrogate them." He pointed to the paper and said something I didn't get, but Geoff's replay was very clear.

"As far as I know, Avi, over here it isn't illegal to be a member of the Kach movement!"

"No, maybe not," Ouellette said," But what they do is illegal!"

"And that's why we have to investigate them, London."

"Geoff...." Ouellette said, his tone beseeching.

"This is bullshit." Geoff stepped out of the office and closed the door taking deliberate care to do so softly.

"Problem?" I asked when he came into his office.

"You could say that." He picked his coat off the rack, shrugged into it, buttoned it, then pulled the belt tight and knotted it.

"Let's go," he said, his voice flat and brittle as slate.

I picked up my purse and handed him the car keys. He was in a mood and I didn't feel like having my driving skills criticized. He took them without a word and I followed him out, taking big steps to keep up. He got in and reached over to open my side. I'd hardly closed the door when he pulled out into the traffic. He was pretty angry and didn't speak, not until we got to Rue de la Commun where he cursed the lack of parking spaces. After driving around the block he found a good spot as someone was leaving.

"Tough luck, guy," he muttered, beating a Yuppie in a beamie about to back into the space. The Yuppie, in a leather jacket with a mouton collar got out and approached us. Geoff by now was standing on the sidewalk and unbuttoned his coat. At the sight of his gun, the Yuppie's eyes bulged. He backed away quickly and got into his car.

"Asshole!"

I almost had to run to keep up, but once we were inside the restaurant and had been seated his mood lightened.

"What was all that about?" referring to what had gone on at the station.

"Huh... Oh, nothing really. Forget it. I was pretty steamed."

I stared at him, unable to think of anything to say.

"Sorry," he said, sheepishly. "It's over." He picked up the menu, scanned it quickly then closed it. "Think I'll go with the roast beef."

The waiter came over with suggestions, which we politely ignored, and by the time Geoff had chosen a white wine from Chile, I was ready to order. The wine would go well with my trout almandine, but I found Chilean wines a bit too sweet. Mind you, anything was better than that Greek Retsina.

"Want to tell me what happened?" Our salads had just arrived and he waited for the waiter to leave before answering.

"Sure." He buttered a piece of bread generously and slowly, taking his time choosing his words. He took a bite then reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and drew out a piece of paper folded in three and handed it to me.

"What's this?" I asked opening it.

"That list of students I have to interview. Again."

"I looked down the list. The names meant nothing to me.

"Any names you recognize? Students, maybe."

"Nope." I folded the paper and as I did so, one name did catch my eye. I unfolded it and took a careful look.

"Here's one. "Henry Beck. He's in my freshman class. I told you about him. Remember?" He made a face.

"It was his girlfriend who had her head cut that day."

"Right! The demonstration. Jesus, that seems so long ago."

"He also has some very strong feelings about the PLO. Why does Avi want all these people interviewed again?"

"He's still got a bug up his ass, that some of them might have been involved. Thinks some of the Jewish kids might be involved with the Kach movement."

"The Kach movement. They're the ones don't want Israel signing any peace treaty with the PLO."

"Right. You remember that dentist, Goldstein - shot up the mosque? He was a follower of that group. A real bad bunch."

"Isn't the leader some fanatical Rabbi?"

"Believe it! Kahane, I think his name is. Or was. He's worse than some of the fundamentalist Arabs, for Christ's sake! -I should say Allah's sake."

"What makes Avi think he's part of that movement?"

"Says the Mossad has traced some of the members to a group on campus."

"And he doesn't know who they are? He's not very good at his job is he?"

"He put a check beside the ones I'm supposed to focus on. And we _have_ had them under surveillance. They've done nothing except go to a few meetings, and there's no law against that. The Kach movement is outlawed in Israel, but we don't have proof that these kids are even in the movement." He tapped the paper with his index finger.

I picked it up. There was no mark beside Henry's name.

"I have to go through the whole routine again. But there's a new twist. Remember the four Hassid -with the tattoos?"

"How could I possibly forget."

"Yeah, right. We'd figured those three Arabs killed them right?"

"Didn't they?"

"It's a strong assumption. Nothing we were able to actually prove though. But get this. Avi figures it was someone in the Kach organization -not those three Arabs."

"That doesn't make sense. They were Jews. Why would someone in the Kach movement want to kill them?"

"Listen to this. According to Avi -and we know this- the Kach are opposed to any alliance or treaty with the PLO. At any cost. No way they'll even recognize the PLO and their rights to any territory."

"Okay. So what has the Kach to do with the four dead Hassid?"

"Those four Hassid were part of an elite group, the tattoos. And they were here for a couple of reasons." He stopped to butter another piece of his roll. He took a bite and chewed. "One, they were on campus ostensibly as students. But... their primary function was to find and identify any opposing elements to Israel and the peace accord Israel was trying to negotiate."

"Such as?"

"Such as -read Arabs- who might be affiliated with any of their terrorist groups."

"The Kach are terrorists. But they're Jews -not PLO."

"That's right. Secondly, if in fact it follows, these guys with the tattoos were a security group. Part of their mandate was to ensure there would be no disruption -read terrorist attack- to derail the peace summit. By identifying the radical element, proper precautions could be taken -read eliminate them."

"And since the tattoos were killed, he suspects the Kach."

"He hasn't ruled out the PLO faction, but yes he thinks there's a good chance that it was the Kach."

I re-read the list again putting it aside when the food came.

"What's Joan doing..."

"She's working with our people and the RCMP on the security detail. And it's a big job, let me tell you. You have to coordinate with the hotel people, the delivery people, the food people. The hotel management. The convention center personnel. Everyone from the bellboys, maids, housekeeping staff, room service -they all have to be cleared. The kitchens have to be inspected, the cooks, the helpers and on and on. We've seen enough movies. We don't want life imitating art. And now that I'm chasing down this list, it puts an even bigger burden on her."

"The stress must be phenomenal."

"Tell me about it. How's the fish?"

"Great! Yours...?"

"Good. Good." He didn't elaborate. I could see he was distracted.

"The wine goes in the wine glass, Geoff."

"What? Oh, sorry. Guess my mind is elsewhere." I drank what he had poured into my water glass.

"By the way, how's your father making out -regarding the insurance money?"

"Alarm company money, actually. Harry made them and I quote -a deal they couldn't refuse. My father's waiting for them to issue him a cheque. I guess it's case closed after that."

"He's a damn lucky man. And so's his daughter."

"Come on, Geoff. Don't start."

"Hey, relax. Take it easy."

"Between the two of you, I've had it with being told to take it easy!" I strained to keep my voice down.

"You're right. You're right. We both tend to get a bit possessive."

"A bit! That's an understatement. But let's change the subject okay?

"Okay."

"Is anyone working on the actual theft of the painting?"

"Robbery was."

"Was?"

"Yes. No point now, that the painting has been recovered."

"I know that, but what about the burglar? My father was assaulted, you know."

"I know he was. But let's face it. The painting's been recovered and your father survived the assault. And considering how you two proceeded -count yourselves lucky you didn't get arrested for interfering in a criminal investigation."

"You've got to be kidding."

"It could have gone that way. But under the circumstances... Like I said the painting was recovered."

"I guess you have to get yourself killed before they do much of anything about it."

"I won't argue. There's not a hell of a lot we can do. Even in a homicide investigation. We have several cases in front of us so you can see firsthand yourself how it works."

"Oh, I know. I'm just frustrated. You never think these things will happen to you. And when they do..."

"And when they do, you want all the stops pulled. Under the circumstances you've every right to be selfish. In most homicides the killer is usually known to the victim. Family or friend. An acquaintance. Those cases get closed quickly."

"But when it's a stranger? Or random? Forget it."

"That's a sad fact, Sam. And like I said..."

"Yes, yes. Don't press my luck. But what about all the guns my father said he saw?"

"Again, there's really nothing for us to go on. Besides that's out of our jurisdiction, and you know the politics involved. The Surété or the RCMP set foot on the reservation without cause -hell _even_ with cause- there'll be a blood bath. No damn way anyone wants to invade Kahnawake. As John Wayne said, 'that thar's injun country'".

"So in spite of the fact the reservation may well be an armed camp nothing will be done?"

"Nothing _can_ be done. They consider themselves a sovereign nation. You even had to cross their goddam check point! And make no mistake -a check point _is_ a border crossing. It legitimizes their claim to territory _and_ their autonomy to administer it. No way anyone is going in because it'll be perceived as an invasion."

"And it makes no difference if my father is right."

"None at all. Except that if he's right we're heading for trouble. And at this point there is SFA that I -or anyone- can do about it."

"What a mess. It's really not much different from the crisis in the Middle East."

"And the crisis in Bosnia. In Nigeria. In Haiti. Mexico. Take a pin, close your eyes, and stick it in a map. The Indians want their land back. The Jews want their land back. The Arabs want their land back. The PLO. The Serbs. The Bosnians. The Tutsis." He threw his napkin down and leaned back in the booth.

"But you know what worries me?" He asked. "These groups find each other. They identify with each other's cause. And if the Warriors are really building up a cache of arms and shit and start dealing and trading the stuff, I'm afraid well be facing the same sort of thing. Given the political climate we have, you don't need too many radical hot heads to start a civil war. We'd do well to remember the mail box bombings of the sixties!"

"Jesus, it is scary when you put it like that. The French have felt oppressed and abused for generations. Only thing saving us from a civil war is that the gap between the haves and the have nots in this country is not all that wide."

"That gap won't matter much if we've got arms dealers right on our doorstep."

"Getting back to the painting," I said.

"What about it?"

"Well, the case is closed, you said, because it was recovered. No harm done so to speak."

Okay."

"But.... What if the painting was stolen to be traded in payment for arms? Someone might be sitting on a cache of guns or explosives. Don't you think there should be an investigation?"

"I agree, Sam. No argument there and I'm not belittling what you're saying, but I doubt the Warriors allowed more than fifteen or maybe twenty grand for the painting. And you don't get much for twenty grand. You can bet the Warriors came out way ahead. In fact, I'm more worried about the way their bankroll is growing. What with the cigarettes, the bingo parlors and whatever else they've got going, they can probably outfit a small army."

"If you believe my father, they've already got a warehouse full of arms. But if the person or persons responsible for stealing the painting traded it for guns, however few they got is still too much."

"Sam, you're preaching to the converted here. I know the damage _one_ assault rifle can do."

"Well, if you ask me, I still think it's pretty dumb if no one is investigating."

"That's not what I said. Not being able to do something is one thing. Investigating is quite another. Know what I'm saying..." He looked at me. "Don't assume for a second that _certain_ people are not on top of this, okay?"

"Kind of dumb for me to think otherwise, isn't it."

"No argument there." He smiled and reached over for my hand. "I do appreciate your input you know. But let's leave it at that."

"Back to that list of yours...."

"What about it?"

"Maybe I can help."

"Sam, haven't you heard a word I've said...? No active involvement. Ideas, yes. But that's it!"

"All I'm suggesting is that I ask my colleagues to keep their eyes open."

"Sam. Don't even think about it." He waved to the waiter and pointed to his cup.

"What harm is there in trying to stay alert?"

"These guys don't play by the rules. Just keep out of it."

I didn't answer.

"You were almost killed. Your father had his head bashed in. And you've both been taken hostage. I'd say you've used more than your share of luck, so stay clear of it. I mean that." His mouth was set and the muscles in his jaw twitched.

"Okay. Your point is taken."

He picked up the uneaten portion of my roll, buttered it and said:

"But maybe there is a way you can help." Damn him, anyway. He was a master manipulator. At this point I would clip newspaper articles if it would help.

"Since no mention was made to the police that the Domini Canes was held for ransom, they don't know the real reason behind the theft. It's being treated more or less as a routine burglary."

"Right." I leaned forward expectantly.

"You've seen the list. I'd like you to check it carefully, see if there's anyone on it that would be aware of the painting or its value."

I took the paper from him. "It wasn't exactly a secret you know. It was all over the news. The lecture at the museum and the theft. It even came up in one of my classes. Even if someone on the list was at the lecture, that doesn't prove anything. Quite a few students were there."

"Hey, Sam. You're doing it again. Let me worry whether it's worth following up okay?"

"I'm sorry. Actually I do recognize a name. The Beck boy. Henry. He was there with his girl friend, but I don't see her name on the list."

He put a check beside the name. "We're checking him out anyway. Wouldn't hurt to watch his reaction when we mention the painting."

"Sounds a bit far fetched... I know, I'm sorry. I'm doing it again."

"That's what police work is all about. Chasing down leads no matter how far-fetched they seem. Aren't you glad, you're not a detective? Though you do keep trying."

It was late and he wanted to get an early start the next day, Sunday notwithstanding. He left four fifties on the table and we left.

He parked outside his apartment and turned off the engine. Before getting out, he cautioned me about locking doors and checking windows, also reminding me to keep my alarm active.

He watched as I pulled away and I could see him waving in my mirror. I put the car in the garage then went up the stairs. We'd had bars installed on all the lower windows and a locksmith had put dead bolts on the doors leading down to the garage. I let myself in and made sure to lock the door behind me. After indulging Geoff's paranoia for security, I undressed, removed my make-up and brushed my teeth. I was about to turn off the light when I remembered my phone messages. Having both an iPhone and landline was getting tedious. One was Harry wanting a recipe for Thea Maria's chicken-in-the pot. The other made the hair on my neck bristle, chilling me to the bone.

It was from Lee-Ann.

# Chapter 24

"It's me. Meet me tomorrow. We'll do lunch. Same time. You know where."

I sat down, too stunned to move. I was about to punch in Geoff's number but remembered the dead nurse and policeman made Lee-Ann a murder suspect and I needed to see her before she was apprehended. Geoff would strangle me when he found out, but I had no choice. I still wasn't convinced she was the violent and dangerous individual Geoff wanted me to believe. For the moment, at least, I decided to keep him out of it.

I don't know how I got through the night but at a quarter to six I got up and went for my run. The eastern sky was just beginning to glow and I enjoyed running in the half-light. There was a surreal quality, a kind of magic that dispelled the harshness of city life, a harshness that would soon overtake the city like a tidal wave.

I showered and dressed and went through the rituals of eating and going to work. I had a morning class and fortunately my preps were made otherwise there'd have been no way I could have presented the material. As it was, twice I caught myself dictating the same page of notes, and judging from their faces my bizarre behavior had not been lost on them.

Thankfully the class came to an end. I swept my stuff into my laptop case, went quickly to my office, grabbed my coat and made a beeline for the hotel dining room, setting a personal record for covering the distance.

The maître d' looked down his nose at me then checked his sheet for my name. He smiled when he found it and raised his hand to signal a waiter who showed me to a corner table. I sat down and ordered a double scotch; Perrier was not going to get me through this.

She arrived before the scotch and sat down across from me.

Even though she had toned down her appearance she was still a knockout. With her dyed black hair and the way it was cut reminded me of Uma Thurman in _Pulp Fiction_. Her make-up was subdued, and her trademark flamboyant manner was restrained, but it was the sunglasses that would have kept me from recognizing her. She took off her designer coat, folded the lining out and draped it over the back of the empty chair. In spite of the attention her disguise brought her, she would never be recognized.

My scotch arrived as she was settling in.

"I'll have the same," she told him, and leaned forward on folded arms. Her dress, emerald green to match her eyes must have cost a month's salary.

"Hello, Sam. Thank God you made it." She reached into her purse for a pack of cigarettes, drew one out and tapped the filter end on the back of a gold lighter. After lighting it like a socialite she blew a cloud over my head.

"Lee-Ann," I said leaning across to her. "What the hell is going on?" She was about to answer when the waiter returned. I took a healthy swallow and waited for her to speak.

"I'm in real trouble, Sam. And I do mean _real!_ " She picked up the menu and glanced through it. "I'll tell you while we eat."

I ordered a salad and another drink. The waiter didn't bat an eye.

After the food came and the waiter was satisfied we could handle everything on our own, I said, "We found the disk, you know."

"I hoped you would."

"It's a hell of a business you're in."

"You don't know the half of it."

"Why did you come back? You must know every police force in the world is looking for you?

"It's not the police I'm worried about, but to answer your question -a couple of reasons. One. I need money. Two. I need my passports."

"Passports?"

"I'll get to that. Since you found the disk, shall I also assume that you were able to read _between the lines_?"

"Yes, we managed to figure that out."

"I knew I could count on you."

"Sure. But what did you expect me to do after we figured it out?"

"I don't know exactly. I just needed someone to know what the hell was going on. Didn't figure I'd survive this long and I couldn't bear having you think I was some kind of... monster." She took a long drag on a cigarette. I could never understand how people could eat and smoke at the same time.

"You do know that it was a hit..."

"You mean that day?"

"You can say it, Sam. The day Sarah got killed. Actually it was me they were after. I wish to hell they'd succeeded too."

"You know, I'm having a hard time keeping up with all of this."

"I'm sure you are."

"Why don't you start at the hospital."

"Okay, that's as good a place as any. After the surgery, after you visited and I started to recuperate -I knew my time was short. I had to get the hell out of there before they tried again and succeeded."

"But there was cop outside your door?"

"You think that would have made a difference? Don't interrupt. You know that's a bad habit you have? Always interrupting?"

"What about the cop. And the nurse."

"I'm sorry about them."

"Sorry? Jesus, Lee-Ann you killed them?"

"What are you talking about? I didn't kill them!"

"They were shot, Lee-Ann. Both of them. One shot in the head. It was a professional hit according to the police."

"Well, I didn't kill them. When the nurse came in, I over powered her and knocked her cold. I needed her clothes. No way I could get out of there in a goddam Johnny gown!" I looked at her skeptically.

"Honest to God, Sam. When I left the hospital, they were alive. I decked the nurse, took her clothes. My purse was in that dresser, you put it there. I had a passport and a bankcard to one of my accounts. I needed them so I could get away. I put on the uniform and managed to get by the cop. But I swear to you, I did not kill them. They were both alive when I left."

I didn't press the point. She sounded convincing. It wasn't inconceivable that whoever was after her had killed them.

"So how did you get away?"

"Like I said, I had my passport. I went to bank machine and started to withdraw my money. I had an arrangement with the bank that I could withdraw large amounts, considering all the traveling I did. I bought some clothes and a plane ticket to Jamaica. From there it was easy to get to San Marcos. I needed to get to San Marcos, because Jake was my contact, my go between, and I needed him so I could get to my _real money_. I wanted to cash in and get the hell away. Disappear for good. I had enough to live on. In style too."

"So what happened? Why weren't you able to do it?"

"I wasn't able to keep far enough ahead of those guys."

"Those guys?"

"Yes. The ones responsible for killing Bill. And Sarah. I needed Jake, so I went to San Marcos. Trouble is, I didn't figure on him getting killed."

"I don't understand what happened there."

"Pretty simple, actually. The bank is basically a front for organized crime. They launder drug money. Then the money on deposit gets funneled out. Invested in a variety of industries. Most of it having to do with arms, munitions, chemicals."

"Yes. According to Bill's letter to you, he said all that. Even farm machinery."

"Right, you know that. Jake, the fool, got greedy. He was playing both ends against the middle. He was their bagman and because of his marketing and finance background could oversee their accounts. He'd also manage the accounts of other big depositors, investing their millions. And apart from his financial wizardry he had contacts with all the top people in these companies as well as the drug money people. Once he put Bill in touch with them, it wasn't too hard to arrange arms deals or whatever else they wanted. You saw how goods are traded. How intricate the system is. How governments, big business and criminals work hand in hand."

"They're all criminals."

"Let's not get into that. You can get anything in the world if you have the money. And organized crime can rival many of the smaller countries when it comes to money. They can launch rockets and put satellites in orbit. In that case it's an information market. And governments, industries -you name it- are lining up to buy these services."

"What's all this got to do with Jake?"

"Like I said. Jake got greedy.

"Explain it to me."

"San Marcos is a republic, a limited type of democracy. It's totally autonomous, with voting power limited to very few. All authority is in the hands of the people who run the National Mercantile Bank of Greater San Marcos. These people are the government; they make the laws; they wield the power. You won't find any registered voters that aren't part of the financial empire. And further more the bank is controlled by big league players in organized crime."

"And Jake, because of his contacts, wants to make a few million for himself. So he gets himself killed along with his wife when he decides to deal arms on the side?"

"No, not exactly. He does have his own agenda but it's not arms, it's drugs. He had his own little racket piggy backing on the Mafia's major operations."

"So his death had nothing to do with the arms trade?"

"That's right. Don't fuck with the Mafia. They'll kill you, your wife, kids, cousins -your whole goddam family. Lucky there were only the two of them."

"Real lucky!"

"Jake gets killed and I'm up the creek. I can't get into my accounts without sending signals. Without Jake to cover me I'd leave a paper trail that a blind man could follow."

"What did you do after you dumped me in the ocean? What happened then?"

"Went back to San Marcos. And at that point I got real scared. Figured if you survived I'd be done for. I really did want you to make it you know. But it was a Catch 22 situation. When the news of your survival got out, they'd have been onto me in no time."

"You keep saying _they._ Who the hell are _they_?"

"The Mossad."

"Jesus, Lee-Ann. I thought you were Mossad."

"Was and am. And so was Bill. But the poor fool got moral and had a change of heart. Trouble is he doubted what he was doing. I didn't. After he died -and I never believed that accident shit\- there was nothing I wanted more than revenge. I could taste it."

"I wasn't very hard to recruit. Or manipulate. I believed in the cause. A very willing participant. I really did think Bill was a fool for doubting what he was doing."

"How can you say that? It's the fanatics that keep this going. That's what Bill said. And you've just admitted you were so blind, so bent on revenge that you were manipulated by them. Can't you see where it's wrong? If you don't stop -if people like you don't put an end to it, it'll never end."

"Give me a break! If Israel is to remain viable, she has to keep her enemies at bay. Keep them off guard and on the defensive. Israel has no other choice. And the only way, Sam -the _only_ way- is to neutralize aggressive neighbours."

"In other words keep them at each other's throats."

"Of course! If they're busy fighting each other they sure as hell won't be attacking Israel!"

"That's pretty sick, Lee-Ann." I couldn't believe my ears. "That's war mongering."

"Well, I shouldn't be surprised that a white-bread liberal candy-ass with a silver spoon in her mouth would believe that rhetoric."

"Now you give _me_ a break." People were starting to look our way.

She leaned forward and lowered her voice. "You've no idea about this. For centuries Jews have been kicked around, fighting just your kind of attitude."

"Oh, so now I'm against Jews -is that what you think?"

"No, Sam, that's not what I think. All I'm saying is that no matter what, people will fight. That seems to be a given, okay? We're just trying to divert them a bit. Keep the heat off."

"I still think it's sick and perverse. What does the Mossad have to do with all of this anyway?"

"Like I told you on the boat. I'm part of an elite group. And yes -we are trained assassins. All of us. And don't look so shocked. I told you, no one is innocent. No one."

"Jesus, Lee-Ann. I don't know you." I shook my head, lost for words.

"No, I suppose you don't."

"What do you do?"

"You mean who do I kill?" I didn't answer.

"We kill whoever deserves to be killed. Is that a good enough answer? Don't tell me you've never known anyone deserves to be taken out? We kill those whose efforts are harmful to Israel."

There was no use arguing. At this point what could I say? Certainly nothing that a candy-ass liberal could offer would have any affect. She continued detailing the enormity of her crimes, to an unwilling confessor unable to grant absolution

"The hits I've made," she justified, "have only been against those principals responsible for selling or producing arms and munitions that ended up killing Jews. Is that irony or what? That's why I thought it was the PLO who killed Bill. My recruiter said a shipment of detonators that Bill sold to a Christian Militia group were faulty. This group sold them in turn to a Muslim Group, the Hezbollah. Party of God they call themselves would you believe. The irony is that the detonators were faulty and killed quite a few of the Muslims. My recruiter said Bill was killed for revenge. A greater irony is that they in fact didn't kill Bill. It was one of our own, Sam. Can you believe that? One of our own. A traitor."

"But Bill knew there was a traitor in the organization."

"Yes. But he was never able to figure out who. And four years later neither have I."

"But whoever it is, he knows you're a threat to him. You must be damn close."

"Oh, I'm sure of it. But what the hell good is being close? I still don't know who it is. I'm on the run and I don't have a clue who I'm running _from._ And that's why I need your help."

"What? What the hell can I do to help? And furthermore what makes you think I want to or will help you? I don't exactly share your world view of politics or the solutions you employ."

"You'll help, Sam. In spite of your politics, you'll help. If only for Sarah's sake." She was so sure of herself.

"Tell me. I'm not saying I'll help, just tell me."

"Money and passports." I was about to protest, but she put her hand up.

"Just listen. I'm not asking for a loan. Just listen. But let's get out of here first. We're starting to draw an audience."

We paid the bill -rather I paid the bill and we left to walk in the cold. Our breath vaporized in the still air and hung like a dense cloud in front of our face. We walked west, briskly, the pace varying with the intensity of our conversation.

She explained how I was to retrieve the required items.

"But you can't just roam around the city...."

"Don't worry. I'm staying at a Bed and Breakfast. It's pretty obscure."

"How will I contact you?"

"You won't. I'll call you. Safer that way."

"How are you fixed now for money? Do you need any?"

"Thanks, but I'm fine. Still have about two thousand. A little less. But I can be frugal when I have to." She laughed. Lee-Ann had never been frugal in her life.

We walked a bit more, the pace slowing, as she ran out of things to say. Suddenly, I felt incredibly sad. For her, for Sarah. Especially for Sarah. I contemplated telling her that whoever had killed Sarah and the Arabs had also killed her husband. I wondered what her reaction would be if I told her the same gunman had killed Jake and Gloria, that it wasn't the Mafia as she suspected.

We turned and started to walk back and for a few blocks neither of us spoke. As we neared Atwater, she said:

"We'll split up here. I'll take a cab and call you later tonight. Let you know where we can meet. And for God's sake don't breathe a word of this to anyone. You're the only one I trust."

"You take care, Lee-Ann, I'm not convinced this is really the best way to do things."

"Let me be the judge, okay? At this point my options are few."

"Let me tell Geoff, I'm sure he can help."

"Sam, no. I'm beyond help. My only chance at survival is to get the hell away. Disappear. I'm totally alone, don't you understand? You're the only friend I have."

"Won't you be safe, if you turn yourself in?"

"Accused of killing two people -one of them a cop?"

"You said you didn't kill them."

"I didn't, but that's not the point. Guilty or not, what difference does it make? Whoever killed Bill and Sarah has me in his sights. I wouldn't live long enough to stand trial. I have to do it my way, Sam. Will you help me or not?

"Yes, I'll do it. Don't ask me why."

"I know why, Sam." She looked at me, fear and defeat in her eyes. We embraced and she kissed me, her cheeks wet with tears. "By the way... thanks for taking care of Sarah for me. Not being there for her at the end was the hardest thing I've ever had to do." Then, with her head bent, she hurried towards the rank of taxis.

"I'm sorry it turned out this way..." I said, but she didn't hear me.

I started walking. It was colder now and the wind was sharp so I glanced around for a cruising taxi. I was almost at Guy before I saw one. At my signal he swerved to a stop amid blaring horns. I gave him my address and sat back numbly.

I let myself in, remembered to punch in the alarm code and went right down to the garage. I put some tools together in my bag, hauled down my suitcase and stored it in the trunk of my Jetta.

Traffic was heavy, no surprise really, but it was compounded by the ongoing construction on the bridge. One lane always seemed to be closed either for repairs or an accident. I kept my patience, accepting my fate and used the time to regret my decision. I should have called Geoff. But I had given her my word. I had also promised Geoff I wouldn't take things into my own hands. She couldn't trust anyone, she said. So here I was helping a suspected murderer, an admitted assassin, make her get away. Now I was an accessory. What the hell was I playing at anyway? Lee-Ann knew I wouldn't refuse, knew that for Sarah's sake I would help.

Eventually I came to the exit and headed for her condo. Traffic was lighter now and it was a matter of minutes until I was parked and inserting the key she'd given me in her door. The yellow tape was still there but sagged like a tattered banner after a parade. I pulled a scrap of it away, picked up the suitcase and went in.

It was as we had left it, a little dustier but just as empty, just as forlorn. An incredible wave of sadness engulfed me as I wandered from room to room. The trust company that managed her household accounts paid the taxes and all utilities and services. There was enough money in her account to keep this up for a hundred years. Unfortunately there was no way she could access her money without sounding alarms and alerting whoever was after her. She'd be dead, she told me, before spending a cent.

I took off my coat, left it on a dining room chair and went into the bathroom. From my bag I took out the chisel and hammer.

The third row above the soap dish, she said. I sat on the side with my feet in the tub and started chipping away at the grout between the tiles. It was a lot tougher than I thought, and I needed to open an area about two feet by two feet.

"And don't make any noise. No sense in alerting the neighbours."

"Someone is bound to see me, anyway."

"Seeing is one thing, hearing walls come down is quite another. If someone calls the cops, that's the end of it, so make sure there's no noise, I don't care how long it takes."

So I dug and chipped and scraped afraid to use the hammer. It was strenuous and slow going, the grout solid and resistant, but once I had the chisel wedged in the groove I was able to pry, chipping the grout out in bits and pieces rather than a powdery residue.

I stopped, wadded up a length of toilet paper and wiped the perspiration from my brow. My hands and arms were covered in white powder. It covered my shoes and the bottom of the tub. I'd have to remember to clean up; if I didn't get caught red-handed, a trail of footprints would be my undoing.

I had completed the horizontal course and had to progress downward on both sides. It didn't go any faster. Two and a half hours later I had chiseled a groove on three sides. Fed up with how long it was taking I decided to lever out the panel prying it away from the wall to avoid having to chisel along the bottom edge.

Carefully, to avoid shattering the tiles, I wedged the chisel into the groove using the wall as a fulcrum. Carefully, I forced the panel away from the wall trying to keep the pieces intact, to avoid creating a greater mess. The panel came free and fell against my knees. With some effort I was able to tug it intact away from the wall exposing a sheet of heavy dark green plastic. I picked up the panel and leaned it on the wall behind the door. It was heavy. Before proceeding I began to clean out the tub, scooping up the bits with wet toilet paper putting the debris in the little decorative wastebasket. I rinsed the tub and dried it out with a towel. I was sweaty again and so nervous my hands shook. I wiped myself and flushed the toilet noticing in the disappearing swirl of tissues several spent matches.

I resumed my perch on the edge of the tub and ran the point of the chisel along the four sides to cut away the exposed plastic.

Stacked neatly behind the plastic sheet were bundles of American currency. Stacks of hundred dollar bills. A hell of a lot more than two hundred thousand dollars. Two point two million, she told me. I stared at it. Amazingly, a million dollars takes up a lot less space than you would imagine.

I came out of my reverie and went to the dining room to get the suitcase and started filling it with the money. Enough money to last a lifetime and it all fit in a standard sized suitcase. Without investing it, a million bucks at a thousand a week would last twenty years! I packed the stacks, arranging them so the passports, the gun and spare ammunition clips would all fit. This cloak and dagger shit was beginning to get to me and I sat down on the floor. I was of two minds to call Geoff, but afraid of what might happen if I betrayed her. Keeping her secret also had risks. Against better judgment I finished packing, having to wedge the gun and extra ammunition along the side so I could close the case.

I tested the clasps a couple of times making sure they would hold. I didn't need to have a couple of million bucks scattered all over Nun's Island.

I lugged it out into the hall then went for my coat and let myself out quietly. Miraculously no one was about, and I made it back to my car without meeting anyone. I lugged the heavy bag, listing with my left arm out almost horizontal for balance. Two point two million didn't take up a lot of space but it weighed a good sixty pounds. Thank goodness there was an elevator, but the walk to the car was a struggle. I put it down, opened the trunk, and took a deep breath before heaving it up. It took two tries, the first one catching on the bumper when I miscalculated the height.

The drive back was easy, rush hour long over. I parked, locked the garage, locked the car and made sure the trunk was secure before going up. After putting my coat away I had second thoughts about leaving all that money in the car, so I went back down, brought the case up and put it in the back of my bedroom closet.

While thinking about what I should do next, the phone rang; it had to be my father. I looked at my watch and tried to think of an appropriate lie.

"Sammy! Where have you been? That's two days in a row that you've used your car."

"Yes, I had some errands to run." Not a lie, technically.

"Well, just called to say hello and tell you Johnson's back from New York. And that the painting is now safe and snug at the museum."

"That's good. Find out anything that we don't already know?"

"Apparently he has. Told me he has _exciting news_ -his words. But he wouldn't say anything over the phone. How about you and Geoff coming over for dinner? I'll ask Winslow to join us. Should be very interesting. Very interesting."

"When?" I tried to keep the panic out of my voice.

"Oh. let's say day after tomorrow. I'm so excited, I couldn't last more than a couple of days without hearing what he has to say."

"Day after tomorrow sounds fine. Providing Geoff can get away."

"I asked him already, says he'd love to come."

"Sounds like it's settled then."

"Good, good. Talk to you tomorrow. Bye."

I'd no sooner hang up when it rang again.

"Did you get it?"

"Yes, I put..."

"Don't say anything. Just listen, okay?"

She outlined her plan then hung up, after making me promise again not to say anything to anyone. Especially Geoff. She was adamant about that. With considerable reluctance I reaffirmed my commitment.

"There are a couple of loose ends, I want to take care of, so I'll get back to you when I'm ready. It'll be a couple of days. Maybe more but don't panic."

Don't panic. Sure. I was helping a fugitive, harboring a suspected murderer. An accessory and accomplice. I was still holding the phone and had I known how to get in touch with her would have called and told her to forget it. I hated starchy food and I was not same sex oriented. I could just imagine myself locked in a cell with a butchy dyke named Olga.

It was late and I was exhausted, but fear and stress on top of my regular neuroses had me so keyed up I would never be able to sleep. But this went beyond stress; this was a walk in a minefield.

I took a hot bath, as hot as I could stand it, and lay back soaking in the sudsy water. When filled, the water in my old-fashioned tub came to my chin. I leaned back, resting my head on an inflatable bath pillow and closed my eyes only half afraid I'd slip down and drown. Sighing contentedly I told myself to make an appointment with my therapist. Maybe I should convert and become a Catholic. Confession is a lot cheaper.

The sound of a motorcycle startled me and I came to slightly disoriented. I was having that dream again. The one about the hats and not being able to breathe. As fast as I tore them off they kept reappearing on my head. Like Bartholomew. The water had cooled so I pulled the plug, got out, and dried myself vigorously shivering in the cool air then went to bed.

The next couple of days were a blur, but I managed to maintain a rhythm handling my job and juggling my domestic life as routinely as possible. Acting out a lie is not easy; you have to have a ready excuse for every eventuality. It takes lies to cover lies. More importantly you have to remember them all. I'm not that inventive and I was at the breaking point trying to cover my tracks and remember everything I said and to whom. It's a hell of lot easier to be up front.

By the time my father's dinner party rolled around I was stretched tight as a drum. Fortunately Johnson and the Domini Canes would be the center of attention. As long as I smiled and made appropriate noises I'd be fine. Just so long as they did all the talking. There was no way I could get out of it so I resigned myself to another night of desperate anxiety. God, I wished she would call and say it was finally over.

I made sure I was the last to arrive, having told Geoff, I'd see him there. He'd wanted to come over first, but I headed him off with a lame excuse about having to do my hair. Hell, I'd never styled my hair in my life. If he came over I'd never be able to keep the anxiety out of my face, and once he started with his staring, trying to read my expression it would be over. I'd spill the whole sorry mess and that would put paid to our relationship. So I took my time getting ready, then listened and occasionally spied between the curtains until I'd seen both Geoff and Johnson arrive. Johnson was carrying a package. The fool had the painting. Incredible! I couldn't believe it. There was something about my father that rubbed off on people. Spend enough time with him he'd convince you it was perfectly natural to sit naked in church. Hell, if he sat naked in church everyone else would strip to keep _him_ from feeling self-conscious! I waited until I was sure they'd be having a drink then went over.

"Sammy!" My father said, greeting me as he always did. As if my sudden appearance was a total and unexpected surprise. Geoff got up and came over and kissed my cheek.

"You look a bit under the weather," he said softly. "You okay?"

"Yes, thanks. I'm fine, really." He was staring again and I felt my cheeks get hot.

"You sure you feel alright? You're face is a bit flushed."

"My throat was a bit scratchy this morning," I lied. "Maybe I'm coming down with a cold."

"Yes," my father the doctor said pouring drinks. "The way the weather changes it's a wonder we don't all have colds. Here. Drink this." He poured a double brandy and handed me the glass. I was beginning to develop a taste for the stuff.

"Cheers," I said and raised my glass in a toast knocking back a healthy swallow. A couple more like this and I'd be jabbering like a magpie.

"Cheers," the three responded. Maria had prepared a buffet of Greek delicacies, sumptuously displayed on the credenza-cum-bar. On the chesterfield, the painting occupied the spot that was fast becoming its traditional place of honor.

My father was as theatrical as I was square and never missed an opportunity to turn a social function into an intellectual debate. His theatrics usually put me off. Probably because I was jealous, my therapist suggested. I liked the center stage too, and competed with him for attention, rebelling at the same time in an effort to be one up. And maybe she was right, perhaps I was still trying to prove myself, to show him that I was equal, worthy even, of the son he'd lost. Tonight I'd be thrilled if all the attention was focused elsewhere. And on an inanimate object at that. No threat there, is there?

We sipped, we talked, we made nice-nice, then my father, having purchased a new lamp adjusted it to illuminate the Domini Canes. The painting amazed me, seeming to glow with an inner light, a life force of its own.

"Please, help yourself. Maria will be offended if there are leftovers."

The only way Thea Maria wouldn't have been offended was if my father had invited a platoon from the Greek Army. The leftovers would last a month. We all took seconds and Johnson, who became more and more cadaverous by the day, refilled his plate till it brimmed.

"Not for me," I said as he went around with the Retsina, "but I will have another brandy." He raised his eyebrows fractionally and poured a couple of fingers worth into my glass.

Admittedly the food was good, the company pleasant enough and I was beginning to relax, thanks to the brandy. It wasn't that harsh actually; not if you hold it a bit in your mouth before you swallow. And after the dessert I anticipated hearing what Johnson had learned about the Domini Canes.

"Tell us, Winslow. I can't wait any longer." He and Geoff were firing up a couple of cigars turning the air blue. I watched the two of them puff, and sipped my brandy. Maybe a cigar would complement it.

"Yes," Geoff agreed. "I understand the Lorenzo panel has undergone several alterations over the years."

"That's right," Johnson answered. He was so thin that his dinner was an obvious bulge in his stomach.

"There have been two alterations," he said. "The first when the oak panel was added. Or perhaps it replaced something. Of course we have no way of knowing what that might have been. And the second, when the book was added, painted into the panel. X-ray radiography confirmed that indeed the area is over-painted. X-ray absorption rises with the atomic number of the material X-rayed. By analyzing isotope ratios for lead white pigment, you can determine whether or not a painting has been altered by over painting. Another interesting fact about the Lorenzo is that the oak piece which we were able to date by dendrochronology was not of the normal high quality employed by a reputable studio. The wood was riddled with worm holes."

"How was this discovered," Geoff wanted to know.

"Again with X-rays. When the wood was primed, lead white filled the holes. Clearly evident in the X-rays."

"So we're not dealing with a forgery?" Geoff said.

"No, absolutely not. The restorations were not an attempt to defraud. Just an honest effort to correct some damage. Of course some ah, artistic license was used." He laughed. Making his Adam's apple bob.

"No, we were trying to place the Lorenzo Panel in a time slot. Turns out it spans almost two centuries."

"That's incredible," Geoff said."

"Fascinating!" My father said.

Bullshit, I wanted to say.

"But this isn't exactly new to us, is it?" I said.

"No, you're right. The tests pretty much confirmed what we knew."

"Well, what's this exciting news you wanted to tell us?"

"The exciting news Gregor, is that I've been asked to do a book on the Lorenzo. The Domini Canes."

"A book! Why that's terrific, Winslow. Really that's wonderful."

"Yes it is." The man positively beamed.

"And thanks in part to you and your contributions."

"Every cloud has a silver lining, I always say." He never said it before in his life.

"What are you going to write about?" I asked.

"I figure to show how art -the significance of this painting in particular - reflects politics, philosophy, and religious thinking in a particular time period. And because the Domini Canes spans two centuries, I'll illustrate how these ideas changed through time. I especially want to show how the church used art to influence popular thought and culture through an attempt to perpetuate its autonomy.

"Now that's exciting," I said. "There are enough symbols and images in the Domini Canes that sanction the abuse and intolerance of Jews, Moslems and heretics."

"Exactly my thinking, Sam. Exactly my thinking."

"And if I may suggest a modern day parallel consider the role of the church during the second war. Turning a blind eye to the plight of the Jews was just another way of condoning the horrors."

"And what about the Middle East? The church isn't doing nearly enough to stop the aggression."

"That's right, Geoff," my father said. "Father Mackenzie said the church is a master at consolidating its strengths by turning people against those groups that threaten her very existence."

"Well, the painting is well named I said. The Hounds of God sums it all up, doesn't it?"

"I guess it does at that." Johnson laughed and combed a few strands across his pate with his fingers.

Suddenly there were a series of beeps. Geoff's damn pager. Jesus, why didn't get a cell phone. For a smart guy he was a total Luddite. Pushing himself away from the table, he excused himself saying, "Sorry I have to check in", and went into the kitchen to use the phone.

"Sorry to run off like this, but something has come up." He bolted to the hall closet. I followed him out.

"What happened, Geoff? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"I guess you could say that." I looked at him puzzled.

"That was Joan," he said yanking on his coat. "Seems like Lee-Ann has surfaced. Apparently she's been to her apartment."

My heart skipped a beat.

"I'm coming with you." I said reaching for my coat.

"Why? Nothing you can do. Besides it'll leave your father in the lurch." I grabbed my coat and went in to tell my father I was leaving with Geoff.

"I'll explain when I get back." When I came out, Geoff was already in the car, the motor running.

"You two be careful," he called. I turned back and saw him standing in the doorway with Johnson beside him, two old men, who's idea of excitement was looking for anachronisms in antique artifacts.

# Chapter 25

There was virtually no traffic at this hour but the going was still slow, with only two lanes open on the bridge. There were no repairs going on, but the orange cones were still in place slowing traffic, holding hundreds of motorists hostage by an indifferent city administration. A quarter of an hour later we were at her apartment, the yellow tape hanging as I'd left it. The door was open and we heard voices. I walked behind Geoff, his hands in his pocket, coat open, and steps slow and deliberate.

The voices were coming from the bathroom off the master bedroom, where I'd torn out the wall. Geoff sauntered slowly towards them. There were several people talking and I thought I could make out Joan's voice.

"Oh, hi, Geoff. That was quick." She nodded to me and said to him, "Looks like she must've had some kind of a stash behind the tiles."

He stood in the doorway and leaned in to look. He didn't say anything. A technician had his case propped on the bed and was pulling out a pair of surgical gloves. Geoff stepped aside to let him into the bathroom to dust for prints. I knew what the result would be. As a special member of the court, my fingerprints were on file.

Joan came out of the bathroom followed by Simon. With a large hanky he mopped his face and wiped his eyes. His eyes, perpetually wet gave him the appearance of being constantly on the verge of tears.

"Who discovered this mess?" Geoff asked.

"Something about this place never seemed right to me. I keep coming back, figuring I had to be missing something. You know what I mean. Sometimes you get a hunch."

"A hunch," Geoff said."

"Yeah. A feeling. You're a cop, you know what I'm saying." He was wearing a long sleeved shirt, buttoned at the cuffs and collar. Under his arms, large wet circles plastered the shirt to his skin.

"I hope you and Avi do more than follow hunches in your investigations." Simon stared at him, then went over and sat on the bed, pushing himself back so his feet barely touched the floor.

"No, I didn't tell Avi. He was following another lead." He looked at his watch. "He should be here any minute."

"Your hunch...?" Geoff reminded.

"The disk. You know."

"So...?"

Simon looked at Geoff and shook his head. "Come on. Don't play dumb. You know what I'm talking about. Bill knew -or thought he knew- something that I myself have been suspicious of. And with Bill dead, his little girl killed and Lee-Ann God knows where.... " He shrugged and made a face revealing his frustration. "I keep coming here hoping to learn something. Considering that they were killed by the same person."

"The same gun, Simon. And the three Arabs, don't forget."

"I haven't forgotten." He wiped his face again.

"So you come here and discover the hole in the wall."

"Right, yes." A vigorous nod.

"And you figure it was Lee-Ann."

"Who else?"

Who else indeed. I had to look away, hold my breath. I went to the widow and stared out. The city was illuminated by a million sparkling jewels.

"Any idea when she did this?"

"No," he waved his hand as if to say the idea was preposterous. "No one saw. No one heard. The other occupants aren't very disposed to volunteering information."

"They never are."

"She could be anywhere," Joan said. "And if she risked coming here, you can bet that whatever was behind those tiles was damned important to her. And I have a hunch of my own. If you ask me Lee-Ann is long gone. I know I would be. She wouldn't take this kind of a risk unless the pay-off was going to be really big."

Two point two million was really big in my books.

"What's with the tech Simon? You think there's a point in dusting?"

"My idea," Joan said.

"I don't see the point. Short of leaving us a note, we know who it is." It wasn't like him to dismiss a procedure, no matter how routine or unfruitful it might seem. He walked over to the bathroom pausing in the doorway as if crossing the threshold would plunge him into an abyss.

"The point, Geoff, is not to overlook anything."

"You're right." He shook his head as apology. "I must be losing my edge." He turned and left the bedroom.

My mouth was dry, my head pounded. In no time this routine checking for prints would tell them who had been here. Why didn't I wear gloves? I had a box of disposable ones I used when I cleaned the oven. Before my acceptance as an advisor my background was thoroughly investigated. My politics, my affiliations, the associations I belonged to. Everything from fitness clubs to finances - a heavy debt load might have made me vulnerable for corruption. In desperation I rummaged in my purse for a stick of gum.

"Geoff." He was lost in his own thoughts and didn't hear me.

"Geoff." I repeated.

"Huh...? Sorry, I was thinking. Did you say something?"

"We've got to talk."

"What is it? What's the matter?" He furrowed his brow.

"If you're finished here, can we go somewhere..."

"Sure. What's this about?" He was holding my arm and staring at me, studying my face.

"Let's go back to my place, I'll feel more comfortable." I was scared, not of Geoff but because of the incredible fix I was in. Spending years in prison had suddenly become a very real possibility.

The lights were still on at my father's and I didn't see Johnson's Camry. There'd only be the three of us and they could take turns beating me over the head for my stupidity.

"You did what!" he said, incredulous. "Are you out of your mind?" He stood there, hands on hips, his eyes wide. My father not yet sure of what I'd done sat mute, listening.

"Jesus, Sam. You put me in a bind. By rights I should arrest you for breaking and entering."

"Just entering."

"Don't be funny. Then there's helping a fugitive. Possession of false documents, an unregistered weapon. The list goes on and on."

"I had the key. And I didn't break any laws breaking the wall. There's no proof that I actually did anything wrong."

"No? Wait until the fingerprint report comes out."

"All that proves is that I was there and broke the wall in her bathroom." He looked at me and shook his head, then sat down on the antique chair.

"Maybe she does have a point," my father said. "How bad could it be that she entered the apartment?"

He looked at my father. "Got any of that terrific brandy left? I could sure use one."

He got the bottle and glasses and poured three healthy drinks. I already had a headache.

Geoff leaned back with his drink, stretched his legs out and crossed them at the ankle. "I suppose, technically, other than entering you've committed no crime. Except for vandalism. Your prints just show you were there. And broke the wall."

"But I had the key, surely, unless Lee-Ann complains..."

"Okay, I'll concede the point. But the wall was broken into, and no one is going to fall for the idea you didn't find something... incriminating and make off with it."

"No, maybe not," my father said. "But proving that is another matter."

"Right," I said. "It doesn't matter what Ouellette or those... those...damn Israeli secret agents think. There isn't any proof."

"A lot of circumstantial evidence, Sam. And people have hanged for a hell of lot less!" He held the glass between his hands the way my father did. Defeat written on his face.

"Not to mention that you will have to lie your ass off- have you thought that through? And now... and now you've made me", he stabbed his chest, "complicit. An accessory. Shit! Shit! And fucken shit! Sorry, Gregor. But your daughter...." He shook his head fighting to keep from saying more.

"You say you've got the money and stuff here...?" in a quieter tone now.

"Yes," I said, and got up to get it.

"No, don't show it to me, for God's sake. I can always deny- read lie- I knew about. Otherwise I'd have to arrest you here and now. Jesus, Sam. You really blew it this time." He tossed back the brandy, and looked longingly at the bottle. "Explain it to me again, will you?"

I told him again. "Two point two million. In bundles of hundred dollar bills."

"Did you count it?"

"No, I didn't. Should I?"

"How the hell should I know?" He looked away, wrestling with the idea of having another drink.

"There's the money. Several passports -six I think, but I didn't check the countries. I could if you think it's important. And a gun. A Smith and Wesson and some spare clips."

"Like I said, if push comes to shove, I'll deny knowing any of this. Okay?" I nodded.

"Otherwise, both our asses will be in a sling. If I don't know, then I've no reason to arrest you. Or have you arrested."

"Hey, haven't heard a thing either." My father put his hands over his ears.

Great! I was making them criminals too.

"Don't worry," I said. "If push comes to shove I won't implicate either of you. This mess is my doing."

"Now what?" he asked.

"She wants me to deliver the stuff to her. I'm supposed to rent a unit at the Belvedere Motel. Under my own name."

"The Belvedere? In the West End?"

"Where Bill had his bachelor party, she said. She's supposed to call and tell me when."

"Was she specific about that?"

"No. A couple of days, she said."

"Cute," he said. "Real cute. Not enough for me to play cops and robbers, now the game is I-spy."

"I'm sorry. I know this is all my fault. But I didn't think at the time I had a choice."

"Who is it says 'There's always a choice'?"

"I know. But the way she put it, I couldn't refuse to help her. I can see how dumb it was." My father reached over and took my hand and patted it. He agreed, but his love was unconditional.

"Time for damage control," Geoff said.

"What do you mean?"

"We need a plan of our own here. There's no way we can let her pull this off."'

"No way, I'm going to betray her, Geoff. Forget it!"

"Oh no! -I wouldn't _dream of_ having you betray her!" He closed his eyes and put his hand over his heart. "You've put yourself in jeopardy. Compromise me. Implicate your own father. Probably endanger who knows how many others, as long as she's on the run, but you won't betray a friendship. An assassin. She's a killer, Sam. Don't you get it!" He leaned forward in the chair his arms extended like a TV evangelist.

"She's still my friend!"

"Maybe I'm just a red-neck cop, but in my book Lee-Ann is no better than that mob. However altruistic their motives are, innocent people get killed. You were there, for Christ's sake. And as for politics? There are two sides, both claiming righteous indignation.

"You know," he added, "Idealism increases in direct proportion to one's distance from the problem."

I don't know why I defended her. In truth I agreed with him.

"What do you want me to do? I have to say something when she calls."

"Just follow through with whatever she says. But I want you to tell me. Will you do that? Can I trust you to tell me?"

"Yes." I wouldn't have blamed him for not trusting me.

"I promise." He stared at me, trying to decide whether or not to believe me.

"Okay. For now there's nothing you can do. At this point it's her show." He got up and looked out the window. It was snowing lightly, creating a yellow halo around the streetlight.

"I have to go," he said. "It's pretty late. And the way things are going I better get some rest while I can."

My father saw him out. The door closed softly and he started on me even before he was back in the room.

"Sammy, you really have to stop trying to handle this on your own. You're way out of your depth you know."

"That point has been made abundantly clear to me. You don't have to belabor the issue."

"You're not doing Lee-Ann any favors, you know. Your loyalty is more than commendable, but you have a greater responsibility. If she's in trouble, you have to try and help her. I agree. But if you won't involve the police you at least owe it to Geoff to keep him up to speed."

"What do you think _he_ is?"

"You know what I mean. You can trust Geoff, can't you?"

"Obviously more than he can trust me."

"Well then. He's concerned for your safety. We both are. Geoff was absolutely shattered when you disappeared from the island. But when you get this way, there's no way anyone can sway you. You've always been headstrong. Independent. Loyal to a cause. And to people -especially to people. Admirable qualities. But in this case this has gone beyond loyalty. You're just being stupid and bullheaded!" He pulled himself up to his full height and thrust out his chin.

I burst into tears and collapsed on the chesterfield, and sobbed uncontrollably. Shocked by my outburst he sat down and put his arms around me, holding tightly.

"It's all my fault, Dad." I got out between sobs. "I'm to blame."

"Sammy, Sammy, Sammy. How can you say that? None of this is your fault." I was a little girl again, and he patted and rubbed my back. This was something he could never make better.

"You don't understand. If it hadn't been for me, Sarah would still be alive. I insisted we meet for lunch. Lee-Ann had been putting me off for ages. She agreed we should get together and wanted me to have dinner with them some evening -that evening! But no! I said lunch. If I hadn't insisted, if I hadn't been so selfish, Sarah wouldn't be dead. It's my fault, Dad. That's why I've been trying to help her. Goddam it! Don't you see? You're a fucking psychiatrist, I killed Sarah!"

"Oh, Sammy. It doesn't work that way." He held me, rocking me.

"It doesn't work that way. We can't take the weight of the world on our shoulders. We can't assume blame for coincidence or situations beyond our control. My God, Sammy. I know what you're going through. I've been living a life of _what ifs_ myself. If only I had been home that day. If only your brother hadn't been playing there. And the biggest _what if_ of all is that your mother didn't want that house. I insisted we buy it. I was too damn selfish myself, Sammy. It was just a house. We could have lived anywhere. I lost almost everything but you saved me, Sammy."

He sat back and handed me his handkerchief. His own eyes were misted. I wiped my eyes and blew my nose. He'd never spoken of his feelings before, a subject far too painful to discuss. I'd only learned the ugly facts from the newspaper clippings I'd discovered in his files. My mother had been suspected in my brother's death. He'd endured the loss of a son, the suspicions about his wife, and years of pain while my mother wasted away in an asylum, her mind destroyed by guilt. Whether from being a neglectful mother or the actual instrument of his death had never been determined.

"You saved me, Sammy. I'd wouldn't have wanted to live otherwise. So you must listen to me know. Sarah died tragically. There's no doubt about that. She was innocent. But sadly that's never a protection for anything. The fact is, if anyone is guilty, if anyone one is to blame, it's her mother. Certainly not you. At first we thought the whole thing was a coincidence, right? It turns out there's more to it.

"Lee-Ann was your friend. I say was. Now she's using you. Playing on your guilt. No, Sammy. If anyone is to blame, blame Lee-Ann. Blame Sarah's mother.

"Your obligation is to help Geoff. Maybe you don't want to hear this, but it's true. Lee-Ann mustn't be allowed to continue like this." He took the handkerchief from me and wiped my face. Come on. I think your Thea Maria left us something good in the fridge. He led me by the hand into the kitchen.

He treated me like I was his little girl again. And I didn't resent it. Maybe I was growing up after all. He even poured me a glass of milk, intentionally or from an old forgotten habit, I couldn't tell. It didn't matter.

He put out a plate of the little cookies Thea Maria had made. Shaped like twisted hairpins, and harder than a cookie, they were perfect for dunking. I dunked one, sucked off the milk, and found myself wanting to tell him about my day at school, my classes and what the students said. I wanted to talk about Bob and the way he leered at me. And to make him laugh at Harry's outrageous comments.

All cried out, and warm inside, I felt much better. Happy for his understanding and happier still that he was able to share his pain with me. I only hoped it had dispelled a few of his own demons.

"Thanks, Dad. For being here and for understanding. And especially for not judging. He waved at me, uncomfortable whenever I tended towards getting mushy. He walked me to the door and I kissed his forehead.

"Go on," he said. "Or I'll never get any sleep." He waved me off and waited until I was safely inside before closing his own door.

The next day, I had no classes and except for office hours, I needn't have gone in. So I called Harry at our office and asked him to tape a note on the door informing students I was unavailable.

"Any problems, Sam? Not like you to leave things until the last minute." The whole world monitored my behavior.

"No, no problems. Just need some time to myself. And I can get more done if I'm at home," I lied. The truth was that Geoff asked me to go with him when he made a check of the security plans at the convention center. For good reason he wanted to keep me out of trouble and the best way was to have me tagging along in sight. Actually I was looking forward to it.

We met Joan at the convention center, which was really a system of halls and reception rooms named after famous French explorers. The hotel was first class, modern and very plastic, with a few good restaurants and only upscale boutiques catering to the _toy poodle carried under the arm_ clientele. The hotel, located on what used to be called Dorchester Boulevard, was in the heart of downtown. The traffic was always congested and arranging security for untold numbers would create further chaos.

We took the elevator up to the management offices. The hotel had its own security force and the man in charge, Serge, a retired police officer, had agreed to meet with him.

"Serge retired on a disability pension," Geoff told us on the way up. He'd been shot in a bungled bank robbery.

"He was cashing a check," he went on, "or paying a bill, I don't remember. Off duty and minding his own business. Two dead beats in ski masks come in. Order everybody down on the floor. In the confusion and panic, Serge draws his weapon and pops one of them. The other guy's scared shitless now, right? He's confused. These guys don't think very far ahead. Here's Serge and this jerk, each staring down a gun barrel. Should have dropped the bastard right there." He shook his head. "Now he's walking with a cane and tracking down lost towels. Shit."

"The manager, a tall man in his fifties and dressed as if he owned the hotel, greeted us as we stepped out of the elevator.

"Hi," he said. "Gus Morelli." After shaking hands all around he ushered us into his office. No scarred or cigarette-burned furniture here.

"Can I offer a refreshment? Some coffee, tea? Mineral water if you prefer?"

"Uh, no thanks," Geoff said. "Not for me anyway."

Morelli looked at Joan and me, his eyebrows raised in question. We also declined. As it was I needed to use the bathroom?

"Serge'll be here in a sec. He's checking on a complaint. Apparently someone checked in with their pet dog. On the sly of course. Someone complained about the barking. Hotels," he added rolling his eyes.

We nodded and murmured as if we all understood the trials and tribulations that plagued hotel managers.

"Mind if I smoke," Morelli asked, tapping out a cigarette. It's your hotel, I wanted to say. No one objected and the man lit up from a gold Zippo. I was amazed at how many people still smoked. Mind you, the way I was knocking back my father's brandy, I'd be an alcoholic in no time. He'd dragged down about a third of it in one breath and held it in until I thought I would gag. Gradually he let it out, though not nearly as much as went in. Jesus, and he looked fit too. He did this a few more times blowing the smoke behind him over his left shoulder. Considerate of him.

"All of you in law enforcement?" He did his best to pass the time while we waited for Serge. For a man whose main function was public relations he sure seemed the nervous type.

"I'm a criminologist," I volunteered.

"Ah," he said, throwing his head back. "Theories and ideas versus bullets and facts. My son's studying criminology. Loves it. Loves it."

At that point there was a discreet knock at the door.

"That's him now. Come in, Serge, come in." Morelli waved directing him to the empty chair. "You know Detective London."

"Hello, Geoff. Long time no see." They shook hands and Geoff went through the ritual of introductions, explaining who I was and what I did. He didn't say why I was there.

Serge limped over to the chair and sat down. His left leg didn't want to bend at the knee so it stuck out. His shoes were black with some shine left. They had the thickest crepe soles I'd ever seen.

"Well," Morelli said, after Serge refused an offer of food and drink. "Shall we move along then?"

The five of us filed out, following Serge to the bank of elevators. Morelli used his key to activate the one reserved for management and we rode down to the main convention hall. The room could easily accommodate twenty-five hundred people he said. Arranging security for the Peace Summit was going to be a horrendous job. And protecting the dignitaries and negotiators throughout the hotel was becoming his own personal nightmare. He lit up again ignoring the _no smoking_ signs that were plastered everywhere.

We continued the tour with Serge explaining the precautions.

"Metal detectors are going to be installed in front of all the doors. No way anybody can get into the room without going through the detector. Police and security personnel excluded of course." I held my purse tightly, feeling the weight of my Beretta.

"There'll be two armed security men at each station. Six for the detectors, and of course dozens moving freely. Everyone has a two-way communication device. On secure channels. And they'll be wearing a tasteful but distinctive jacket, along with a special ID tag."

Serge walked stiff-legged and pointed out what would be where. He seemed knowledgeable about his task and was an animated speaker. A young man, not yet forty, I was sure. Could have been worse. He unbuttoned the jacket to his dark, pinstriped suit and adjusted his belt. His unusual gait caused his trousers to shift. He hitched his pants, adjusted his jacket and went on explaining the precautions. Suddenly bored, I tuned out and thought instead about Lee-Ann and the mess she was in and the mess my own life had become.

I tagged along only half listening, impressed nonetheless with such a daunting task. From metal detectors to armored limos and bottled water -not to mention the protocol involved with catering food to the many different ethnic groups, I understood why it had become Morelli's nightmare. Rabbis specially chosen to oversee the Kosher dishes and security cleared cooks to work in the kitchens. Even a room had been set aside for the Muslims to observe their daily prayer rituals. No easy task, I had to agree. A visit from the Queen would have been less problematic. But then there was the Irish connection.

It took a couple of hours to go through it all, and I did my best to be polite, appear interested. Eventually Serge and Morelli had covered everything and we were invited to have lunch as guests of the hotel. Great! I thought. But my enthusiasm was dashed when Geoff politely refused the offer. I should have known. Geoff wasn't the kind to take an apple from the vendor's pushcart.

"You've seen first-hand," he said to me as we headed home, "how difficult it is to cover all the bases. Between Joan and I we hope to hell we have. We could use a few more hands though."

"Too many cooks." I said.

"Huh?"

"The more people involved, the greater the chance of a screw-up don't you think?"

"You've got a point. Wouldn't be half as bad if Ouellette relieved me of all my other crap!"

"How is that investigation going anyway?"

"Nothing. Nada. Rien! I even got a buddy of mine in Khanawake to look into something for me."

Oh..."

"Yeah. He's a school administrator. Works as a volunteer paramedic."

"How was he able to help?" I asked, puzzled. "He's not one of the warriors, is he?"

"Ray Diabo a Warrior? No way. He's a straight as an arrow -no pun intended. I just thought he might know some of the kids on the list. The native ones."

"There's only one native student in my freshman class that I know of. Arthur Rice."

"That's the one."

"Don't tell me _he's a_ warrior. That's all I need. I better make sure his grades are good."

"I wouldn't worry. Ray tells me he wants to study international law. He's slated to go to The Hague in the spring. Got picked out of hundreds of Natives across the country."

"Really? That's great! He's a bright kid, I can tell you."

"Oh he's bright alright, no doubt about it. According to Ray, Arthur Rice has a real interest in establishing a sovereign nation for his people."

"He's smarter than the Warriors, I'd say."

"Depends on your point of view, I suppose. He certainly has his work cut out."

"What about the others? Henry's name was on the list too."

"Nope. They seem to check out. Just your regular bunch of college kids. Rock throwers and hot heads." He stopped, double-parked and let me out.

"Let me know if she calls..."

"I will," I promised.

It was business as usual for a couple of days. I kept to a routine, running every morning and immersing myself in my work. But no matter how busy I kept I couldn't entirely block out this business with Lee-Ann, and the stress building in anticipation of her calling me. I had promised Geoff to alert him immediately, but as time passed my resolve weakened. When her call finally came, I knew I would help her, but I had several conditions she would have to agree to.

"Sam, It's me. This afternoon. You'll do it?"

"Yes." She hung up before I could add anything. I grabbed my coat and purse got my car out and headed west along Sherbrooke Street eventually reaching Cavendish. I hung a left and caught the light at Upper Lachine and turned right. After checking in at the Belvedere, I got back into the car and parked it in front of the unit. As I was putting the key in the lock, Lee-Ann appeared at my side startling me.

"Jesus, Lee-Ann! Did you have to sneak up?" I opened the door and we went in. Lee-Ann immediately pulled the curtains.

"Let's make this quick. No sense you sticking around. You've done enough already. Where is it, in the car?"

"Lee-Ann...."

"God, Sam. You didn't bring it, did you?" She slumped down on the bed, suddenly defeated.

"Lee-Ann, you've got to turn yourself in. We can help you..."

"You told Geoff," she said dejected.

"I had too, Lee-Ann. You've got to let us help you."

"I suppose there's SWAT team waiting to shoot me down, if I don't surrender, is that it?"

"No, that's not it. There's no one out there. I came alone just as you asked." She was peeking through the curtains and came back to sit on the bed.

"It doesn't matter anymore. I was a fool to think I could get away. What's the point? I've lost everything. Everyone. I really have nothing to live for. I'd always be running; you call that a life?"

"Maybe you still can."

"Without my papers and the money there's no way." She stared ahead unseeing.

"I didn't bring them, Lee-Ann. I didn't say I didn't _get_ them."

"Goddam it, Sam. Don't play word games!"

"Listen to me. If you still want me to help, shut up and listen. I want you to level with me. I want to know what this is all about." I put my hand up to stop her protesting. "I know what you told me. You're running from someone in your organization, but quite frankly I don't believe that you haven't some idea who is after you. Not after all this cloak and dagger shit. And Bill's letter to you. You want my help? You want me to keep sticking, my neck out, keep lying to Geoff, and help you get away? An assassin? And you expect me to do all this just because you think I owe you, because of Sarah? Sorry. I don't owe you this, Lee-Ann. I'm real sorry for want happened. Maybe I can't understand your loss, your maternal feelings, but I loved Sarah too. And quite frankly, helping you, a hired goddam killer escape, I don't think is any kind of memorial act I want to perform in remembrance of Sarah."

"There's nothing more to tell. You've seen the disk. That's it."

"That's bullshit! After four years on this you expect me to believe you don't know who's behind this. Lee-Ann you're playing me for a sucker." She looked away without saying anything.

"Hey, Lee-Ann. I know, I'm naive but you're never going to get away from whomever is after you unless you turn yourself in _and_ tell me or Geoff who this person is. At least who you suspect it is. If these people, or person, are as powerful as it certainly appears, that's your only option. Otherwise you might as well tell me right now how you want your remains disposed. Providing there is anything left of you to dispose of."

"You've no idea how they operate. How they protect each other. They're like the -what's it called? The Hydra. You cut off one head and another grows back. Besides I honestly don't know who it is."

"Oh bull. This is getting tedious."

"Let me tell you a story."

"Another story? It had better be good. Let me take off my coat first." I made a show of removing it and tossing it on the bed. She hunched herself back against the headboard and kicked off her shoes. She had on the same coat and dress she wore at the restaurant.

"The bank in San Marcos is a front."

"Tell me something I don't already know."

"Are you going to listen or what? Jesus, you really should work on your listening skills."

"The bank is a front. It's a real enough bank. Has hundreds of millions in assets. It launders money from all kinds of illegal activities. Especially drugs. All the directors are mob people. And if they aren't actually in the mob they are certainly controlled by them. As well as being directors, many of them sit on the boards of some very large and powerful industrial corporations. Okay? Chemical manufacturing. Research and development companies. Medical research. And of course, arms manufacturers."

"So far you haven't said anything I don't already know. It's not that big a jump from producing fertilizer to making bombs."

"You're right. But what you don't know, is that the bank actually funds the Mossad."

"What?"

"Exactly. There's a lot of money funneled to us. For pay-offs. Bribes. To purchase arms. Military equipment."

"Are you saying that... that.... private enterprise is pulling the strings? Controlling the Israeli Secret Service?"

"I don't how private they are, but yes. Not the whole service, obviously, but a hell of a big part of it let me tell you. Especially the group I'm in." She unbuttoned the collar and tugged it aside to show me the tattoo again. "This identifies us."

"Those four Hassid, who were killed. That day. They had the same tattoo."

"No shit!" She sat forward, stunned by the news. "I didn't know..." She drifted away momentarily back to that day and shook her head, her eyes filling.

"Apparently they were killed by some of the Arab demonstrators. PLO sympathizers. At first we thought it was a stray shot that had killed Sarah."

"PLO supporters? I suppose it could've happened that way." She stopped again, her mind elsewhere.

"Go on," I prompted.

"Right. Like I said, the money is doled out. I was in complete agreement at first, supporting the cause." She made quote marks in the air at the word cause. "And I still believe it's important. There has to be a military balance. It's essential to Israel. We'd be wiped the fuck off the face of the Earth otherwise. You know, there are still people who want to finish what Hitler started."

"You're not going to say you had a change of heart..."

"Not a change of heart. No. I'd keep on fighting. That's not the issue. But I didn't count on being betrayed. And you think _you're naive_!"

"You mean the person who killed Bill and the others and is now after you?"

"Yes. But more importantly in the sense that Jews are being betrayed. And Israel."

"You lost, me I'm afraid. I don't follow."

"Look," she said, sitting forward. "The bank is an enormous conglomerate, okay? Its aim is simply to make money. That's it. Nothing more. And the people behind it will do anything to see that goal realized. Got that? Okay. They don't give a shit about politics. They're putting drug money into legitimate businesses to wash it. And after drugs, what's the most profitable way to get rich, hmm?"

"I don't know. Guns?"

"War, Sam. Guns are part of it. War! Nobody is interested in balancing power. No one cares, really, if Israel loses. No one on this green Earth gives a shit! Just as long as the money machine keeps on rolling along. And in this case that goddam money machine is the fuel keeping the wars burning. Any war."

"On the disk Bill said something about how this person was working against Israel's interests."

"Yes! He's the bastard I want. He's the one sold out Israel."

"What about all those people who were killed."

"Which people? A hell of lot of people got killed."

"You know..."

"The ones I assassinated? Can't say it, can you? That's what I like about you Sam. The strength of your convictions. And you're loyalty. That's what makes you so easy to be used. Your decency will be your downfall. Don't ever change.

"But to answer your question, here's the irony of it. I was manipulated, set up to believe -and I was convinced- that the people I assassinated were responsible for the deaths of a lot of Jews, okay? They were selling death and in my books they deserved to die. Victims of a war they fueled. Wasn't hard to justify. This is war. I'm a soldier. And when soldiers kill, it's justifiable, right? No problem. So I killed them. Cold bloodedly? If you say so. But my blood in no colder than any soldier's.

"But my so-called _control_ , however, is operating from a different agenda. In fact he's screwing the top guys who are funding him."

"This is unbelievable, Lee-Ann."

"Tell me about it. My particular group, Sam, like I told you -our mandate was in essence to keep the other countries occupied fighting each other as part of achieving a balance in aggression. To keep the heat off Israel. There's no way in hell you can stop wars, keep people from killing each other. And it's perverse, but if you can equalize the power, no one can come out on top and dominate. Basically we tried to keep Israel from being the focus of aggression. I don't have to give you a history lesson about how Jews have been the world's scapegoat for over two thousand years!"

"I think I'm getting the picture. Go on. The bank, you were saying."

"The bank is bankrolling the whole enterprise. My job is to assassinate people responsible for the deaths of Jews. Turns out this is like killing the goose that lays the golden eggs."

"Couldn't you guys just carry placards or something? Expose these... these... war mongers."

"Come on, Sam. What the hell good is a few people moaning and groaning in the streets. Shit, you get arrested half the time for disturbing the fucking peace!"

"So instead you become a terrorist."

"Can you think of a better more efficient way to call attention to yourself? Is there a better way to send a message?"

"You said yourself it turned out not to be what you expected, anyway. Look at the damage you've done."

"Damage? Any more damage than those bastards caused? I don't think so. They did deserve to die, Sam. Make no mistake about that."

"Like you said, though. This is just another Hydra. Presidents get replaced and it's business as usual."

"That is the sad part, isn't it? Nothing actually changes. Especially since the whole world is interested in only one thing. I thought we had a few principles. That's why I agreed to join. I also thought we had a few ideologies. A cause. Maybe you can't stop the machine but I sure didn't count on being screwed by one of my own."

"What about the golden eggs?"

"The golden eggs? This is the sick part if you ask me. Our traitor sets up the deals. He's lining his pockets of course -who isn't in this game\- he sets up the deals, sees that the arms are traded, sold, go where they're needed. Some of it did go where it was intended, but a lot of the military stuff ends up turned against Israel because of the convoluted trading that goes on. Some of those golden eggs are poison and the geese get marked for assassination."

"Whoever is putting together these deals is also setting up these high ranking individuals to be killed."

"You got it."

"What you're telling me, Lee-Ann, is until you found out who was funding your group, everything was cool. You bought the story about why these people you killed had to be assassinated."

"In essence that's right."

"It's a given," I said, "that war is big business. And I can see how corrupt it all is. Especially with the San Marcos bank. Their sole aim is to perpetuate war."

"No, their sole aim is to make money. War is just the most profitable way to do it."

"And by funding your group they can keep stirring up the trouble spots."

"Yes. If it wasn't for the bank, hell, my cadre would probably have very little to do."

"And you wouldn't have become an assassin."

"Give me a break, Sam. I take responsibility for what I've done."

I didn't want to rub salt in her wounds, but what about Bill? I wanted to ask. And all the money he made, being a death merchant? And her warped principles about responsibility and murder.

"I'm curious," I said, "about Jake and Gloria."

"I told you. A mob hit. Nothing to do with this other business. His job was to put people together. Set people up like Bill for deals. Bill was an agent too -not my group- but still an agent. He got his contacts through Jake."

"How did that work?"

"Through the bank. Jake -using Bill as an intermediary- would line up the sellers with the buyers. People that the Mossad had approved of."

"So the Mossad decided who could or should be allowed to buy arms?"

"Right. Arms. Ammunition. Tanks. Whatever. Fertilizer. Contacts were made. All kinds of material and equipment. Anything that would ultimately satisfy material needs of groups involved in conflict. All this done undercover of course with Bill as the agency's fixer. He made sure the licences, export-import papers conformed to standards. His job was to set-up the chain of events for the trades. "

"And in supplying these groups -radical factions- Lebanon comes to mind."

"That was part of it, in essence."

"A terrific business, you were in. You and Bill."

"Don't get on your high liberal horse, Sam. You've no idea."

"Okay, let's not argue. We sure as hell won't agree. But I said I'd try to help you, and I will if I can."

"And I do appreciate the sentiment. But the best way you can help me is to bring me my goddam papers and money!"

"Before I agree to that, don't you think you've a better chance of putting all this behind you if you try to smoke this so-called traitor out?" She stared at me her mouth a hard line. She shook her head slowly. Had I the money with me, and tried to stand in her way, I'm sure I'd have been another of her victims.

"Lee-Ann I'm sticking my neck out as it is."

"Get me my money, and your precious little neck will be safe!" She was almost yelling out of fear. Frustration. Despair.

"The money is my only goddam chance. There's nothing left for me; I've nothing to live for."

"If you've nothing to live for, then why not try to bring down whoever is doing this. He killed Bill, didn't he? And Sarah."

"There's no way, Sam."

"Not alone. But with help."

"Oh, sure. Now it's you and me is it? Fighting for truth and justice. Give me a break!"

"No, not just me. Geoff and Joan."

"Who the hell is Joan?" I told her.

"And you think between us we can _smoke_ this guy out? To use your word."

"It's worth a try isn't it?"

"I really don't know. What do I get out of it?"

"I can't say. But with the money and all..."

"In your own perverted way you want me to get away, don't you?" I didn't answer.

"You are some bitch, Sam." She shook her head. "What have you got in mind?"

"Well, maybe we should first go back through Bill's disk."

"Don't you think I've done that? I just about have it memorized."

"You still haven't told me who you think it is. You must have some idea."

"Obviously," she said at length, "the traitor has to be his control. You know how these things work don't you?"

"No, Not exactly."

"We don't hold weekly meetings you know. And there's certainly nothing written down. We use a lot of go betweens. As a matter of fact many times the operative doesn't even know who his control is."

"What do you mean? There has to be communication."

"Of course. But it doesn't have to be face to face. If you don't know your control, then there's no way you can betray him."

"This control. Does he have more than one operative?"

"Yes. Often there are quite a few. The operatives don't know each other. These measures are to ensure that if you're captured there's no way you can give away any of your colleagues."

"Right. But I can see the flaw. Nothing to protect you from a control who gives up his agents."

"You catch on fast. As you can see, it's the operative who is out in the cold. If his control compromises him, then it's curtains. And that's what I think happened to Bill. He was set up or killed by his own control."

"What about you? Did you know any of your -what do I call them- colleagues?"

"Some. But that doesn't matter. I never knew their real names. We trained together, a lot of us. But we didn't give anything up about ourselves. And we generally work independently."

"What about the four Hassid who were killed?"

"I said generally. Seems to me they were on a special assignment. You say they were students at the university?"

"Exchange students."

"Well, that's a good cover."

"Apparently not good enough."

"Yeah, right."

"So you've no idea who your control is?"

"Obviously it has to be someone who knows all the moves."

"Someone pulling the strings too."

"He'd certainly have to be part of the transactions, that's for sure."

"Someone pretty high up, then."

"Not necessarily. Just involved with Israel's security. Someone responsible for...."

"Someone who sets up the deals. The arms sales. And then marks the principals for murder."

"Sounds sick, putting that way."

"Sounds sick, Lee-Ann, putting it any way. He's using the money to put these deals together, but he also has his own agenda on the side."

"At this point, nothing would surprise me."

"Looks to me that apart from tearing that disk apart, a good place to start would be back at San Marcos. At the bank."

"You kidding? Jake was the only one, and he's dead. You talk to anybody at the bank and you'll end up the same way."

"Hey, I almost did, remember?"

"Exactly. And Jake was all for shooting you and tying an anchor around your feet."

"Guess I got lucky."

"You'll never know how lucky." She looked at me and I wondered if she was having second thoughts about having saved my life.

"I want you to come with me. To stay at my place."

"You really are out of your mind. You know that, don't you?"

"It's been suggested. By the way, Lee-Ann...."

"Yes."

"Jake and Gloria? Are you sure it was a mob hit? The bullets that killed them came from the same gun that killed Bill and Sarah."

# Chapter 26

After arguing the point, Lee-Ann finally gave in and agreed to come back with me to my place.

"The risk of you getting caught increases every time I come here."

"And _I'm safer_ at your place?"

"Yes. I think so. I can't keep sneaking back here without arousing some kind of suspicion. What if I'm being watched or followed?"

"That's a great thought. It wouldn't matter a hell of lot now! And what about your house? Don't you think they could be watching it?"

She got up and sneaked a peek through the curtains. It was dark out. The units were set far back from the road on a slightly raised hill overlooking the highway, what used to be called Upper Lachine Road. I could hear the relentless rush and hiss of traffic. It was dark but the pulsing beat of psychedelic neon advertising the strip clubs pierced the room, creating a carnival atmosphere mocking the mood and tension in our little unit.

"Look," I said. "It would be the best of, admittedly, a few bad choices. But if you stayed put, I'm sure you'd be safe enough." I explained about all the security measures that had been installed.

"And when we get a line on who's after you... well, we can take it from there."

She closed the curtains, overlapping them and came over to the bed. "Okay," she said picking up her coat. "We'll try it your way."

After making sure we weren't being watched, we left. I went out first and got settled in the car. When it was running she followed, scurrying quickly with her head down hidden in the folds of her collar. She slammed the door louder than I would have and hunched low in the seat, using her side mirror to keep one eye on the traffic.

"Caution: Objects in mirror are closer than they appear."

"What...?"

"Nothing, Sam. Just the warning on the mirror. Bad joke." She made a feeble attempt to laugh.

I concentrated on driving and worrying about how I would explain all this to my father. I wasn't responsible, he said. I didn't owe her. True. But I couldn't turn her in. Somehow I had to convince her and Geoff that some sort of compromise had to be made. If she could identify the killer, give him some answers -maybe he could be coaxed to look the other way. I dismissed that thought almost as it occurred. He'd never go for it. Maybe reduced charges in exchange. But that wouldn't work either; Lee-Ann wanted out entirely. Neither one would compromise; it had to be all or nothing. I had to come up with an idea. And fast.

I took Sherbrooke the whole way. It was slow, but it made me feel safe. Besides I needed the extra time to think. Whether in fact she would be safer at my place no one could tell. But the immediate problem I faced was trying to keep Geoff and my father out of this. Geoff's career was on the line, not to mention my own as well as my father's practice. Our futures were in jeopardy because I was playing fast and loose. And why? Because I had a mis-placed sense of responsibility towards someone who had committed unspeakable crimes.

I turned at University and went up to Pine, turning right, then right again into the lane behind my place.

"Stay down," I told her. I pressed the remote, the door raised and I drove in. When the door had closed, we got out. I motioned for her not to make any noise -my father could hear the dead. Upstairs, I went around drawing curtains and shades, then turned on a few lights, before showing her to her room.

"Keep all your stuff in here. You're one house guest, I don't want to explain."

"Gee. I'll try not to embarrass you!"

"Come off it, okay. You know what I mean."

"You're right. This cloak and dagger stuff is making me bitchy." While she put her clothes away, I got out the bed linens, towels and some scented bath soaps.

"I don't know about you," I said when she was settled, "but I'm starving."

"Must be the stress," she said in a humorless laugh."

"I'd rather it made me bitchy. Less hard on my figure."

This time her laugh was genuine. "Let me put something together. Got to earn my keep, you know."

Lee-Ann was a good cook which surprised me. I'd been discovering of late that her flaky, bimbo qualities had been an act. With eggs and cheese and onion she created a culinary delight. I wasn't all that hard to please anyway since my forte in the kitchen runs to toasted bagels with cream cheese. Of course as Harry always liked to say -hunger is good sauce. We were enjoying our sandwich with a salad I'd contributed since it didn't involve cooking when the bell rang. I froze and the food in my stomach made a lump. Except for the paperboy, no one came over unannounced. Even my father gave fair warning by phoning first.

Lee-Ann scrambled and picked up her dishes.

"In the dining room," I said, hissing and making motions. The frantic buzzing continued but I waited until she was safely out of the kitchen before answering.

"Hi," he said, as I opened the door. "Just came to say hello. You've been hard to reach lately. Everything okay." He eyed me warily and I felt my cheeks colour.

"Uh, hi, Dad. Yes, I'm.. uh fine... Uh Dad... this isn't a very good time."

"Oh," he said, craning his neck. "I won't stay. Just brought you a little something Maria cooked up." He brushed past me with a covered dish and was in the kitchen before I could object.

"Smells great! Onions!"

"Yes. I made myself a sandwich."

"Oh? All that effort for one?" He took in the mess on the counter. The shells of four eggs lay dripping on the breadboard.

"You must've been hungry." He inclined his head to the shells and raised his eyebrows. "And you so health conscious."

"I was," I said, trying to keep the ice out of my voice. I could feel my cheeks beginning to burn again.

"Sammy, Sammy. Come on," he cajoled. "Who's here? Who are you hiding?" he asked slyly.

"Attila the Hun. Now would you leave please? I swear, I'm moving the first chance I get. Somewhere far and private. Where you won't be looking over my shoulder and dropping in unannounced. Jesus. For all you know, I could have been in the sack with the Harlem Globetrotters. Now go. Please!"

He laughed. "I thought hockey was your sport."

"You're the one skating on thin ice. I think you'd better leave!" He just shook his head a chuckled. I was so angry I wanted to hit him.

"Dad! I really am in no mood..." I had my back to the dining room and didn't hear the door open. His expression told me.

"Hello, Dr. Milland."

"Lee-Ann!" he said, astonished. "My God, what are you doing here?" He pulled a chair out from the table and sat down.

My God, he kept repeating, shaking his head.

She explained, going through the story again. I watched her, listening for inconsistencies, anything that might show she was lying, manipulating me for her own good. Her story was still convincing; she was an incredible actor but still I believed her. And my father too, seemed to buy it. He nodded and occasionally asked a question or for clarification, but he didn't judge, listening intently, taking it all in, learning, trying to unravel the mysteries that motivate behavior.

"There's no way you can stay here, Lee-Ann," he said to her shaking his head. And to me added, "And you sure as hell can't tell Geoff."

"That's what I told her, Dr. Milland." She was good, better than good, the way she used me to boost her own credibility.

"You're coming next door. You'll stay at my place."

"Dad!"

He stood up and looked at me. I felt like a pet that had soiled the rug.

"Where else? Tell me." He held his hands out, palms up. "Tell me," he repeated. "This way, Geoff says anything, asks questions -you don't have to lie. He'll never think I'm involved."

"Okay, but then what? Here or there makes no difference to my situation."

"I don't know yet," he told her. "But I have an idea. Let me call Harry. In the meantime, why don't you two go in the other room or something. Let me think this through. Why don't you go through Bill's disk again."

It was almost forty minutes before he came into my study.

"I think we have something that will work." He rubbed his hands together and said, "Mind if I smoke?" I pushed the ashtray towards him.

"If you agree, Lee-Ann, to disclose what you know about the murders, and if this information helps in the apprehension of this person -this mystery person who is your control- Harry is pretty sure you can make a deal."

"Pretty sure?" she said. "It's got to be better than 'pretty sure' if I'm going to stick my neck out any further."

"If you want something better, you're going to have to come up with a name." He made a face to emphasize his point.

"Say, I do."

"A couple of points, then. And here is where it takes a bit of doing. If the danger is in fact as great as you say -and I'm not doubting you- Geoff has got to be convinced that it's in his and the investigations best interests to use you as a witness. In protective custody."

"Dad. How do you propose we do this? You know Geoff."

"Let me finish. You've said that there are people he doesn't trust, right?"

"That's what he told me, but..."

"If Lee-Ann comes forward," he said looking at her, "she's in danger. Geoff will have to agree that she stays here while he carries on the investigation -with Lee-Ann's help, of course. In exchange, Lee-Ann gets immunity."

"Wait a minute. Don't talk like I'm not here. This is about me." She thumped her chest.

"I'm sorry, you're right," he told her. "The decision will be yours to make, but...." he made a face. "You really don't have a lot of options."

I interrupted before they dug their heels in to argue. "Before you decide one way or the other don't forget about Geoff. He's the wild card in this discussion. I doubt very much he'll want to play ball. Harry may be persuasive, but Geoff doesn't bend very much on points of law."

"I know that, Sammy, I know that."

"There's really no reason for Geoff to help me."

"Would the two of you hear me out? Is that too much to ask? Now according to Harry. If he can close the book on the Arab thing. And Bill and Sarah..."

"And the four Hassid," I added.

"Right, the four Hassid. Then it's a good bet Geoff will buy it."

"And if I don't agree...?"

"Well, if you don't agree...." My father shrugged.

"Your offer to put me up still stands?"

He nodded. "But it wouldn't be all that practical."

"No," she said at length, "it wouldn't. I guess it's time to stop playing games." She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, defeated.

"If I agree to help, I want a few conditions."

My father raised his eyebrows.

"I know I'm in no position to ask for guarantees, but I have one or two conditions that I will insist on."

"Such as..?"

"Such as letting me disappear on my own terms. I don't want any intervention -no organized relocation and identity change. No bureaucratic bullshit. Besides my contingency plans are already in place."

"That's one," I said.

"Right. The other is a guarantee the manhunt is called off. The case is closed and I'm wiped off the slate."

"Okay," my father said.

"Not good enough, Dr. Milland. I'll need more than an 'okay'."

He nodded vigorously. "Absolutely. I'll call Harry back. Let him make the arrangements with Geoff." He rubbed his hands together. "Sammy, I could use a cup of coffee."

He watched as I prepared the coffee, his face betraying some anxiety. Lee-Ann sat impassively, her own apprehension revealed as she toyed with and twisted a paper napkin, discarding the shreds onto my plate. They stuck to the congealing egg-yolk that leaked out of my unfinished sandwich. I watched my father as he wrestled with his thoughts.

"Drop the other shoe, Dad."

"What...? Oh. Nothing." He dismissed me with a wave. "Just that... Well..." He looked at Lee-Ann. "Harry doesn't come cheap, you know."

"If that's what's bothering you, forget it. Money sure as hell won't be a problem. That's the least of my worries." Her face suddenly clouded and she looked at me.

"Don't worry. Your suitcase is safe."

The coffee was ready and I poured three cups. Lee-Ann got up and brought his cup to the table. "I want to thank you," she said placing it in front of him. "Both of you."

He stared at her, started to speak, paused. After some seconds, measuring his words he said:

"You know, Lee-Ann. Sam has committed herself. Really stuck her neck out for you. I've heard your side. And there's truth in it, I'm sure. I don't agree with a lot of it, but I do understand. I want you to know I'm doing this mostly for Sam. And if we can help put a stop to some of this madness, then helping you is the lesser of two evils."

"That's fair. More than fair. In your place Dr. Milland I'm not sure I would be as generous. Or as charitable." That said we took our coffee into the living room and let him get on with his calls and negotiations. In no time he joined us.

"No answer. I left a message." He looked at his watch. "The morning will be soon enough, what's a few more hours at this point."

He ran his hands through his hair and yawned.

"Let's call it a night, Dad. Lee-Ann can stay here. At this point it doesn't make any difference." He didn't argue, turned tiredly and went to the door. His shoulders drooped and his face sagged. He still hadn't fully recovered and his burdens kept increasing.

"See you in the morning," I said and kissed his cheek. I hadn't noticed how thin and papery his skin had become.

Lee-Ann and I spent the rest of the evening reminiscing about better times. A bottle of brandy helped.

"Remember when Bill fell? His ass was purple for about six weeks! He was so drunk he didn't feel a thing."

"As I recall, Lee-Ann. Your wedding was drunken bash for all concerned."

"Wasn't it, though. And you! Who was that guy anyway. Jeremy. Jason..."

"Jonathan," I said, the memory flooding back.

"Right! Jonathan. What a hunk."

"He was a hunk alright. But he wasn't much interested in me. All he wanted to do was cuddle."

"Cuddle? What the hell was he -Catholic?"

"No, he was Jewish."

"Sam. Jewish men don't cuddle."

"Not even if they're gay?" She laughed until tears coursed down her cheeks.

"Look," I said, staggering to my feet. "It's after three. We better turn in. We've a couple of rough days ahead of us, I'm sure." I pointed her unsteadily to the room and headed for my own, detouring back to give her my spare bathrobe.

The next morning, Geoff called. It was ten-thirty and we had both just rolled out of bed nursing hangovers.

"I'm glad you did the right thing this time," he said. "Harry called me -actually I'm at his office now. I'd like you and Mata Hari to come over now so we can settle this thing. Don't worry, Harry is looking out for his client. He has the papers about ready."

"Just a sec." I put my hand over the mouthpiece and relayed the message.

"Geoff?"

"I'm still here."

"Lee-Ann would prefer if the two of you could come here. She's worried about leaving...."

"Wait a sec," he said cutting me off. His voice was very cool, his tone distant.

"We're on our way. The sooner we do this the better I'll like it."

"Think I'll take a bath," she said.

"Better make it a shower. And a quick one. They're on their way."

She jumped up and grabbed her head. "God. How much brandy did we put away." She lurched towards the bathroom, one hand on her head the other holding the terry robe shut.

"Take whatever you need from my cupboard," I told her. We were about the same size. Mind you I was heavier in the thighs and chest.

She showered and dressed in record time, and came out wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, resting her feet on the chair as she laced and tied the Reeboks. I watched her out of the corner of my eye envious of her narrow hips and the fact she could get away without wearing a bra. That done she stood up and as she pushed her short, black hair behind her ears the doorbell sounded.

"Talk about timing," she said.

Harry made himself at home, putting his things away in the closet, then came into the living room with his case, papers and mini-recorder. He wasted no time getting her started. She stated her name, I identifying herself for the record as did Geoff. Under Harry's questioning and tutelage she gave her account of what had happened without mentioning the assassinations nor admitting to any wrong doing in the deaths of the nurse and police officer. Apart from that, Geoff said there were no warrants against her. Nothing from Interpol or any other agency. He stated that he had the authority to offer her protection in exchange for information that would help close the case. Specifically he wanted to know who was responsible for the deaths of the Arabs, Bill and Sarah.

"I can't grant you immunity. Only the Crown Prosecutor can do that," he said with the recorder off. "But I can protect and buy you some time. I'm in a very chancy position here, Lee-Ann. If what you tell me is helpful, I can argue that I was protecting your interests by not disclosing your whereabouts to my superiors."

"That would be true," I said. He looked at me. His expression telling me to butt out.

"But it's a temporary measure at best. I have to know who's behind this."

She agreed. A bit too eagerly I thought, and unraveled the story yet another time. Geoff grilled her in particular about her part in the hospital killings. Finally she broke down and admitted.

"I know who killed Sarah. And Bill for that matter, since the bullets match." She sighed again and steeled herself as if unsure she was doing the right thing.

"That day. When the students were demonstrating. When we went for lunch," she added looking at me as if I needed the clarification. "I just wanted to get the hell out of there. Off the street. I grabbed Sarah's hand and ran hoping to reach the car before, you know, something happened. The demonstration and the deaths of those four Hassid -that was coincidental would you believe. Sam told me about the tattoos." She pulled the sweatshirt down to show them. "Shit, it was just a lousy coincidence. No coincidence Sarah got killed, but it was me he was after. Didn't matter Sarah was in the way, I could see him as he angled across the street towards us, I was on top of Sarah and the bastard was coming over to make sure I was dead too. He had to have been waiting for me to come back to the car but hadn't figured on interference. That mob scene turned out to be a good cover for him, but unfortunately for him I survived. I figured he had been following me for some time by then. It was only a feeling, but my intuition has always been pretty good. But you can never spot them. They're damn good, believe me. In spite of my suspicions I got a bit careless and paid for my mistakes.

"Anyway, in the confusion with the students chasing those four Hassid and the gunfire, it was a perfect set-up for a hit. Better than he could have ever hoped for actually. But his timing was a bit off. He was half way across the street but turned back when he saw the crowd drawing too close. He couldn't make sure he'd finished the job."

Geoff interrupted, noting the investigation never focused on looking for suspects other than those in the demonstration. And in fact they did succeed in solving the murder of the four Jewish students.

"That's the irony of it. Except that I didn't die like I was supposed to. He shoots, misses. I fall on Sarah, not realizing that she had been hit. By now there's a lot of gunfire. I saw him coming across the street. I saw him point the gun and shoot. One second it was over. My senses recorded it all like it was in slow motion, but my own reactions were too slow to get us out of the way. With all the gunfire and confusion he takes off, disappears, hoping maybe that if he had missed the demonstrators would finish me. I wish to God they had." She paused at this point, and wiped her eyes. After long, interminable seconds she continued.

"When I came around in the hospital, I knew I was marked. That it was simply a matter of time. He'd get me, guard at the door or not. Let's face it. How many times do these guards really expect an assassin to confront them? They're never prepared for that. So the first chance I got, I decked the nurse, took her clothes and put her in the bed. I figured anyone looks in the -the cop- he's going to think it's me. No one came in wasn't a nurse or doctor."

"And that was...."I forgot myself. Geoff waved his hand and I shut up.

"Right," she said to me. "But I didn't get away any too soon. He came to finish me off, believing it was me in the bed, and shot the nurse. And the cop too. I didn't kill them."

"Something must've alerted the guard or he wouldn't have gone into the room."

"No way to know that," Geoff said. "But how did he get in? Not hard to impersonate a doctor."

"No harder than impersonating a nurse. But the bullets that killed them -the nurse and that cop- didn't come from the same gun that killed Sarah. And Bill. Must've been another man, "I said.

"But you can bet the farm they're on the same team!" she said.

"And that brings us to his identity. You said you know who it is."

"Yes, I'm quite certain of that. Only I don't know his real name."

"You don't know his name?" Geoff washed his hands over his face. "How the hell can you identify him to us then?"

"He was an instructor. When I was training."

"An instructor? What makes you think that?"

"Who else could it be. Not one of the operatives."

"Why not?" Geoff probed.

"First off. As an operative we are in no position to take situations into our own hands. We follow orders. That's it. And report back to our Katsa. That's our case officer."

"And you figure this instructor... is also a case officer then?"

"Has to be. Who more likely? Who better?"

"But I didn't think case officers worked the field."

"Not usually."

"So it could be an operative."

"Possible, but I highly doubt it." Before Geoff could interject again, she continued. "If it's not a Katsa, then it's someone acting for him. And totally devoted to him. Someone following him blindly."

"Lee-Ann! You said operatives follow orders. Don't act on their own initiative. That sounds a lot like blind devotion to me."

"I know, I know. But believe me, Geoff. An operative.... " She shook her head. "No. This.... this.. person knows all the moves. He's there at every step."

"Couldn't your Katsa orchestrate all of this?"

"Yes, he could. But don't forget. The matching bullets point to one shooter. Someone that goes back several years. No, Geoff. It's not an operative. It's a Katsa. They're the ones with the power and resources."

"Explain that to me," he said." She shifted on the sofa, leaning into the corner to face him diagonally.

"Unlike the CIA or the Russian GRU or FSB, the Mossad has relatively few Katsa. We don't need them. Jews in the Diaspora are fiercely supportive of Israel as our Homeland. Even if we never go there. Potentially every Jew is an asset for the Mossad. Even if one refuses to help, they will never turn in the person soliciting them. But thousands do help."

"In what way," he asked. "Surely not to commit murder?"

"And why not?" she said with some indignation. "Money is a hell of a motivator. As if this isn't what it's all about anyway." She was sitting forward now. "Let me give you an example. In my own case. I need a cover. You know, to travel. To go to all of those places. Sam knows what I mean. My art provided that cover."

"Your art?"

"Yes. By arranging to show my work at galleries in those cities, it legitimized my presence."

"I've seen your art," he said. "Some of it."

"You don't think it's exhibition quality?" She asked smugly.

"That's not what I meant. But it must be hard to arrange all those shows."

"It's not hard. That's what I'm trying to explain. The gallery owners are contacted, Jewish gallery owners. Even if my work was shit, they'd display it. But it's not shit." she muttered.

"Sure, I'm no international star. But when it comes to helping Israel, Jews stick together. And from one show to another my reputation grew. I'm still a lightweight, but I'm no hack either. Gradually my cover was established. Look at those street artists. Seen by everyone, noticed by no one. My art shows provide a cover and a reason for being in those cities. I was a minor celebrity and my shows provided the legitimacy I needed so I could observe my marks, their routines. Do what I had to do."

"Everywhere. Anywhere in the world. You telling us, Lee-Ann that Jews are willing at the drop of a hat to help the Mossad?"

"That's right. And we have a name for these Jews. We call them Sayanim. And it's not that hard to find one who is willing to commit murder, believe me." I did believe her. She was a living example.

"Jesus," he said, looking around at us and shaking his head. "Well, can you at least describe this guy to us?"

"My God, Geoff!" I said, after she had described him. Harry leaned over, straining and turned off the machine.

"What? What is it?" she asked alarmed.

"Lee-Ann, your description fits one of the two men we're working with. Simon Gil."

"No shit!" she exclaimed.

Harry who had remained silent throughout gave a low whistle. "Son of a bitch!" was all he said.

"I never liked the man from the first time I saw him. I knew there was something fishy about him." I folded my arms across my chest. "Apart from being so slimy and giving me the creeps I suspected he was hiding something."

"We're going to need more than feelings and intuition if we want to nail the bastard." Geoff pounded a fist in his hand.

"Good luck," she said. "It won't be easy. He covers his tracks very carefully." She got up and paced. "If in fact it's him, and he's here shows you the kind of power he has. He untouchable, Geoff, why do you think I didn't want to speak up. I don't stand a chance -he's even infiltrated your organization!"

"Talk about a good cover." Harry was fiddling with his pipe again, reaming it with his silver gadget and tapping the debris into the ashtray. He filled it and rummaged in the pockets of his vest looking for a match. I caught his eye and nodded to the crystal cube lighter on the coffee table. He winked his thanks and lit up filling the room with smoke and a not unpleasant aroma of tobacco. He fanned the air then got up to sit a few paces away from us.

"What better cover than being the top man in charge?"

"Don't be so surprised, Sam. Our motto, _By Way of Deception_ s says it all!"

"Interesting," Harry said. "The power to control. And of course direct and manipulate."

"It's what we're trained for. Cultivate contacts. Gain their sympathy, then you can control them. People are only too eager to help once you've gained their confidence."

"Well, I guess, I'm the one with egg on his face. I rarely fall for a story, but I have to admit, unlike Sam, these two had me convinced. I would never have figured either one of them for anything like this." He shook his head and smoothed his trousers, brushing away imaginary lint.

"Our problem, then," he said, "is to draw him out using some of his own tactics."

"Thank you, but I'd just as soon disappear very quietly. I think I've held up my end of the bargain."

"You have. You have.... But he's still out there."

"That's your problem now. I've identified him for you. That's what you wanted. That was the deal."

"Yes. That's true. But it's not a hundred percent is it?"

"Jesus, Geoff. What the hell more do you want? The rest is up to you. That's it. I'm done. Was that the deal or not."

"Yes it was," Harry said, squinting at Geoff through a haze of blue smoke. Does the lady have a deal or not?"

"The lady has a deal, Harry. No problem. My word on it." Lee-Ann closed her eyes and breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you," she mouthed.

Harry was rewinding the tape -he still using his old cassette recorder- and stuffing papers into his case. Geoff sat looking mildly dejected. He had gotten what he wanted but it seemed it still wasn't enough. Lee-Ann on, the other hand, could start packing her bags.

"So that's it, then?" I said.

"Guess so," she answered.

"How soon are you going to leave?"

"Well, I have to make a couple of calls. Need to contact some people. A couple of days at the most. If you don't mind a house guest."

"If you live that long."

"Sam, you are a bitch! Did I ever tell you that?" Even Geoff looked at me in surprise. Harry ignored me, but I detected a trace of a smirk.

"But I'm not so stupid as to think you're going to survive this."

"What do you mean? Geoff promised."

"I'm not talking about Geoff, Lee-Ann. You have his word. The authorities won't be after you." I looked at him.

"That's right," he agreed. "As of now, you're cut loose. On your own."

"In more ways than one," I added. "Do you think you can get away from Simon?"

"We're not even sure he's the one?"

"Well, he damn well better be!" Geoff exclaimed.

"Can you afford to take that chance? Look. If it is Simon, your goose is cooked. He won't give up. If he's as resourceful as you say, how long before he catches up to you? How long are you going to run? And money? Sure you've got a shit load in the case but it won't last forever. And if you're thinking about your bank accounts -well that's suicide isn't it? And on the outside chance that it's not Simon -that scenario is even worse. At least if it's Simon, you can in some measure keep him in sight so to speak. You've really run out of options, Lee-Ann."

"What the hell, do you people want from me? Haven't I paid enough?" No one answered.

I didn't think so. She had in fact sowed the seeds of her own destruction. She got up and stood at the window, moving away abruptly as if anticipating an assassin's bullet.

"I think you should reconsider your options," I told her. "Especially the benefit of seeing this through. We seem to be pretty close." She stood off to the side, away from the window and stared at the print of the Goalie, Ken Danby's _At the Crease._ He stood hunched, masked, his stick -weapon or shield- ready to block her. The symbolism was lost on her. Tears slowly coursed down her cheeks.

"What do you want me to do?" she said, her voice flat.

Harry cleared his throat and got up offering the silk hanky from his jacket pocket. She took it without comment and wiped her face.

"Seems to me," Harry said, returning to his seat, "we need a plan."

"No shit, Sherlock," she said, then started to laugh. "I'm sorry, Harry." She wiped here eyes and laughed. "That's the biggest understatement I've ever heard. Yes," she said sarcastically, "a plan would be very good, Harry." By now we were all laughing, and Harry started to cough stopping short of a full-blown fit.

"On that note I'll leave. Let you three do the planning. He continued to put his stuff away and got up looking for his coat and remembering that he had hung it up. "I'll have the tapes transcribed and ready for the two of you to sign later today." He stood up and buttoned the jacket to his three-piece suit which was cut fashionably and immaculately to fit his large frame. His silk tie cost more than my father's consulting fee.

I saw him to the door. I'll see if Georges can bring the papers over. I'd do it myself, but I've another case I need to work on. I don't think I want to trust a courier service."

"That would be fine, Harry. Thanks."

"Oh, don't thank me. This is business. As she'll be sure to realize when I present my bill!"

"I have to go too," Geoff said when I returned. Joan and I are coordinating on security with the RCMP and we've a lot to do."

"Any word on that list?"

"Huh? Oh, the list. No, not really," he said uneasily. So there was something. Maybe another dinner date was in order.

"And the plan?"

"Right, the plan. I don't know." He leaned down and kissed my cheek. "You know, it's not a priority that's high on my list right now. Keep her under wraps. I don't think her friends will tumble to the fact she's here."

"I sure hope you're right!"

"In the meantime convince her -if you can- that it's in her best interests to stay put and see things my way. But if she skips, she skips." He shrugged, said good-bye and left.

"I have a class this afternoon," I told her. "Can you amuse yourself while I'm gone?" I showed her where my CD collection was and my stash of Dick Francis novels.

"Got any paper?"

"Paper?"

"Yeah, large. Like for sketching."

"You kidding? All I have is pin-feed paper for my printer. Miles of it."

"Guess, I'll read and listen to your music. All long hair, I suppose?"

"No," I said defensively. "Some jazz. Miles Davis, and a couple of Wynton Marsalis."

"Okay, see you later," she said as I shrugged into my coat.

"How about I pick up a pad of drawing paper charcoal or something?"

"That would be great! Do you know where British Blueprint is?" She told me and named the paper, something that had tooth, whatever that is.

"But not charcoal. Ask for conte crayons. Sanguine and black."

I took her order and left.

Class was okay. My delivery better than it had been of late. Most were attentive, if slightly comatose. I passed out the attendance sheet. Something new. Absenteeism was too high and admin wanted staff to keep records. This generally wasn't a problem for me. My philosophy is that you have to give them something to make coming to class worthwhile. If Geoff really wanted Lee-Ann to stick around he'd have to have to dangle a carrot too.

He called to keep in touch but it was a couple of days before we were able to get together. Lee-Ann, doing her best to alleviate boredom spent a lot of time sketching and drawing. Her work was good. Structured. Ordered. Much like her paintings, but with great economy of line and shape my father would say. Even the simple black and white studies were strong and powerful. I said simple, but in fact, they were not simple. As I studied them I could see the rich and varied textures, so subtle as to suggest an over-all simplicity.

She'd produced a series that I would call harbor scenes. Overlapping shapes and structures reminiscent of ships and dockside energy. Strong and powerful as they were, there was something missing. I kept coming back to them. It finally hit me. No people. No human or animal life. No organic shapes for that matter either.

"That's right. Sam. But.... if you look closely -just soak up the scene. The people are conspicuous by their absence. Consequently that makes their presence much more strongly felt."

"Yes, I see what you mean. It becomes... I don't know... more a feeling, a sense of life."

"That's what makes it so powerful -for me at least. Do you know Pratt's work? Chris Pratt?"

"My father has a couple of his prints."

"Take a good look at them."

That evening, after dinner we carried on the discussion over brandy in the living room. Lee-Ann was animated and intense about her work. Too bad she hadn't recognized her passion and the extent of her abilities sooner. She was well into a monologue on the use of colour and the elimination of three-dimensional space by the Hard Edge painters of the sixties when the phone rang.

"Sam?"

"Yes," I answered cautiously, not recognizing the caller's voice.

"It's Joan. Geoff asked me to call. Said if you were free he'd like you to come down. To his office. We've got some one in custody. You might be interested he said in witnessing the interrogation."

"You mean now?"

"Yes. If you can."

""Did he say who?"

"Wants you to see for yourself."

"Well I don't...."

"No problem. Tomorrow will do he said. Just wants you to make an identification, but it can wait until tomorrow."

"But the interrogation's tonight?"

"That's it. I have to go, Sam. If you can make it, ask for Zulu, she'll show you where to go. Bye."

"Go on, go," Lee-Ann said after I hung up. "You know you won't sleep otherwise."

"I hate to leave you. You get cabin fever during the day, the least I can do is be a good hostess in the evenings."

"Your idea of being a good hostess gives me a hell of a hangover, now get going. I insist. Besides it hasn't been that bad. Your father has been dropping in."

"He would. I hope he hasn't been a nuisance."

"No, not at all. As a matter of fact we've spent a lot of time talking about art and his collection. So go do your cop thing, I'll be alright."

So I left. I called a cab, then brushed my teeth and chewed a few sticks of gum to get rid of the boozy smell.

"Bye, catch you later." I ran down the steps to the waiting cab. I swear it was the same driver who tried to give me the run-around the day of the shooting. When I told him my destination, he became the best driver on the planet.

The Zulu Queen greeted me as if I had been expected and showed me to the observer's room. Ouellette was there straddling a chair. He was in his shirtsleeves, the cuffs rolled to his elbows, his forearms resting on the chair back. Curls of steely grey hair covered his collar. He turned to me as I entered and motioned me to sit beside him. I closed the door and moved cautiously in the dark towards the chair. He pointed to the glass and with his other hand put a finger to his lips.

I got comfortable, put my purse on the floor and unzipped my suede jacket. The small room was stiflingly hot. I could hear Joan's voice; her back was to me hiding the subject. Geoff stood off to the side, leaning against the wall, his hands in his pockets.

Joan leaned over to pick up a piece of paper that had slipped out of her file folder and fallen to the floor. The shock of suddenly seeing the suspect was almost too much. Damn him!

"Listen," she told her. "This doesn't look good. Do you think it's worth going down for whoever you're protecting?"

"I ain't protecting no one. I told you."

"So tell us, then, where were you that afternoon." Joan flipped the pages of the folder and stared coldly at her.

The suspect shrugged, and shifted in her chair. "Told you I dunno."

"Where did the cigarettes come from?"

"Huh...?"

"Where did the cigarettes come from?" Geoff repeated, raising his voice and walking slowly towards the table. "We know they were stolen. And we know the shipment. Not hard to track these things."

"Got an anonymous tip," Ouellette said in a whisper as he leaned over.

"I didn't steal them," the suspect said in disgust, continuing to pick at her nails. Can I have some water now. Puleeze!"

"In a minute," he snapped. "Whoever hijacked the truck put the driver in the hospital. He might not make it. An accessory -you know what that is, don't you? -an accessory goes down just as hard."

"Well, it wasn't me, obviously," she sneered. "I don't even have a driver's license." She looked tough in her torn-at-the-knees jeans and T-shirt. Her denim jacket was on the table. On the back, crudely painted was the slogan, _Born to Die_. But tough she wasn't. She continued to jiggle her knees and pick at her nails, occasionally gnawing them. She was heavier than I recalled and soft looking. And her hair was limp and her skin bad, like someone who hates to eat vegetables.

"Look, I'm really thirsty, okay? And I have to go. You can't do this you know?"

"Tell us where you got the smokes and you can use the john," he said, kindlier.

Joan tossed down her pen and caught it before it rolled off the table. "We're not getting anywhere. I think we should add up the charges and book her. Has she had her rights read?" She started to cry. Softly. She put her head down and her she shoulders heaved slightly.

"A phone call," Ouellette said to me. "Her family owns a convenience store. The caller said to check out where the cigarettes came from. That the store was selling. Turns out they were from a shipment hijacked in the states. We figure it's the Mohawk connection."

Joan pushed a box of tissues towards her. Look, I don't think you really want to take the blame for this. But you are selling stolen goods. Stolen contraband. We're not really after you. We want who's behind this. And unless you help..." she let the unfinished sentence hang.

Geoff was the heavy and said. "Let her take the blame. She wants to protect those creeps it's fine by me. I'm tired and I want to go home. Let's just read her her rights and charge her. I'm out of here."

She said something to Joan, between sobs. Their voices were coming through the speaker on the wall behind us, but my inclination was to lean towards the one-way glass to hear better.

"Repeat that for me," Joan asked.

I was stunned for second time. Henry's girl friend, sobbing almost incoherently now named another one of my students. "Jenny. Jennifer McGregor," she said.

"Sometimes," Ouellette whispered to me, "we close a case on a fluke. We work months and months -get nothing. A simple phone call and bang! Everything falls into place."

I was about to speak but he put his finger to his lips again.

"She's in my sociology class," said Henry's girlfriend.

"The McGregor girl?" Joan asked, clarifying.

"Yes," she nodded. "What's going to happen to me? Am I going to jail?"

"All depends," answered Geoff. "But I can't see how you can avoid it."

She was sobbing quite audibly and uncontrollably now. Joan kept feeding her tissues from the box. Several were wadded and discarded on the table.

"Better tell us everything you can about those cigarettes. And your friend."

"She's not my friend. As if! She's just in my class."

"Well," Joan said. "You've never been in trouble before have you?" She shook her head. "If you cooperate, it would work in your favour."

She took a deep breath raising her shoulders to compose herself.

"My father's sick. Can't run the store. And my mother..." she rolled her eyes. My brother -he's older- he's trying to run the business. But the bills are too high. Medical expenses. And if we can't pay for the stock we'll lose the store. Business is kinda slow anyway but it was always enough until my dad got sick."

"We found about sixty thousand dollars in stolen cigarettes. Tell us about that," Geoff insisted.

"I told you. This girl in my class."

"Yes, yes, Jennifer. Go on." he said impatiently. The cigarettes come from the Reservation, why are you trying to implicate this Jennifer?"

"I'm not!" she said raising her own voice defiantly. "Jennifer is _Indian!"_

Jennifer? Indian? Blond, blue-eyed Jennifer? Scottish-looking Jennifer of the Crusades? I would never have guessed.

"My brother was going crazy. Said if we didn't find a way to raise some money we'd lose everything."

"Wait a second here. I'm not on top of this," he said. "Those cigarettes are worth over sixty thousand dollars."

"My brother said he only had to pay about twenty thousand. If we sell them all, and we would have if it hadn't been for the cops. We'd have made enough to pay all our bills."

Geoff leaned down towards her and said sarcastically, "I'm sorry the cops spoiled your plan, Miss, but where did the money come from? The twenty thousand? You said your family is just about broke? I doubt the Indians would have given you the cigarettes on consignment." He stood up and backed away shaking his head. "Your story is full of holes. You're not being up front with us."

She started sobbing again. "I don't care if I go to jail, but... but... my brother..." She hid her head in her hands. Joan looked at Geoff, exchanging a signal.

"Look, we can't help you unless you cooperate. Tell the truth. If you don't want to face charges. If you are innocent you won't go to jail. Promise. But the only way to avoid being charged is to tell us everything. It's the only way. We haven't any more time for this." She handed her another tissue all the while speaking gently, calmly. "What about your brother."

"If I tell you, _he'll end_ up in jail. My parents need him. I don't care if I go to jail."

"Your parents will be devastated no matter _who_ goes to jail. Do you think they'd want you to lie? They're Jews from the Old Country aren't they?"

She nodded, and took another breath. "Okay. You know that painting?"

"What painting?" Geoff snapped.

"The one got stolen from the man. My brother took it," she wailed.

I sat frozen, riveted to my chair. Geoff too, was flabbergasted and stood staring at her his mouth agape. Joan stopped writing, her pen poised above the paper.

"Say that again," he said softly.

"It was my brother," she wailed again. "He knew about it from the papers. I didn't know it was him honest. Not at first. God, I was almost sick when I found out. He made me ask around at the university. He had to drop out last year and he knew some of the Indian kids. Said if I didn't try to help we'd lose everything. I was scared. We had a big fight about it but he already had the painting. No way he could get rid of it. But he said maybe he could make a deal with the Indians. Trade it for cigarettes. My brother's not stupid, you know."

"Not stupid? That's real funny. Well, one of you was pretty dumb. Know why? We got a tip. An anonymous phone call." She looked at Geoff incredulous.

"That's right, Miss. One of your new friends snitched. Told us you were selling illegal cigarettes on campus. That, I call stupid."

"My brother made me. I didn't have any choice."

"We all have choices, Miss. You made a few wrong ones."

"All I did was sell a few friggin cigarettes. Jesus, the government does it!"

"You're missing the point," Joan said, gently. "You broke several laws. So did your brother. He almost killed that man. Where would the two of you be if he had? Going to jail would have been a certainty, not an option because you choose whether or not to tell the truth.

"It'll kill my parents. Both of us in trouble like this."

Geoff stared at her, shaking his head. "A little late to be thinking about that now." He moved over towards the door and motioned to Joan to join him. They conferred with a lot of gesturing and head shaking, then Geoff knocked on the door. A policewoman opened it, came in and ushered Henry's girlfriend away.

# Chapter 27

Ouellette remained seated. _"Tabarnacle!"_ He said, softly. "Two for the price of one."

The door opened and the light came on. I blinked.

"Don't that beat all," Geoff said.

"Two birds with one stone. Good work, Geoff."

"Thanks to whoever made that phone call."

"Hey, mon ami. Don't knock it, _hein_."

"You're right. Someone saw fit to do their civic duty."

"Or snitch," I said.

"Snitching is good. I'll take all the help I can.

"I guess your gun conspiracy theory is up in smoke now."

"Sure looks that way, Sam."

"What about her brother?"

"Someone's on their way as we speak."

"What about Miriam?" I asked. Her name finally dawned.

"Not Miriam. Marah. Marah Rothman." Joan corrected.

"I knew it was something biblical. What'll happen to her?"

"We'll probably let her go. Once we get hold of her brother. I doubt she's in serious trouble, though I wouldn't give that away to her just yet. Besides we know where to find her."

"No, Ouellette," added. "It's the brother we're interested in now. Not just for selling illegal cigarettes. Burglary. Aggravated assault. Disposal of stolen goods. Maybe other charges."

Ouellette got up, and pulled his sleeves down, fastening the cuffs with enormous cufflinks, gold with a garish blue stone set in them, then pulled on his suit jacket. He left his collar open with the tie knotted a third of the way down on his chest.

"I'll leave you to the paper work, Geoff. Good work."

"You're not worried about politics?" He asked Ouellette before he was out the door.

"Politics?"

"Indians and cigarettes."

"Hey," the big man answered. "I got enough with politics. That's all this job is about, _merde._ Just nail this bastard for stealing the painting and the assault. If it goes deeper, then we follow it up. For now, leave the Indian thing alone."

"My thoughts, exactly, Emile."

"Just wind this up, Geoff.  Give it to Zulu. I want you and Joan to concentrate on the security. I promised my wife I'd be home early. Look at the time. Nice to see you again, Sam." He squeezed my arm and left.

Geoff took Ouellette's chair, turning it to face me.

"Solved one case without even trying. Bust your ass for weeks on end and get nowhere and suddenly something gets plopped right in your lap. A bolt out of the blue turns everything around."

"Well, like your boss said, don't knock it."

"Oh, I'm not. I'm not."

"How come you were handling this case? Stolen cigarettes..."

"Yes. Well, we were working on the other theory. And interviewing the kids on that list. Must've touched a nerve somewhere. We were trying to find a link between a name and the warriors. See maybe if there was a connection, thinking there might be one between the warriors and the illegal gun trade."

"Then you got this call? What was all that about?"

"Not a call. A tip. A tip from my buddy Ray. And he said it was about cigarettes, not guns."

"I still don't get it. What did you mean about luck and bolts out the sky?"

He laughed and shook his head. "All my contact said was that I should check out who is selling cigarettes. Around campus. As it turned out getting a line on Marah was pretty easy." Maybe too easy, I thought.

"So discovering that her brother took the painting..."

"That was the bolt out of the blue!" he interrupted. "You're following one lead and just like that-" he snapped his fingers, "the key to another puzzle falls into place! I mean you could have knocked me over with a feather."

"I'm glad that part's over. Since the break-in neither of us has had a good night's sleep. Although wild horses couldn't make my father admit it. I know it's weird," I added, "but the whole time you're thinking maybe the bastard might come back."

"No, it's not weird."

"We'll both rest easier now, that's for sure."

"Don't hold your breath. Wait until we have him in custody."

"You don't think that will be a problem do you? You did say..."

"Oh, don't worry. It won't be a problem."

"Well, I hope not. What will happen to him anyway?"

"You heard Ouellette."

"Yes, and he didn't make it sound good. Do you suppose her story is true? You know, the hard-luck line?"

"Could be. But what has that good to do with anything?"

"I don't know. Just..." I shrugged.

"Getting soft again are you?"

"Yeah, well. I hate to see a person's life go down the toilet."

"She'll be okay. I wouldn't worry. But you know what they say. If you can't do the time..."

"... don't do the crime," I added completing his sentence. I stood up. "If that's it, I'd better be going."

"I'll drive you." He got up and straightened his tie. He was haggard and needed a shave badly. I'd never noticed how grey his beard was getting. Dark smudges under his eyes gave him a sinister look. A bit like the Arabs I thought.

"Let me check with Joan first." He went out, struggling with his collar button.

"Okay," he said, coming back with his hands deep in the pockets of his open coat.

It was late, by this time, and we said goodnight in the car, kissing briefly. Late as it was I still wanted him to come in, but as it was I already had a houseguest. He watched as I went up the stairs and waited until I had entered before leaving. He gave the horn a brief toot and drove off.

The house was quiet, with only a lamp burning in the living room, it's illumination at the lowest setting. I did my best to move quietly; lee-Ann had to be as exhausted as I was and the tension she was under had to be enormous. I turned off the lamp, tiptoed into my room and got ready for bed. I was no sooner settled under the covers when I had to get up and brush my teeth.

The next morning I awoke early, but I was too tired to get out of bed. No way I'd run this morning. I leaned over and turned off the alarm before it rang, and struggled up to use the bathroom. Maybe a shower would help.

I rummaged about in my closet for my denim skirt and dressed. Lee-Ann had taken my last pair of jeans. With the skirt, of course, I needed a shirt. The hunt continued until I found a pair of knee-highs that matched. Not having any jeans caused a chain of events that threw off my equilibrium, upsetting the routine of my very ordered life.

I got over the trauma and put together a decent breakfast and when the coffee was ready I went to wake up Lee-Ann, surprised that the aromas of toast and coffee hadn't enticed her down.

"Lee-Ann," I said softly, and knocked on the door. "Lee-Ann," I repeated and pushed it open. The bed was empty; it hadn't been slept in. Jesus, I muttered and ran down the stairs into my room and threw open the doors to my closet. The suitcase was gone.

I sat down and beat my fists on the floor cursing the day she was born. Tears of rage coursed down my cheeks. Good riddance I told myself. When my anger subsided, I shouted, "Good riddance, Lee-Ann. And good luck! You're going to need it."

I got up off the floor and straightened out what was left in my wardrobe. What the hell, shopping could only cheer me up. Then I made two phone calls. The second one to Geoff.

"Son of a bitch!", he said. "Can't say I'm surprised. Or sorry for that matter. Friend or not, Sam, it's about time you woke up."

"You're right. It's taken me a while to see it, but you were right all along. The Lee-Ann I knew died the day Sarah got killed."

"Don't beat yourself up over this," he said. "But like I said, I'm not sorry. I can put a couple of things behind me now."

"It's my fault, and for what it's worth, Geoff, I'm sorry."

"Forget it. No point in trying to rehash what's done."

"You don't have worry anymore about hiding a murder suspect. I can't believe I put you in that position. What the hell was I thinking about?"

"Don't sweat it. Bedsides Harry has the tapes. Anyway, it's done. Whatever the hell happens to Lee-Ann now is her problem. And as for Harry, well, he's not likely to say anything, after all she was his client."

"But what about the tapes? Don't you think they can still help in the investigation?"

"That's possible. In spite of her I believe she was telling the truth."

I didn't answer so he filled the space and said, "Look, I'm glad you called. But put her out of your mind. She's not our problem, and certainly not your responsibility. Besides I've got to concentrate on the security for the summit anyway. Matter of fact I'm meeting with Avi and Simon later on today. Gotta go. Just forget Lee-Ann, okay? Go for a run or something. Bye."

On the other hand my father had been upset by my phone call; he saw her as much as a victim as a criminal.

"I'm afraid it's the end for her", he said helping himself to coffee and cold toast. "She could have had a chance." He shook his head as he munched. The toast was dry and brittle and left a trail of crumbs down the front of his plaid flannel shirt.

"Obviously she didn't see it that way."

"Obviously. And those kids. What about them?" He referred to Marah and her brother.

I told him what Geoff had said.

"And if I don't press charges?"

"Why wouldn't you press charges?" I asked incredulous.

"What good would come of it? If what she said is true, sending them to prison isn't going to prove anything."

"No, maybe not. But he could have killed you!"

"He didn't kill me. And we did get the painting back. No one got hurt."

"No?" I looked at his head, the scar quite visible.

"I need to know more facts. Destroying lives is not what I do. First the facts. Then we can work something out."

I was astounded by his selfless compassion. Lee-Ann had made her choices charting the course of her own destruction, he told me without the least feeling of remorse for her. She had been given the chance to change direction but had refused opting instead to forge ahead following her own agenda.

"But this boy. Let's find out more about him. And his sister. They're still young. Lee-Ann...." he raised he raised his eyebrows and put his hands out towards me palms up. "These kids don't kill, Sammy."

After he left I made a third call.

"I can't believe it!" Harry said, repeating it. When I mentioned the tapes he assured me Geoff could have them. "She flew the coop now the ball's in Geoff's court. I'm out of the loop."

"And on the off chance she comes back?"

"You don't give up easy, do you, Sam."

"Well, what if...?"

"She comes back and still wants me to represent her, she's going to have to understand it's contingent on the fact that in no way will I consider anything that compromises Geoff. Or you, for that matter. But get real, Sam. This little lady ain't gonna be coming back. Do you still want the transcripts?"

"Better not keep anything on paper, I said. "I'm not even sure at this point we even want those tapes to exist."

"No problem. Don't worry about the tape."

We said good-bye and I tried unsuccessfully to put all of this out of my mind. After weeks of worry and confusion maybe I could finally get my life back in order. And stop having to look over my shoulder.

But my relief was short-lived. That afternoon I was working in my office after a class when the phone rang.

"Sam! You are not going to believe this!"

"What is it Geoff?" He was wired, almost shouting.

"I hope you're sitting down."

"My God. What happened?"

"Simon has been killed. One shot to the head."

"Oh my God.... Lee-Ann..."

"Let's not jump to conclusions, but who the hell else?"

"That's one way of tying off loose ends. When..?"

"An hour ago. Not even. We'd just finished our meeting. Avi and Simon leave together. Bang! Simon buys the farm. Avi is shitting himself now, broken up like you wouldn't believe. Anyway, the meeting's over and the two of them leave. Avi tells me he stopped at the convenience store, you know the one just over from the station. Simon goes to the car to wait while Avi hustles over to buy cigarettes. Comes back to see his partner slumped over. His head is back against the headrest and leaning against the window. Dead."

"No one saw anything? Or heard a shot?"

"You kidding. This was a professional hit, Sam."

"This is incredible. How long could Avi have been away?"

"Doesn't take more'n a few seconds. Avi's really broken up. I feel like shit myself. Jesus, I was the one told her he was working with us."

"Well, I hate to be cynical but another chapter gets closed."

"Yeah," he laughed ruefully, "I guess you could say that. Hope she's smart enough to get lost and stay lost! Goddam her anyway. Another fucking manhunt. But that's not my problem. Let Ouellette and Avi handle this any way they want."

"Did Avi say anything?"

"What's to say? All fingers point to Lee-Ann. Of course he wants all the stops pulled. Says he's bringing in his own people. You know what that means."

They won't have any authority to..."

"Exactly my point. Nothing but a Mossad hit squad. And just what we need. I gotta go. Just wanted to give you the gory details myself. She put an end to his games."

"Yeah. All she has to worry about is the whole Israeli secret service being after her." I thought of the Hydra.

"Just too goddam bad for her, isn't it?" He laughed, "Sorry, but that's how I feel. Talk to you later. Bye."

Another loose end eliminated.

"Sammy, put it behind you now," he said when I told him. "It's over. Get on with your life. Your work. It's gone on long enough. If you still want to play detective, you can look into the other matter for me. At least something good might come from it." But as much as I did want to put it all behind me, it didn't want to let go of me. Joan called.

"I'm really sorry, Sam. But in my capacity, I have no choice. I really have to pursue this."

"This is never going to die is it?"

She ignored the question and said, "As part of the Anti-terrorist Task Force, it falls in my lap. Ties in with the security work I'm doing. With Geoff actually. I really have to talk with you. I need a statement. We can do it at your place if you prefer. But that's the first shoe, Sam."

"Drop the other one Joan, it can't get any worse."

"There'll be two of us. Avi has some questions too."

I knew there was no way out of it, so I told her to come right over. The sooner we got it over with, the better.

She was dressed casually in neat tailored dark blue slacks and a no-nonsense cream-colored blouse under a Donegal tweed jacket. I could see the holster on her left side when the jacket gaped. I had to wear mine on my hip, but she was less encumbered than I was.

Avi, tall, suave and arrogant wore designer jeans, expensive boots that were not quite western and a navy colored sweatshirt with 'Gucci' emblazoned in gold letters across his chest. His hair, overly long for my taste, was beginning to curl and fanned out under his yarmulke. Immediately he took control of the interview. My feminist view allowed that Joan had let him.

"Mind if I smoke?" He shook a cigarette out of a pack, tapped the filter end against the box then inserted it between his thin lips. I watched as he slowly went through the ritual of lighting, squinting from the curling smoke, then bending and discarding the spent match in the ashtray.

"No." I said. "She'd given no indication that she was about to run. I described the suitcase, told him again about the money, passports and gun."

"You didn't look at the passports?"

"No, I didn't." His look was one of disbelief.

"Why should I have?"

"Might give us a line as to where she's heading. You're sure about that? Think a moment."

"I'm sure. And I've thought about this more than a moment. Believe me. All I know is that she had accounts in Switzerland."

"Don't they all," he added testily.

I told him again how she had changed her appearance and about the clothes she had taken. He wasn't impressed.

"Very easy to change one's appearance. And Lee-Ann's a pro at it. Believe me, she's a pro. One of the best."

I disliked the man intensely. Part of me hoped she'd elude him. But I'd been warned not to impede their investigation by being evasive, or as Geoff said, 'by being cute with your answers'.

"It's ironic, don't you think?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, we trained her. Taught her how to hide. Disappear. Blend in. Escape. Be resourceful. How to use every and any means available. And now? We have to find a shadow, a puff a smoke. I'm sorry to keep repeating the same questions but we have to be sure. She never mentioned, never hinted about... oh.. a favourite place perhaps. You know, the ideal retirement place sort of thing."

"No."

"Well then. He slapped his thighs. "I guess that's it. We're checking the airports of course. But I'm sure that will be fruitless. She'd be more inclined to get away by boat." He glanced sideways at me. "We're checking that aspect as well."

"Oh?" I said. "Why a boat. Wouldn't that require the cooperation of more people than Lee-Ann would care to involve?"

He laughed. "You really don't know your friend all that well, do you? Her passports would identify her nationality. Probably citizenship in several different countries. Getting to those places could be a problem."

"I don't get you."

"Unless she's been in touch with forgers at this end, I doubt her papers carry the proper stamps. She'd have to show some sort of 'proper' identification if she leaves by -shall I say- proper channels. Once she's reached her destination, has eluded customs at that point she'd be in the clear so to speak. With forged papers on the other side she can travel openly. But she has to get there first. The only way she can do that safely is by boat. Coastlines are very long and impossible for immigration authorities to monitor. Flying out of here would be an enormous risk. Not, however, beyond the realm of possibly, of course." He smiled.

"Oh, of course," I agreed with him and smiled back.

He sat back in the chair comfortably just as I thought he was getting ready leave. "No, my guess is that she'll try to get away by ship, land somewhere illegally and that'll be the last we'll hear of her. She'll lose herself completely."

"Sounds like a good plan," I said. "But there's a major problem don't you think?"

"And what would that be?"

"Well, I'm sure you've checked out all the ships. You're not sitting here telling us a fairy tale." He laughed again and shook his head.

"You're right of course. But let me tell you. I hate to admit it, but finding a ship would be the easy part. I can tell you from experience, bribing a ship's captain is easy. There are enough small shipping companies that aren't too fussy about whom they hire. Besides she'd have no trouble paying for her passage would she?"

"No, she wouldn't," I agreed. "And as a matter of fact, she could probably cook a deal with one of the crew for that matter. Why take a chance with the captain?"

"Why, Indeed," he said and stared at me. Let the bastard think I had helped her.

"Looks like immigration has their work cut out for them doesn't it?" I forced a smile.

"I'm not overly optimistic," Joan said.

"No, neither am I," he said more good-naturedly than I expected. He got up and headed towards the door picking up his leather jacket from the hall chair as he went.

"Thanks for your help," Joan told me. At the door, ever the gentleman, Avi helped her into her coat. I closed the door behind them, resisting the urge to slam it, then went up to the guest room. Something he said about boats and ships jarred my memory.

She had left a bunch of drawings propped on the dresser in front of the mirror. Harbor scenes. At least that's what the abstractions suggested. I studied them. Nothing leaped out at me to suggest a particular destination. The best I could come up with, and I knew I was reaching, was a kind of Mediterranean quality. I sat down on the bed and cried softly. Part of me still hoped she could get away.

# Chapter 28

Gradually my life did get back to normal. My classes went well and Marah was back in school. When she finally realized what side her bread was buttered on, she became a model student knocking herself out to excel. And I'd noticed she had distanced herself from Henry but whether or not they were still an item I didn't know. Her brother had been charged, but pending some sort of arrangement with my father it seemed his prospects were also looking up. Her father was still dying. And her mother suffering from a prolonged period of grief was still an emotional wreck. Destroying the family did not figure in any of my father's plans.

Even Jennifer was back. I couldn't help regarding her with suspect, her paper on the crusades notwithstanding, and I had a hard time remaining objective. Arthur, of course, continued being Arthur and I steered clear of controversy and role-playing scenarios that risked inflaming any of the political hotheads. Young they might be, and Impressionable but I knew too well that youth and objectivity were poles apart. Idealism was sought too often at the point of a gun. Or detonation of a bomb. Let them exercise their rights as free thinkers in another course.

Geoff too, was more relaxed. It helped not having to worry about whether or not I'd sabotage his investigations; the Peace Summit drew nearer and he needed to focus every ounce of energy on the security measures.

So it was business, more or less, as usual now that Lee-Ann was gone and Simon had been boxed and shipped home. This would put an end to some of the violence, but as Geoff had optimistically pointed out, it would only be a drop in the bucket. Still, the tattooed subversives would be no more. San Marcos, though, was still in operation, so the Hydra had grown a new head.

That afternoon I was actually pleased when my father called. Anastasio was there and wanted to know if I could join them for a drink. Why not? Great, I told him. It had been a while since I'd tasted a decent brandy.

"So good to see you again, my Dear. Your father was just telling me."

I looked at my father. "Yes," he said. "About the painting."

"And the mugging," the priest said, tapping his own head. "It's incredible how things work themselves out, isn't?" He fingered the large silver crucifix around his neck giving thanks, no doubt, for a blessed intervention.

"I really must be going," he said to my father. He stood up and smoothed the jacket to a suit that had to have cost more than Harry would even pay. What about my drink I thought.

"Nice to see you again Sam. Your father reassured me that you were quite well, but I wanted to see for myself." He smiled and shrugged into a cashmere overcoat that was black as night. I smiled back inanely and shuffled foolishly from one foot to another. While my father showed him out I wasted no time pouring myself a good shot from the sideboard, knocking half of it back in one swallow. I was topping it up when my father came back.

"Help yourself," he said laughing at me.

I raised my glass to him, ignoring the sarcasm. "What was that all about? I thought we were going to settle in and hoist a few. You know, the three of us. Father, daughter and the Holy Ghost."

"Don't be sacrilegious," he said in mock serious. He went over to the cabinet and splashed brandy into a glass, swirling it around and taking a deep sniff before sipping. He held it in his mouth a moment before swallowing, and briefly closed his eyes. I thought he was about to have a religious experience.

"Well..." I prompted.

"He'd been visiting Costa and Maria, getting this business with Jimmy sorted out."

"And about time. Did you know that the Good Father is paying Harry's fee?"

"Yes, Father Anastasio mentioned he'd handle that. But Jimmy will pay him back."

"Really? He doesn't have a very good track record when it comes to managing his debts. What's he going to do, steal another icon? And I don't believe that crap about Mackenzie getting him a job. The money he owes would take him two lifetimes to pay back."

"Maria says she'll help. She has money put aside."

"Dad. Listen to yourself. Jimmy's a deadbeat. Still taking advantage of his parents."

"I know, I know. But what do you expect her to do?" he said raising his voice. "She's his mother for God's sake." He took another sip, came away from the window and sat down.

"What's this job anyway?" I asked peaceably.

"At the Greek consulate. Working with newly arrived immigrants."

"You're serious."

"Of course, I'm serious. What could better? He's perfectly fluent. Lived in the country for years. Understands the politics. The people. The problems they can encounter over here. If you ask me he's perfect for the job." He sat back, his chin raised and jutting the way he did when making a point.

"Providing he can keep himself out of trouble, I'd agree."

"Well, I'm sure he'll make a good -for lack of a better word- ombudsman. Helping people settle in, find apartments, apply for jobs, where to shop. Schools for their kids. It's a very worthwhile enterprise."

"That's not what bothers me."

"There's a very large Greek community, you know. I think it's ideal for him."

I gave him my look. "Let's hope none of the new immigrants are rich, grieving widows."

"Sammy, you are so jaded for one so young."

"Occupational hazard, I guess. I better get going. Some of us have real jobs. By the way, how come the Good Father is so well heeled?"

"Has family money, I gather."

"Stupid me, thought he was skimming from the collection plates." He laughed in spite of himself. "Go", he said waving a hand.

I was jaded. Cynical. But Jimmy wasn't someone you'd readily dip your hand into your pocket to help. There had to be something more to it. I pushed the thoughts from my mind; it really was none of my business. Still. Something about Father Anastasio Mackenzie nibbled at the back of my mind.

Maybe he was just being kind. He was a priest after all. And if he lost his faith in humanity where did that leave the rest of us? And as for Jimmy, this could possibly be the break he needed, a reprieve from a life misspent. A chance to make good. Put something back. I felt a little ashamed for being so unfeeling. Compared to me my father was a saint always ready to wipe the slate clean. To him every cloud had a silver lining. From Marah and her brother to Jimmy. He'd even allowed Lee-Ann another chance at the brass ring. If both he and Anastasio were willing to give Jimmy a second chance who the hell was I to deny him. If I was willing to go the distance for Lee-Ann and she had almost cost me my life why couldn't I give Jimmy a second thought. He hadn't killed anyone.

Guilt dragged me down so I decided to go shopping. Nothing like indulging a selfish urge to alleviate self-pity. I also posted a cheque -not a large one- to the offices of Amnesty International and dropped off Lee-Ann's sketches, the six of them, at the picture framers. It was all I had of her.

I returned home laden with bags and boxes, having used my charge cards indiscriminately. I put my coat away and carried my parcels to my room. The light on the answering machine was blinking but I ignored it and began to unpack my purchases. New jeans, stonewashed -I hated the crackling newness of denim, and several blouses. I'd even splurged and spent a small fortune on sexy lingerie. There wasn't much support in the bras, but they weren't for wearing. Not for an extended period of time.

I put the jeans and blouses on hangers and left the lingerie laid out on my bed. I'm not much for dresses but I did buy a skirt and jacket combo, very suit-like and professional. Depending on how brave I became, the sexy bra could be worn under the jacket _sans_ blouse. Geoff would go nuts, I hoped. Wasn't I liberated?

After playing with my new toys I checked my phone messages.

I returned my father's call but he wasn't home, so the game of telephone tag continued. My second call was equally fruitless, as Geoff was out of his office. It was almost seven-thirty and I was starved, supper hour postponed by my shopping spree. Maria hadn't left any surprises so I considered ordering a pizza but that meant another half hour at least. I checked the fridge again hoping something would materialize; it didn't. Just as I was about to call next door again hoping he was home so I could cadge a meal, it rang.

"Sam..."

"Oh, hi, Geoff. What's up? You sound frantic."

"Good news, bad news. And I do mean bad.

"What's going on, what's happened?"

"Well, we got a line on a group of subversives..."

"Is that the good news?"

"One might say that. Yes."

"Let's hear the rest."

"You remember Marah?"

"How could I forget."

"Yeah, well. I hope you're sitting down. Her brother's been killed. Along with her boyfriend."

"Oh my God. Geoff.... How...?"

"Blew themselves up. The bastards were putting a bomb together."

"That's incredible. Where...? Why...?"

"In the back of their store. What's left of it. Looks like a war zone. As for why? We're working on that."

"That's awful. I don't know what to say."

"Look, Sam. The reason I called is that I'd like you to come down here and..."

"I don't know, Geoff. I had enough looking at those butchered Arabs."

"I know, I know. But it's not that bad. The morgue's already taken the bodies away. But I want you to see what we're up against. These two got a taste of their own medicine, let me tell you."

"I haven't even had a chance to eat yet."

"I'll buy you dinner later, okay?"

"Providing I still have an appetite. You really owe me for this."

"Thanks. I'll send a car over."

Why was he doing this? I know he thought I was a bleeding heart, always cheering for the underdog, but I wish he'd stop treating me to carnage just to prove a point. So why didn't I refuse? For the same reason people slow down on highways causing massive traffic backups as they rubberneck to get a good view of the twisted wrecks.

I grabbed an apple to stave of hunger pangs but chucked it after one bite. It had been in the fridge so long the skin was loose and wrinkled. By then I could see the car in the street its lights flashing. I grabbed my coat, took the stairs two at a time and got in. The neighbours' tongues would be wagging, and I hoped my father was still out. He'd have a fit.

When I got there I could see Geoff leaning into a cruiser and talking to someone in the back seat. I thanked the driver, got out, and went over. I could see her sobbing as I approached. The sobbing turned to wails when she saw me. Geoff stood up and tapped the roof of the car indicating the driver could leave.

"They're taking Marah to the hospital. Her mother's there with her husband who, incidentally, is not expected to last more a couple of days. Jesus, Sam. It just never ends. How the hell some people cope, I'll never know." He shook his head and walked over towards the building rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand.

I remembered what my father told me of Geoff's reaction to my own brush with fate. He stood away from the wall and stared at the ruined building his hands thrust again deep in his pockets. I put my arm through his.

"Must've been pretty powerful," I said. The whole side was blown out, a gaping hole in the cinder block construction. Broken cement and brick were strewn into the street. A car parked too close had a bashed-in door, the windshield in tatters like a ripped doily.

"Watch where you walk. Could turn an ankle." He led me through the debris, picking his way carefully and entered the building through a side door. The door, in spite of being only a few feet from the torn-out wall, was entirely intact, reinforced with a cover of sheet metal.

"Looks like they were working at that table." He pointed to charred and blackened stumps of wood, the remains of what once might have one time been a carpenter's bench. The place was a mess of scattered paper, torn boxes of potato chips and the like. Soft drink bottles lay smashed, the tops intact, the plastic sides burst. Glass, paper, cardboard scraps lay scattered in a sticky, wet mess.

"It must have done a real number on them," I said.

"One of them lost both arms. We found the other guy's leg in the street. Don't know where the hell the shoe went." This struck him funny and he couldn't suppress a laugh. I looked around, my gaze drawn to a small coil of plastic tubing. A child's skipping rope, undamaged, waiting to be picked up and played with.

Another man was sifting through the debris, he stopped when he saw Geoff and came over.

"Salut, Geoff. Ça va?"

"Pas pire, généralement. Mais.... pas à l'instant."

"Hé, j'comprends, j'comprends."

"Sam," he said to me. "Meet Roger Tranchemontagne. "Roger- Doctor Sarah Milland."

"Hi," he said, shaking my hand. "See what happens when _little boys_ play with matches?" He went back to his spot walking carefully.

"Roger's with the bomb squad."

Roger was a small, compact man, older than Geoff. His navy blue watch cap was pulled low and covered the tops of his ears. His combat boots, spit polish black, were laced military fashion like the rungs on a ladder. He was also wearing body armor but had removed his visored helmet perching it atop a miraculously intact box of toilet tissue. His hands were dirty and his face was smudged from a habit he had of drawing the back of his hand across his forehead. A nine-millimeter automatic was holstered on his left hip.

"What can you tell us, Roger?"

Roger looked over at me as if deciding whether or not I could be trusted. "Typical remote device." His English was clipped, with barely a trace of accent. "Looks like our _boys_ were into pipe bombs." I raised my eyebrows fractionally. The three Arabs had also been into pipe bombs.

"Not that complicated really," he said more for my benefit. "A radio transmitter, a receiver, batteries, and you're in business. Add that to a detonator and some _plastique_ and you can soar to great heights." He forced a laugh.

"Anyone can do it, Doctor Milland. Got a garage door opener?"

"It's that simple, is it?"

"Just about. You press the button on the remote -that's the transmitter. The receiver in the garage receives and converts the signal, activates a switch and it's Open Sesame. Magic!"

"In this case," Geoff added, "the receiver triggers a switch and power from the battery delivers an impulse to set off the detonator. The detonator then blows the main charge. Powder or plastic explosive."

"How big a bomb would you need to do all this?" I asked waving my hand. "Can you tell?"

"For sure. A charge for this kind of damage could be contained in a pipe about forty centimeters long with a five centimeter diameter."

"My, God! You can hide a device like that just about anywhere!"

"A briefcase would do it. I've seen them use a thermos. From a kids lunch pail." He swore under his breath and shook his head. "And that's a pretty good cover. Want to bring down a building? Union problems? Don't like your boss? Just leave your lunch pail behind." He laughed again and went back to his task.

"Okay, Sam. We can go."

In the car, I said, "Want me to write up another damn report?"

"Huh? Oh no. Uh, Sam. Don't be pissed off. I just want you to be aware of the kind of people we're dealing with here. To see the urgency of rooting out these.... these..."

"These subversives?" I offered.

"Right. Subversives. Not my choice of word, but yes. Subversives."

"Well, thanks for the lesson." He ignored me, concentrated on driving. We were in the North End, the St Michel district. The Rothman's store was a structure that had been built onto the main house. Their home was a modest one in a working class development knocked together about forty years ago. The houses were smallish, single family dwellings, each one a clone of the other with a roofed carport over a paved drive. A few had garages, converted from the original carport. The business should have thrived; it was the only convenience store for blocks, but illness does have an insidious way of eating resources.

"Explain what you meant by 'good news'." He looked momentarily puzzled.

"Ah," he said when it dawned. "The good news. Henry and his buddy were involved in this radical group. Remember when I said we suspected Henry was mixed up with the Kach movement? Well, our hunch was right. Seems the two of them were part of a plot to disrupt the Peace Summit."

"Thank God! I mean that they failed."

"Yeah, right. Can you imagine had they not blown themselves to smithereens? It doesn't mean we're out of the woods. Just because these two have gone to Kingdom Come doesn't mean there aren't others waiting to fill their shoes -in a manner of speaking. These two are sadly, just the tip of the ice berg."

"Have you been able to get a line on any of the others? And what about Joan? How come she wasn't here?"

"You missed her. But in spite of the fact that we are supposedly working together on this, there are still jurisdictional toes that are sensitive to being stepped on. I have to play it cool. On one hand it falls in our lap, on the other, since we're dealing with suspected terrorists...."

"All this jurisdictional stuff could end up causing a disaster. A matter of egos, if you ask me."

"Egos and the various agencies. Because things are compartmentalized, decentralized, there is a risk, if one hand doesn't know what the other is doing. The alternative is..."

"A centralized police state -I mean force."

He laughed. "Freudian slip if I ever heard one." He laughed again and slapped the steering wheel.

"Since there's only a couple of weeks until the Conference this shakes things up. But maybe they'll lay low now that you have some idea who you're up against. It's a setback for them, don't you think?"

"Well, I'm not counting on that, that's for sure. Our best bet is to consider that we've still the worst to face. That's what security is. Preparing to face and counter the worst eventuality you can imagine. You can't stop it and you can't prevent it. The best you can do is protect your principals from getting hurt in a violent intervention."

"Not a pleasant prospect."

"And that's exactly what I've been hoping you would realize.

"I'm convinced, okay? You don't have to keep bashing me with a club. I know what you're up against."

"And I hope you're still carrying your weapon."

"Yes. I'm still carrying my weapon." Oddly enough it was becoming a source of comfort and that scared me. The drive back took a good half hour, traffic getting heavier as we approached the downtown area.

"Want to come in....?"

"I'd love to, but I have to get back to the office. I might as well install a cot for the time I'm spending there."

"You can come over when you've finished whatever you have to do there." He stared at me.

"It could be late."

"So? It'll be late. This business is making us strangers." I leaned over and kissed him. "I'll wait up."

The next morning, before we had a chance to get up, the doorbell rang. Short, frantic bursts. I grabbed my robe and went barefoot to the door. Standing there, his hair, the few wispy strands, blowing in the wind.

"Dad. It's cold out there, where's your coat?" He was dressed for hospital rounds but still in his slippers. Shoes were the last things he put on before leaving the house.

He pushed his way in waving the morning paper. "Have you seen this?" waving the paper at me and slapping it down on the kitchen table. He pointed to article about the bombing incident.

"Another one of your students, isn't it?" he asked accusingly. "I've heard the name."

"Yes, Henry is -was in my sociology class. The other..."

"I know who the other boy was," he said touching his head." What's happening? The whole world has gone mad." He slumped down in a chair and stared at the article.

"I suppose what really upsets me is how close this hits. It's no longer anonymous. It's not over there anymore. It's right here!" He thumped the table. "Bastards are turning my home into a war zone. In my day...."

"In your day," Geoff said, coming into the kitchen and going for the coffee pot, "it was communists and union bashers." He took the coffee out of the cupboard and began to fill the pot with water, then stood at the counter his shirttails hanging out. I could hear the rasp of stubble as he rubbed his hand over his face.

"And when I was in school radicals were girls who burned their bras. No way I gave them my support." I said breaking the tension.

"And to be fair," Geoff continued, " there was Viet Nam- remember Kent State? And more recent history, all the fighting over there in the Stans. No one wants our boys getting killed."

"That's true," my father conceded. " Protests are one thing, but bombs."

"Are you forgetting the _FLQ?_ The mailbox bombers?" I recall a woman from one of my night classes. Her nephew blew himself up putting together mailbox bomb.

"We've had our share." Geoff said over his shoulder. "The Cross Kidnapping. Laporte's murder."

"But this rash of violence," I said, "has nothing to do with _our_ politics or problems."

"And that," my father said with vehemence, "is what's so frightening." He slapped the table again and looked at me. "Got any muffins to go with that coffee?"

"Thought you were on your way to the hospital. Check the fridge."

He got up and grabbed a dishtowel to fashion an apron. I pulled it out of his hands and told him to sit.

While he was applying butter generously to his second muffin, Geoff said, "Looks like the Indian connection has to do with more than just cigarettes."

"You mean my painting?" Now it was his painting.

"It was late last night so I didn't tell you, but according to Joan, the RCMP uncovered that the explosives came through the Reserve. They also found a couple of guns too. Henry had them hidden in his room"

"Tragedy piled on tragedy," my father said.

"Tell me about it. His family was out of town. Mother, father and younger sister on a European trip. Parents were in France visiting friends. His sister seeing relatives -get this- in Israel."

"Do they know what happened?"

"They've been contacted. Parents are flying home. The sister is on her way home too." He looked at his watch, "Probably as we speak. Poor kid."

"They had everything to live for didn't they? Especially Henry. You'd think that with all that money behind him he'd have been less inclined to be sucked into all of this."

"It's not only the poor and disadvantaged who rebel."

"I know that, Geoff." To avoid a heated sociological discussion I said, "You were about to say something about guns?"

"Yes, the guns. Seems they were traced to a shipment made to a dealer in Vermont. This guy doesn't even have a store. The bastard operates out of his house would you believe."

"From his house?"

"Yes, from his house. He holds a valid dealer's permit. Gets orders and saves them up until he can buy a decent amount."

"How do they end up here?" I asked.

"I'm getting to that. We're right back to the Warriors here. This dealer. The one in Vermont. He's not native himself, so the Indians go to him. And this is what really gets me. They pick a name out of a phone book! You need to be an American resident, okay? They pick a name out of the book so they can list a legitimate address on the applications. Once the paper work is done and they get the guns, the next step is to smuggle them out of the country. One of the reserves straddles the border which makes it dead easy. Guns. Cigarettes. Explosives. You name it. A fast boat and you're in."

'That's it? No one catches them? No patrols or border police?"

"That's right. They virtually can get away with murder. Sure a few guns get found. As a matter of fact there was a botched robbery way the hell out on the West Coast. Guns were found and traced back to this dealer in Vermont. There was also a drug raid recently, and again guns were traced back to this same guy."

"And nothing happened."

"He was caught and prosecuted. Got off with a fine, would you believe. You imagine? A fine! The money these guys are knocking down and all the have to do is cough up a few grand. Jesus, it's nothing more than a licensing fee if you ask me.

"And with a little help from a friendly customs officer they can drive them right across the border almost in plain view. One of the officers would call them, let them know when he was on duty. Every time a car came though he was five hundred bucks richer!"

"Knowing all of this, how come you can't put this guy out of business?"

"Gregor, the best we can do is slap a fine on him once in a while. Claims it's not up to him to verify whether or not his customers are who they say they are."

"Well that's a hell of a thing," my father said.

"Tell me about it. Unfortunately the courts agreed with him. But that's democracy."

"Well, democracy doesn't come cheap, does it?"

"No, Dad. The price of freedom has always been measured in human lives. But what about Henry?" I added, curious. "Where does the family fortune come from anyway?"

"A string of jewelry stores. The kid had everything and still he gets screwed up. Seems he was a pretty good kid. Not a bad student -you'd know more about that," he said to me.

"He was smart enough. Got a bit emotional about politics, but they all do at that age. Most of the kids in my classes get pretty passionate about rights and freedoms. Almost fanatic at times."

"Fanaticism is the fuel of anarchy, Sammy."

"Sure looks that way, Gregor. But apparently he did have a personal stake in this. We're still trying to unravel it, but from what Joan has told me I gather he was a pretty ardent addition to the Kach movement."

"What do you mean...? A personal stake," my father wanted to know."

"Like a lot of Jewish families, Henry's was no stranger to war. Both his parents lost relatives in the Holocaust. His grandmother managed to survive the camp and eventually came over here. Where she met her husband. His family had already been established here for a couple of generations. They had relatives in Europe that were not so lucky."

"That's a familiar saga, but how does it relate to Henry?"

"Years ago, even before the war, Jews were heading off to Israel. Some of his family had done the same. Until the numbers swelled, there was relative peace in Palestine. Henry's family -his extended family- is quite large. His sister who's over there now was staying with relatives. He even spent most of his summers there himself and got to know the family and his cousins quite well. He also learned a lot about hate while he was there and living on the West Bank he sees firsthand what Jews are up against. They don't go out of the house unless they're armed to the teeth."

"You telling me Henry becomes an ardent Zionist."

"You got that right." He stopped to break apart another muffin and slathered it with butter. My father slid the jar of blueberry jam over to him and smiled. He loved to watch people eat.

"I wish I could have been able to read the signs. Maybe I could have done something." I recalled his reaction when his girlfriend got cut with the flying glass.

"What, Sammy? What could you have done? Don't assume any responsibility." He reached across and patted my hand.

"In retrospect," I said, "his political views were certainly a bit extreme, but I wouldn't have thought it enough to push him over the edge."

"The tipping point, I would have to say, Sam, came when his cousin got killed. Her husband was at work -an engineer at a desalinization plant. She was home with her two daughters. The three of them were slaughtered by the PLO. A raiding party."

"Jesus, that would do it." I said.

"Unfortunately," my father added, "that's what keeps this damn conflict going. On both sides. And now the bastards are doing it to each other over here. As if we don't have our own problems. One thing's for sure- Henry and his buddy won't be blowing up any one."

"Thank heaven for small mercies."

"Any ideas about other members of this -what did you call them -Kach?"

"Joan would know about that. That's really her problem."

"Could be yours too...."

He looked at me. I could see the muscles in his jaw tighten as he thought about it.

Don't I know it," he said at length. "And I'm not about to dismiss them because a couple of their boys bought the farm. There are others in the movement that's a given. But we're fairly certain this cell was centered on Henry and his buddy. It looks like the store was their base of operations. They were warehousing enough explosive to take out a whole block."

"What about other cells?"

"Certainly a possibility. But remote, according to Joan. Not much reason to have a large faction here. This isn't New York."

"I know. But considering the Peace summit..."

"And for that reason we are trying to keep on top of it. As much as we can." he muttered under his breath.

"That's all you can really do," my father offered. "Nothing is ever predictable about this sort of thing. Totally irrational but makes perfect sense to them."

Geoff got up, rinsed his mug and set it on the counter. "I'll never complain again about demonstrators carrying placards, that's for sure. I really should be getting to my office."

"And I have to get to work too." My father got up and headed for the door. "A couple of weeks, Geoff, you'll be able to relax."

"And with the overtime I've logged, Sam and I can spend a month on the Mediterranean."

"Sounds good," I said. "But I'm not sure I'm ready for sun and sand."

"Well, there's always snow and skiing."

"I hate snow! My idea of a winter holiday doesn't include snow."

"Or sand and sun," my father rubbed in.

"Thanks, Dad. Maybe you and Geoff should get away together for a vacation. I could use the break."

"Oh, testy, testy."

"Don't push, Dad." I ushered him out and watched him heading down the stairs chuckling and shaking his head. Ten minutes later I watched Geoff doing the same thing. Jesus, they could have been father and son.

I cleaned up the kitchen, put in a load of laundry and decided to go for a run; I hadn't had a workout in days.

I extended my route and pushed myself, picking up the pace on alternate blocks. It was cold but I worked up a good sweat. When I came back forty-eight minutes later, my clothes were soaked and stuck to my skin. I felt fantastic, virtuous, invincible. They could say what they liked; I'd go to a beach when I damn well felt like it.

# Chapter 29

Geoff remained thoroughly immersed in security procedures for the fast-approaching summit and as were neared the deadline he became more and more stressed. On the few times we did get to see each other he was wound tight as a spring unable to relax enough even to take in a movie. He lost weight and his face took on that gaunt look of someone plagued with allergies. I remembered a girl I had gone to grade school with that had that same appearance, sunken eyes with a perpetual dark shadow beneath them. I remembered her clearly because she coughed constantly, fits that left her with watering eyes and gasping. Could she have had tuberculosis?

Geoff was just over-worked I kept telling myself. Nothing that a return to regular hours and decent food wouldn't correct. Or sometime in the sun and sand. A few more days and thankfully we could get back to normal.

I kept myself busy by concentrating on my work and sticking to a regular running routine. It helped a bit. I'd even gone back to the Y. Paula suggested I join the masters' program. I was giving it some serious thought.

Late that afternoon as I was thinking about what to have for dinner the doorbell rang. Through the pebbled glass I could make out the dark shape that had to be Anastasio Mackenzie. What did he want?

Hi," he said. "I hope I'm not intruding."

"Not at all," I lied. "Come in, it's pretty cold out there."

"Thanks." I closed the door behind him. There wasn't that much snow in the streets but out of habit he stamped his feet on the rug.

"Sorry to pop in unannounced like this. I won't keep you. Came to see your father actually, but he doesn't seem to be in. My fault for not calling ahead. Actually what I wanted to tell him does concern you too, after a fashion."

"You have to come in then. At least for a cup of coffee. I'm sure he'll be home soon." I looked at my watch. He should have been home now.

"As long as it's not an imposition." He flashed his smile and the skin around his eyes crinkled, then stooped to remove his boots, suede with real shearling lining. He gave me his coat and scarf and I hung them in the closet.

"It's really cold out there," he said rubbing his hands to warm them.

He followed me into the kitchen and sat down at the table making himself right at home, and for some reason the ease with which he did this didn't bother me. The coffee was already made, so I poured out two mugs and brought them to the table along with a dish of Thea Maria's baklava. He made the appropriate sounds and I found myself warming to him.

"Came to invite you," he said holding the mug in both hands to warm them. They were red and sore looking.

"You and your father to a Gala. Maybe gala's the wrong word -it's a dinner actually." He blew across the coffee to cool it.

"Sounds very nice. What's the occasion?"

"I should apologize again," he said. "This dinner is a fund raiser and I've come begging so to speak. I'm hoping to sell a few tickets. They are a bit pricey though." Begging seemed to come easily to him. Obviously he belonged to a mendicant order.

"I'm sure it's for a good cause."

"Very. The Hellenic Association is trying to hire another social worker and child psychologist. You know the Greek community is growing by leaps and bounds and of course all the intendant problems are keeping pace. Not easy growing up these days. Especially when old-country values clash with new-world morality." He reached for a second piece of pastry.

"How much are these tickets, anyway?"

"Five hundred dollars a plate." Jesus, for that kind of money they could hire Freud himself.

"Put me down for three," I said without batting an eye.

"That is generous. Thank-you."

"Well, Father, I have been privileged." I'll choke later

"Anastasio, please."

"Anastasio. It's a pleasure. A small way for me to put something back."

"How wonderful that you see it that way."

I got my chequebook out of my purse. "Make it four," I said handing him a cheque for two thousand dollars. Maybe Johnson or Robert would be interested in a free meal.

He folded it and tucked it in the inside pocket of his jacket. I wondered why he hadn't been wearing his robes. No pockets I guessed.

"You won't be disappointed. The dinner will of course, be excellent. But the real treat of the evening will be a discussion on the initiatives being taken to improve relations between the Turks and the Greeks in Cyprus. Unfortunately some of the old animosities have been renewed. You've no doubt heard about the jurisdictional disputes regarding a couple of the islands?"

"Yes. A conflict was barely averted. Didn't a Turkish vessel come close to firing on a Greek ship?"

"Yes. Exactly. I hope it doesn't put a damper on things."

"Should be interesting, to say the least."

He laughed. "Yes. We have two speakers lined up. The Patriarch of the Orthodox Church and representing the Turks we've lined up their minister of tourism. Should be very interesting indeed. There'll even be a slide show."

"Can't get away from home movies, can we?" I laughed.

"No, I guess not. But you won't be disappointed. Cyprus is a beautiful island. Have you been?"

"No, I'm afraid not."

"Beautiful. You can't imagine. So lush. Peaceful. Incredible that the two cultures can't live in harmony." He shook his head and I swear his eyes misted.

"Well," I said. "Let's hope this fund raiser will raise consciousness as well money."

"Well said, Sam. Well said! Unfortunately the animosities are buried quite deep."

"What's the proportion?" I asked. "Turks to Greeks."

"Oh.. let's see. About twenty percent Muslim Turks to Orthodox Greeks."

"Didn't the Greeks control the island?"

"Yes. Makarios was president until seventy-seven."

"The rebel priest. Led a rebellion against the Turks."

"Not against the Turks. No, it was against the British. Led the guerrilla forces in the fifties in a fight for independence. Got elected in fifty-nine. And he was more than a priest. He was an archbishop, Sam. Even the pope was in the Polish resistance." He smiled as if having scored points.

"A turbulent past," he went on. "Cyprus has been host to war and aggression since the Crusades. The Templars even had their headquarters there for a while."

"Really?"

"That's right. An interesting island. Fascinating history. Fascinating."

"War does that."

"Not war so much as religion. Muslims against Christians, Jews against Muslims. My God against your God."

"It'll never end will it?" Whose imaginary friend will win, I wanted to say.

"Sadly, I have to agree. The best we can hope for is a kind of tolerance of each other -however grudging it is. They're still at it on Cyprus. In seventy-four the Turks got a toehold and overthrew Makarios. Briefly. Invading ostensibly to protect the Turks." He made a face suggesting the Turks hadn't realized how good they had it.

"But by the time Makarios was back in power the Turks had established a power base in the north. Consequently the Greeks fled south, effectively partitioning the island."

"And today animosity still runs high..."

"Very high to be sure. Up and down like a barometer. Pressure varying as tensions between the Muslim East and the West fluctuate. The bickering in the Middle-East doesn't help either."

"Bickering is an understatement."

He looked at his watch and said, "Doesn't look like I'll get to see your father today, but I did enjoy our visit." He put his cup down and got up.

"I'll tell him you came by. If you talk to him please don't mention the tickets. I'd like it to be my surprise."

"Of course, of course."

I held his coat while he put on his boots then wrapped his scarf around his neck tucking it carefully under his beard.

"By the way," I asked, "How is Jimmy doing?"

"Jimmy? He's doing very well. You can't imagine. A new man. I hope his enthusiasm lasts."

"What is he doing anyway?" As if I didn't already have an idea.

"An ambassador of sorts. And please," he said in mock seriousness holding his hand over his heart, "Jimmy wants to be called Dimitri."

"I suppose he doesn't want to appear too anglicized."

"I guess that's it. He is quite capable, you know?" he said sensing my mistrust of Jimmy. "An excellent translator with a very disarming manner and unfathomable charm." Especially for rich widows I wanted to say.

"He'll be an asset, to the community." He paused a second looking at me, unsure if I was serious.

"That's my expectation, Sam. And as a matter of fact he'll be escorting my two visitors around. Who knows... might make a diplomat out of him yet."

"Never too late," I said using one of Gregor Milland's favourite quotes.

"Thanks again. My best to your father."

Later when I told my father about the dinner he was ecstatic, Geoff unfortunately wasn't as enthusiastic.

"Wish I could go, but it's the night before the conference opens, I'll never be able to get away from the hotel."

"That's too bad. It would have been fun. There's a dance after the dinner. You could use a diversion, some R and R."

"Some R and R for sure. But I'll pass on the diversion, know what I mean? Anyway, after this is over maybe we can disappear for a while. A desert island somewhere."

"That's a deal!"

I hung up and thought of asking Robert to be my escort. I did owe him, but I didn't want him to think the invitation included dessert after the dinner. What the hell, the ticket was paid for and I'd have my father as chaperone.

The week dragged but suddenly the day loomed before us. My father was all a dither, excited as a pimply adolescent on prom night and he didn't even have a date. He offered to play chauffeur, and I accepted readily. That way I could control the situation and not worry about any obligation to Robert at the end of the evening.

Figuring that a five hundred dollar a plate dinner demanded I wear a gown, I splurged. The evening was going to cost me the best part of three grand. I didn't begrudge the money for the tickets but I'd probably never get to wear the damn dress again. I suppose I could try to return it.

My father looked like a career diplomat himself in his tuxedo. He was used to formal functions and was at ease in his evening attire. On the other hand I felt like a fool and would have been more comfortable in jeans and a sweatshirt. I hoped I didn't throw my back out from wearing heels.

When I saw Robert my stomach fluttered. With his Harry Belafonte good looks and plaid cummerbund I thought I'd melt. Part of me wished I hadn't asked him.

The food was nothing to write home about but defied criticism. How can you ruin chicken? Of course the purpose of the event was to raise money not cater a spectacular meal. As for the speakers, no controversy was raised. Anastasio introduced them. The Patriarch said a few words in Greek shifting to heavily accented but impeccable English and gave a rather lengthy blessing. The minister of tourism, Kemal Hamid spoke briefly, telling an amusing story about how men have chosen to die for a variety of causes.

"Some for religion. Many for the love of a woman. In Turkey, a great many chose to die over a hat." Kemal Hamid had broken the ice. He explained the tradition behind the Fez and why it was outlawed by the dictator Attaturk. It originally replaced the turban, he told us, as a concession to modernity. And it allowed faithful Muslims to touch their forehead to the ground when they prayed. The tassel represented the single hair by which Allah supposedly raised Mohammed to paradise.

"Today the Fez is banned, worn only by the Shriners." This brought gales of laughter. "It's a symbol of reaction, a symbol of the sultans, introduced to drag Turkey into the modern world but later banned by Attaturk to further ensure his country would move into the modern world. Today, women can roam topless on our beaches but men were once hanged for wearing a hat."

He was amusing, painting a picture of a people struggling to overthrow stereotypical views held by the West, an excellent speaker who knew how to work a room.

After the speeches, Sofia Metrakis, a woman about forty-five and dressed like the Queen Mother thanked the two men and announced for our pleasure that the bar would be opened -all proceeds to go to the fund of course. We were also invited to stay and enjoy the music and dance.

The lights were dimmed and the band assembled on a makeshift stage in the corner, an elevated platform a foot or so off the ground. They were good too. A couple of clarinets, bouzouki, guitar, drums and electric keyboard. They played a mix of western pieces ranging from the Beetles to traditional dance numbers interspersed with some Greek-style tunes. I danced the slower numbers with my father and Robert but we sat out the Greek tunes nursing our drinks, while my father, encouraged by Anastasio, was coaxed to the floor to join the men in a traditional Zorba the Greek number. Anastasio held his right hand aloft with my father attached to the end of a handkerchief in the priest's other hand. There was a lot of shouting and clapping with Anastasio turning and stamping his feet and occasionally jumping and slapping his heel with his free hand. Robert had given in finally and was at the end of a line of fifteen or so men.

"Hi, Doctor Milland." The voice startled me and I looked up.

"Oh, hello..."

"Stavros."

"Yes, I know. Stavros."

"You're not Greek," he said.

"Only for tonight," I laughed. "Father Mackenzie is a family friend. Are you enjoying yourself?" He seemed distracted, nervous.

"Okay," he shrugged. "I'm with my parents." That would explain it. He nodded to a group a few tables over.

"My mother's the one in the green dress. Beside my sister. She's ten."

The woman had her back to me, laughing and talking excitedly. The man with her had his hand on her shoulder.

"That's my father." The man turned as he said this and I noticed a black patch over his right eye.

"Lost his eye. His arm too. They lived in the north. Came here just after those hostilities."

"I'm sorry," I said. I could see the sleeve of his jacket tucked up and pinned to his shoulder.

He shrugged again and said, "Turks," as if it explained it all.

"What does your father do?" The evening had to have set him back a bundle.

"Importing," was all he volunteered. "I better get back. Nice to see you, Doctor Milland I hope you're enjoying it."

"Yes, I am. Thank-you, Stavros."

"Who was that young man?" Robert came over wiping his face and forehead. He was breathing heavily.

"One of my sociology students," I said absently and craned my neck to see over his shoulder. My father had the handkerchief now.

"I don't know where he gets his energy. I'm done for."

"He'll pay for his excesses tomorrow." I watched him kicking and yelling _houh-pah._ "I just hope he has sense enough to know when to quit. He smokes too damn much to carry on like this!"

The number ended and he came over. He had discarded his jacket. His shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, was soaked and plastered to his skin. He grabbed a napkin and dabbed his forehead and top of his baldhead.

"That's enough for me," he said throwing himself into his chair.

"And don't start with the cigars!" I filled a glass with water and handed it to him. He took it and gulped down about a third before coming up for air. I was glad he hadn't been making regular trips to the bar; I hated to drive the Jag.

At two o'clock when we left, the party was still going strong. A group of twenty or so die-hards were still dancing and jumping and between sets drinking from little shot glasses. Ouzo, the national drink, I was told. Apart from the dancers, a few scattered groups were clustered around tables, the men smoking and arguing, fueled by drink. Stavros was sitting with a group of men and women his own age, his family having already left when his sister fell asleep draped across the table.

"Would you be offended, Doctor Milland if I offered to drive your car?"

"Huh? Why no, no of course not, Robert. But you needn't worry, I've only had the one glass of wine with dinner. Robert smiled, but looked a little pained. When the valet brought the car around, my father said, "Why don't you get behind the wheel anyway. She's a treat to drive."

I sat in the back ignoring their talk about how quiet the ride was and how easily she handled. The next thing I knew Robert was shaking me.

"Sam. Sam. Wake up. It's okay." I sat up abruptly, and shouted. I was back in the life raft tossed and rocked by waves. The search light from the helicopter turned into an exploding fireball.

"Oh!" I looked around feeling foolish. "I must have fallen asleep. Dreaming."

"Not a pleasant one I gather," Robert said. They both stared at me.

Robert handed my father the keys, got out and said he'd call me. I was still a bit disoriented but managed a smile and a goodnight. By the time we were home, the car parked, the doors locked and the alarms set it was after three. We were both exhausted. I tumbled into bed wondering what Geoff was doing; he couldn't possibly be still working. One more day and it would be over. Maybe the dreams would stop. One more day. It was already tomorrow when I fell asleep.

I leaned over to switch off the alarm but the ringing persisted. I hitched myself on my elbow and noticed as I fumbled with the clock that it well after eight. Jesus. I groped for my robe, shuffled into my slippers and went to answer the door. Whoever it was had his finger glued to the buzzer. Geoff had his face pressed against the glass as he wore out the buzzer.

"Don't you ever sleep?" I said.

He took one look at me and said, "Oops. I guess someone got in pretty late last night." I went back to my room and got into bed. He followed me in and sat down on the foot of the bed, his hands in his pockets. Cold emanated from his clothes and I shivered and scrunched down deeper under the covers. He smelled of the outdoors too, driving away the warmth and coziness of my cocoon.

"Hey." he said, grabbing my toe through the blankets. "A big day today. Better get ready or you'll miss the fun."

"Ouch!, you big oaf. You know what time I got in?"

"Judging by your outfit, it couldn't have been more than a couple of hours ago. And it must have set you back a bundle. The skimpier the material, the higher the price. Right?"

"I had to mortgage the house to pay for it, if you really need to know." He reached down and plucked it off the floor, holding it by the strap on the end of his finger. It was ridiculously skimpy. For the price.

"Come on. Up. Get in the shower while I fix the coffee, then we can head out. Your last chance —your only chance— to be part of an inside team. I doubt we'll ever host another one."

"Amen to that!" He yanked the covers down and I rolled out of the way in time to avoid a slap on the behind.

"I even managed to finagle a pass for your father if he wants it," he called. I let the hot water beat down. If he wanted it; Geoff had to be kidding. My father would climb out of his grave to be part of something like this.

"How much time do I have?" I was rubbing a clear spot on the mirror.

"Just time for coffee," he said handing it to me. "We really do have to hurry." He looked at his watch." The press conference is scheduled for one this afternoon. I have to be there early. Should be there now, but Joan told me to get lost for a couple of hours."

"Did you get any sleep?"

"As a matter of fact yes. More than you. It was an early night."

"What do you call early?" I asked sipping carefully. He didn't answer.

"You about done?"

"I can take a hint." I dumped what was left into the sink and went for my coat. He was still wearing his.

"Nice," he said, as I put my coat on. I was wearing my new outfit. And the blouse.

"Okay, Geoff. I'm ready. Let's roll it." He laughed as I made signs like a wagon train trail boss and headed for the door. In the car he gave me a tag to wear identifying me as one of the security personnel. I was also warned not to stray and to stick close to either Joan or him.

He drove into the underground garage and parked in an area cleared purposely for security people, cordoned off from the public. The place was alive with men and crackling walkie-talkies. The garage had been scrupulously cleaned but the air was sharp with the acrid smell of exhaust and burned my throat. A couple of Mounties, resplendent in crimson, stood guard on either side of the hotel doors. A few Arab men, in traditional garb, were chatting and smoking off to the side, their voices hushed, demeanor serious. One of them followed me with his eyes and said something out of the corner of his mouth to his colleagues. They glanced at me and laughed. I couldn't read their expressions behind the dark glasses but by their standards my skirt was far too short -by their standards I shouldn't even have been here. They turned away as we went through the door and continued their business, but the one with the eyes followed us inside and watched as I went up the escalators with Geoff to the lobby.

I stayed with Geoff, following him to the registration counter, past the displays of furs and early pioneer and Indian artifacts in the showcases, past people sitting in plush sofas studying maps and tourist brochures. We skirted around a bellboy pushing a rack loaded with bags and suitcases. It wheeled by soundlessly, the tubular brass frame reflecting distorted images in the busy lobby. At the far end of the counter, Joan stood vigilant, waiting, her eyes scanning the lobby from the bank of elevators on her left to the boutiques across from us fronting the street and diagonally down towards the escalators.

"We got people covering all the entrances. Fortunately no one can enter the shops from the street and access the lobby. Those doors have been sealed for years."

"So it's just the side doors and the main ones in front?" he said nervously.

"And the garage."

"Right, right." He glanced at his watch again not even registering the time and continued to study the area.

"We concentrate on the elevators. The escalators. Watch the lobby." He pointed the areas out as he said them.

"Yes," she agreed. The Jordanians have rooms here. And a group from the PLO, would you believe. Representatives from some of the other Arab nations are staying elsewhere. They'll be arriving by limo and enter from the garage. The Israelis. The Greek Patriarch and the Cypriot minister will also use the garage. The safest way. Pretty straight forward and easy for us to control. Shouldn't be a problem."

"It shouldn't, but I'm still sweating bullets." He wiped his forehead with a Kleenex and tossed the wad at an ashtray. I watched it hit the rim and fall rolling under the display of flintlock weapons and wampum.

"Everything secure?" I glanced towards the voice and saw Avi approaching, a two-way radio in his hand. He put it on the counter and reached into a pocket for his cigarettes and tapped one out. After cupping his hands around the flame he blew a cloud of smoke over our heads.

"Seems to be. Did you talk to Serge?" Geoff asked.

"Just saw him," he answered speaking around a cigarette. "He's at the _Grand Salon_ checking it out again." He puffed on the cigarette keeping it clamped between his teeth, his hands playing with the match. "I'm going down to the garage." He threw the match at the ashtray and like Geoff missed his mark. "I'll be in touch," he said and picked up the walkie-talkie and walked towards the escalators. Geoff kept looking at his watch.

"I'm going over to see Serge." He nodded at me which meant I was supposed to follow. We went over to the escalators, and I had to take big steps to keep up. The Salon was two levels up, where the conference rooms were located. Serge was talking to a technician urging him to move the miles of cable on the floor. The salon was large room and when the dividing doors were opened could accommodate over fifteen hundred people. While the two men talked, I snooped around the other rooms. Except for a couple of covered pianos and some stacked chairs, they were empty. A black man in dark pants and white waiter's jacket was stacking boxes of glassware on a dolly. The glassware symbol was upside down. When I returned they were still talking. A third man had joined them and Serge was helping him position the metal detector.

"All set?" Geoff asked. Serge glanced up, hitched his pants and went through the arch to test the detector. It squawked briefly, the other man cutting the noise before it started a panic.

"I'll be glad when this is over," he said limping towards us.

"I'm going outside to check the perimeter. I'll keep you posted. C'mon," he said beckoning.

We took the escalators down to the lobby and went into the street. It was cold and the doorman's breath hung over his head like a cloud. He paced and slapped his thighs to keep warm, his thin uniform affording little protection. He kept slapping himself and brushing imaginary lint from the front of his jacket the dark brown lapels clownish against the rose-brown of his uniform. I followed Geoff heading east along Rene Levesque Boulevard, inspecting the street and storefronts all the way to University. A couple of trust companies and a bank. I wondered if they'd posted someone at the entrance leading to the train station as it also accessed the hotel. We turned at the corner and headed back stopping at Mansfield, the opposite corner.

"Monitoring the traffic won't be a problem," he said. The concrete median divided the boulevard separating the flow of traffic. "Basically we need to watch the traffic going east." In front of us loomed the cathedral, Mary Queen of the World, her saints, silent sentinels stood guard.

"No problem here. The least sign of trouble the doors'll be closed. Those guys won't let anyone move through the lobby." He nodded towards two men dressed like maintenance workers smoking beside a refuse bin on wheels. "We've got people inside too."

"They're not all wearing ID tags so how can you tell they're your people?" He answered with a snort and continued walking. The mirrors on our right reflected the greenery creating a corridor of chrome and lush foliage at odds with the task at hand. I couldn't imagine a more daunting task than securing such an open and public space.

"What about that elevator?" I pointed to the single car in the corner. A sign beside it said, to the _nineteenth floor._

"It'll be out of order, with a man in front." The man in front was already in place, standing with his hands clasped in front of him, watching the attractive woman in the sitting area, reading _Paris Match_ and showing a good deal of thigh.

"Let's go down. I want to see the garage again." His walkie-talkie crackled and he held it to his ear.

Some of the limos are starting to pull in and he quickened his pace. By now there was a lot of activity in the lobby, press people milling about, news reporters and technicians cramming the escalators and stairs in a bid to be first in the _Grand Salon._ Most of the lobby had been cordoned off from the public but those officially allowed through created a jam of humanity that must've numbered in the hundreds. Geoff kept looking at his watch and tightening his jaws. I had to skip a few paces to keep up and bumped into one of the two Arabs blocking our way. We stopped at the escalators where the crowd thinned, most of them going up. Serge was there waiting for the first of the dignitaries to arrive from the garage. The two Arabs had caught up with us and stopped to have a smoke at the information desk. Both wore robes, headgear and dark glasses. The shorter one, with a black mustache and pointed beard shook out two cigarettes and handed one to his colleague. Geoff and Serge were deep in talk, whispering and pointing. Geoff stood back, craned his neck up to the next level. The taller of the two smokers lit both cigarettes and flicked the spent match onto the information counter.

"Come on," Geoff said, and we went down. The two Mounties held the doors while another moved towards the first of three limousines just arriving. The second and third vehicles were instructed to wait just inside the entrance until the occupants of the first car had been discharged. The middle car I recognized as Anastasio's black Continental. A flag hanging from the antenna of the car immediately behind him identified the Israelis. We stood waiting, barely inside the double glass doors and as the Mountie bent to open the car door Geoff took a step towards them.

The blast knocked him off his feet.

Smoke and noise filled the area, followed by screams and yelling. The doors had shattered, the two Mounties lying twisted in the broken glass. The Mountie and the two men he had helped get out of the limo had disappeared. The car door had been blown completely away. The chauffeur, separated from his legs and driven through the windshield by the blast lay in a heap in front of the car. Geoff struggled to get up, at the same time trying to work his walkie-talkie. I crawled towards him through the thick smoke.

"Oh shit!" he kept repeating.

"Geoff!" His face was covered in blood, and his right arm was twisted at an odd angle."

"Sam. Where are you? You okay? I can't see you.... Sam!"

"Here. I'm okay, I'm okay." There was a large gash in his head. And the sleeve of his jacket was soaked with blood, the stain growing larger by the second. I yanked off my panty hose and tied a rough tourniquet above his elbow. Can you hold this?" I used the pen sticking out of his pocket to twist the knot and placed his left hand on it, then checked the wound on his head.

"Get out of here, Sam. Go. Now!" He struggled to get up but fell back against the wall, at his feet miraculously intact was the tiny Israeli flag.

"I'm not leaving you. There might be another blast."

"Sam! Go." I grabbed him, dragging him to where the door had to be. Confusion reigned. Security people poured down the escalators, pushing and scrambling over each other behind them, the media vultures smelling blood.

"Get the hell, out of here, Sam." He pushed me with his good arm. I held on, half pulling, half dragging him up the stairs until we reached the lobby level where we got separated. I leaned against the information counter, coughing, trying to catch my breath, when out of the corner of my eye I saw two men heading for the Mansfield Street exit. Everyone else had been running this way, pouring into the garage. Still coughing and trying to regain my breath I noticed the spent match lying twisted and bent on the counter. The Arabs. I whipped my head around. The men had almost reached the door.

"Stop!" I yelled and started towards them, lurching. "Stop those men," I screamed waving my arms. The two men, now dressed in western clothes started to run. The maintenance worker, the only guard it seemed who hadn't left his post, drew his gun and crouched. There were several popping sounds, the guard went down wounded but managed to return fire. More screams as curious onlookers from the restaurant retreated. The two men, their guns drawn, stood back to back circling and edging their way towards me. The stricken guard raised himself on his elbows and fired, emptying his weapon then collapsed. The Arab, the one with the beard fell, his gun clattering on the marble. I drew my weapon, using a pillar for cover. The man walked, semi-crouched, his weapon extended arms length in front of him as he swept the room, slowly coming towards me. I should have dropped him. The guard was dead, all others drawn to the carnage in the garage. I was alone. I peered out cautiously from around the pillar. A shot rang out; chips of marble stung my cheek. My heart almost stopped and I cowered behind the pillar.

Suddenly a child started to cry and a woman screamed.

"Don't kill my baby. Please! Don't kill my baby."

"Shut up!"

I crouched and peered out. A woman lay on the floor her head bleeding. Her child was about five or six, Sarah's age. He held her like a shield his arm around her waist. She kept yelling, "Mommy, Mommy, Mommy".

"Shut up!" Then a vicious slap knocking her out.

"Drop the Gun, Sam. Or the kid gets it."

"Kill the child and you are dead meat."

"I mean it, Sam."

"So do I." He took his time edging towards me. Backing towards the front doors. We were alone. The guard dead, his colleague dead, the girl's mother unconscious or worse. Just the three of us. He kept backing towards the door, shielded by the child. I didn't dare show myself but I kept him in view, barely peeping from behind the pillar, but there was no way I could risk a shot. He kept moving, getting closer and closer to the door, his grip tight on the unconscious child, a rag doll. I could make out that the street in front was cordoned off, traffic in both directions frozen, the area in front alive with police cars and emergency vehicles. No one aware of the drama inside; all energy focused on the carnage below us.

He went through the doors and stood on the carpeted sidewalk protected by the large overhang above him and the tubs of potted shrubs in front. It seemed like hours before the police tumbled to what he was up to. I crept out from behind the pillar and ran to the door, concealing myself from his line of sight. He was in view but there was still no way I could risk a shot. My knees trembled. I had to press against the wall to keep from shaking. I tried to relax, breathed deeply and slowly. I could see him clearly. He was crouched behind a large planter, clutching the child in front of him. He couldn't get away nor could the police stop him without risking the child. He had discarded his Arab garb and his features were sharp and clear, Avi's dark curls fanning out from under his Yarmulke. He kept shifting position, keeping either the pot or the child between the police with their guns drawn in front of him and me, diagonally behind him to his right.

He kept threatening to kill the child. He wanted safe passage to the airport and a plane somewhere. I wasn't listening. I kept watching him, hating him, thinking of Sarah. I needed to get closer. I watched, waited, tried to relax, holding my gun waiting for the clear shot, that window of opportunity. The child shifted. At least she was still alive.

The child stirred again and started crying. Avi gripped her tight, but she resisted, kicking and screaming.

"Shut up," he yelled and hit her with his gun hand.

Too young to understand, and too young to reason, fear made her cry louder.

"Mommy, Mommy, Mommy," she called, struggling and kicking. Avi held his gun hand over her mouth, yelling to the police he'd kill her if they didn't back off and come through with his demands. Across the street, from the Place Ville Marie concourse, hundreds of people drawn by morbid curiosity, had gathered to watch the drama unfold.

Suddenly he yelled and swore, the little girl driven by some atavistic impulse sank her teeth into his hand. He yelled and pulled away, loosening his grip, vulnerable for a split second.

I took one step, lowered my gun and fired. Two shots in quick succession. He stumbled back before falling, his expression bewildered. The child lay crouched behind a planter her hands over her face. Avi struggled to get up, supporting himself with his left arm and pointed his gun at the little girl.

I pumped shot after shot into him until he dropped the gun and fell dead on the sidewalk.

Cops swarmed.

Someone took the gun out of my hand.

Someone picked up the little girl.

Someone put me in a police car.

Sarah was all I could think of.

# Chapter 30

By the time my father arrived I had already given my statement and been through the story several times. It had happened so fast details conflicted and since I had been on the inside both literally and figuratively my accounts of what went down were essential. Eventually they were satisfied and allowed my father to take me home.

"I don't want to go home, I want to see Geoff." A large piece of shrapnel had cut his arm deeply and broken it above the elbow. The cuts to his head he told me were superficial.

"About time you got here," he said as we entered his room. He was sitting in a wheel chair, his arm encased in plaster, a small bandage on his forehead over his left eye. They had given him a hospital gown to wear. I rushed to him and awkwardly hugged him, kissing him tenderly on his cheek.

"Thank God you're alright!"

"Thanks to you. The doctor said I could have lost my arm. You okay?"

"Not even a scratch." He held my hand and stared at me.

"Really. Nothing. Look." I broke away and twirled around. Not even a bruise."

"Well, let's get out of here then."

"You think that's a good idea?"

"I'm fine, Gregor. Thanks to your daughter. A broken arm is all," he said downplaying his injuries.

"Well," I said getting behind the chair and gripping the handles, "you're staying at my place. No argument." A trace of a smile flickered across my father's face, and he picked up the bag containing the remnants of Geoff's bloody clothes.

"I'm going to burn them. Even my socks. The smell will never come out."

My father held the door as I pushed him through. The police officer stationed outside nodded to us and followed discretely several paces back, then headed to the elevators after Geoff signed himself out at the desk.

"I really could use a drink, Sam." I had helped him wash and get into a change of clothes and we were sitting in the living room.

"Didn't they give you something?"

"At the hospital?" he said, incredulous.

"Pain killers, Geoff. Antibiotics?"

"Oh. No drink then."

"You'll have to settle for a cup of coffee. And one of Thea Maria's pastries. Something sweet. We both need to keep up our energy levels."

"Want to talk about it?" he said when I came back with the coffee and sweets. I shrugged.

"When did you know it was Avi? That was amazing."

"I didn't actually. It was the way he smoked. I mean what he did with the match afterward."

"The match?"

"Avi had a habit of bending it in half and twisting it. I noticed one of the Arabs do the same thing but it didn't register. Not until I saw the match on the counter."

"What counter?"

"The information counter. Near the escalators. The two Arabs -correction- the two men dressed like Arabs had been standing there smoking before all the commotion. I noticed it after I helped you up the stairs. By the way that's when I lost you. Where did you disappear too anyway?"

"Just after you dragged me up, Serge and one of his men dragged me back down. The ambulances were arriving, and they took me off. Most of the others went in the meat wagon."

"No survivors?"

"The two Israelis and their chauffeur were killed instantly. Just bits and pieces. Your friend Anastasio is in the hospital, and I heard he's not expected to make it. As luck would have it, it wasn't the blast that got him. He was getting out of his car and got rammed by the Israelis when their chauffeur tried to back out after the first blast. Jimmy was hurt when Anastasio's car blew. The blast sent the car forward and flipped it. He broke a few ribs and has a punctured lung. The Turkish minister was killed. And the priest. One with a broken neck, the other his head crushed."

"Jesus, will it ever end." He shrugged and sipped his coffee.

"I hope to God, it's over."

"It's never over, Sam. The best we can ever hope to achieve is to slow it down. Minimize it. But it'll never be over. It'll never stop."

"I killed a man today, Geoff, and I didn't even give it a thought. All I could think of was Sarah. I hated him so much I kept shooting and shooting."

"What you did was save a little girl's life." He moved closer and put his good arm around me.

Intellectually I understood. I did save that little girl. But at what cost? I killed a man. Took a human life. We were no different. Whatever the circumstances, whatever the situation we were both murderers. I was glad he was dead. I didn't regret killing him and that's what bothered me.

"Where's the brandy?" he said, getting up. "Pills or no pills. It's time to tie one on."

# Chapter 31

Gradually the memory began to fade, first the sounds and noises diminished and I slept a bit better, leaving me with a slow moving tableau of the final events. I'd never forget the Look on Avi's face as he fell back in shock. His mouth moved, lips formed unspoken words, when he realized I was his executioner. My therapist assured me the horror would diminish. Like violence and terrorism it couldn't be eradicated.

As the weeks went by I gradually pulled myself together. I ran and I swam, pushing myself, punishing my body, making it hard, tough, callused. Paula, my swimming coach wanted me to enter one of those mini-triathlons in the spring. Now I needed a bike.

My father, forever trying to root me in the real world, suggested a dinner party. It was time to start entertaining again. Besides, he said, he had a little surprise planned.

"I'd like to take you and Geoff out to dinner."

"Sounds nice," I said non-commitally. "Where?"

"Yes. Maybe invite Harry and... Jean is it?"

"Georges," I corrected."

"Right, Georges. Thought I'd even ask Winslow."

"Sure. Why not make it a party?" The list was growing.

"What about Joan and your friend Robert."

"Why not? And don't forget Hattie. She'll be a lot of fun."

"And Hattie," he repeated not batting an eye.

Well, his plans were thwarted. Harry and Georges couldn't make it. Robert was going to be out of town and according to my father was quite disappointed. I wasn't. Joan said she'd try but a last minute call from her claimed she was summoned back to Ottawa. And as for Hattie, I doubt he had even asked her. That left only the three of us and Winslow. To make the evening more intimate, my father thought he'd host us at home, after Maria had agreed to cook. Out of gratitude she agreed and outdid herself preparing enough food for an army. We ate and drank to our hearts content and Winslow with several glasses of wine under his belt became an entertaining and bawdy conversationalist.

"Gregor," he said. "Why did the gay psychologist refuse a date with Freud?"

He thought for a moment then gave up.

"Because he wasn't Jung enough. Get it?"

"Winslow, that's terrible! And on that note I think it's time to go into the living room. I have something to show you." He handed Geoff the bottle of brandy." Sam, would you mind?" he said nodding to the glasses.

I resisted the urge to salute and put them on a tray. I'd sworn off brandy and spirits of any kind for that matter, but I refilled my wine glass with the nice Bordeaux I had found in his basement cellar. Winslow winked at him as if sharing a secret and we went out. Maria had already set the deserts and coffee on the sideboard.

"Are we ready?" he asked when Geoff and I were seated.

"Okay, Winnie," he called to him in the kitchen. "Bring it in."

Winslow returned with a parcel and placed it on the chesterfield, untied the string and began to peel away the brown paper wrapping. I could see the edge of a gilt frame, another painting no doubt. What was it this time?

"Dad!" The antique frame enclosed the Domini Canes. "Are you two still at it?"

"Relax, Sammy. Take it easy, it's okay."

"More than okay," Winslow said.

"What do you mean? What's going on?" Winslow was laughing and my father looked like the cat that had swallowed the canary.

"It's mine now, Sammy. I bought the Domini Canes."

"You what...?"

"Yes, I bought it."

"Let's say, your father offered the museum a deal they couldn't refuse."

"My God. How much...? Never mind, I don't want to know." I put my hands over my ears. Geoff kneeled down to examine it more closely, the cast sticking out awkwardly. He kept shaking his head and whistling softly.

"Considering what we've all been through the last couple of months, it's only appropriate that I give it a permanent home, so to speak. In a way it was the cause of it all. And Sammy, I want you to have it."

"Dad. This is too... too... You don't just give priceless treasures away like that."

"Don't argue, Sammy. It'll be much safer on your walls. You don't forget to set the alarms. Besides, I doubt Harry could convince the insurance people to pay up a second time."

Winslow laughed. "Right. But you'd better upgrade your insurance policy just in case. Its value has already increased." He slapped his knee and laughed as if having put one over on my father.

"I'm not sure I can afford the premiums."

"It's only fitting you should have it, Sammy. After all, the Domini Canes -and I don't mean the painting- are still out to destroy heretics and infidels."

"You've got a point, Gregor. Every religious group seems to have their own Hounds of God." The mood suddenly turned serious and Geoff added for Winslow's benefit, that the Hounds of God, was the name of the group headed by Avi and Simon."

"The men with the tattoos, you mean?"

"Yes. They were part of the Mossad. Originally supposed to function as an elite special force. A special branch of highly trained soldiers but manipulated by Avi for his own ends."

"He corrupted the system he served," I said, "using this special group as his own personal task force."

"That's right and the best we can figure is that they managed to infiltrate the Kach."

"Whatever for?" Winslow wanted to know.

"Well, we're reaching a bit here. But we figure they intended to keep the Kach -the group that was based here- armed. They were training them in the use of explosives and terrorist tactics."

"Avi," I said," advocated terrorism for its own sake. Terrorism for him was an end in itself. He simply wanted to perpetuate the aggression. And the Kach movement is dedicated to preventing the Jews and PLO from reaching any kind of peaceful accord."

"So this group infiltrates them. They were behind this plot —these assassinations?"

"Exactly. Unfortunately," Geoff continued, "the four young Hassid were killed. That was never anticipated and it screwed things up for them. Avi then had to play a more involved role."

"Didn't the paper say an accomplice was killed?"

"He's the one we figure killed the nurse and cop at the hospital."

"Terrible. So many people killed. And for what?" He shook his head sadly. Who'd ever think this conflict, this.... this.. Holy War, would be fought on our doorstep."

"The whole world is their battleground, Winnie. The whole world. But... thanks to Sammy we've won a small part of it. You know, Winnie? It was a match that gave him away."

"A match?"

"Yes. You tell him Sammy."

"What luck," he said, after I explained. "Incredible."

"It was luck. The first time I saw it was at Lee-Ann's. And again later when I went back to her apartment for the money. There were a couple of matches floating in the toilet bowl."

"Absolutely amazing how close the man came to getting away with his plans."

"What's amazing is that I finally put two and two together. I was pretty slow to catch on. You know I'd also seen bent matches at the apartment where the three Arabs were killed. They were discarded in a flower pot."

"We closed the book on those murders too, thanks to Sam."

"And Avi was never a suspect. When his partner was killed we figured it was Lee-Ann. And with her gone, our troubles we thought would be over."

"Looks like Lee-Ann killed the wrong man."

"We're not sure about that, Gregor. It's quite possible Avi killed him. We'll probably never know."

"Well, we are damn sure he killed Sarah! And Bill. He still carried the same gun." I wondered if he was the man Lee-Ann said she saw crossing the street.

"Who planted the bombs? At the hotel." Winslow wanted to know.

"Avi or an accomplice, probably. It doesn't much matter now. The explosives had been attached to the underside of the cars. They were well organized, I'll give the bastards that! They waited until the cars were underground then detonated the charges. Avi, the fool, still had his detonator on him."

"Well, it's over. Let's try and forget them," my father said. "The Hounds of God are dead."

Some months later, around Easter, I received a postcard; a harbor scene. Fishermen and village boats somewhere in the Mediterranean. The stamp was Greek. There was no message.

One of the Hounds had survived.

# Copyright

Copyright © 2015 Victor C. Bush

ISBN 978-0-9940847-0-5

Cover photo: The Way of Salvation, Fresco by Andrea da Firenze, in Santa Maria Novella, Florence c. 1365-1367.

<http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Way-of-salvation-church-militant-triumphant-andrea-di-bonaiuto-1365.jpg>

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# DOMINI CANES

# DOMINI CANES

#  Domini Canes

In 1215 Domingus Guzman founded the Order of Black Friars. The Domini Canes or The Hounds of God sought to rid the Church of heretics.

Eight hundred years later The Hounds of God have returned to fight a new kind of Holy War.

Four Hassidic scholars are gunned down by PLO sympathizers outside McGill University in Montreal.

Criminology professor, Sarah Ann Milland's six year old God-daughter Sarah, is also killed, struck by a stray bullet; her mother Lee-Ann is severely injured. Sarah Ann Milland, Sam to her friends, is racked by guilt for having insisted the three of them meet for lunch.

While recovering in hospital, Lee-Ann disappears leaving behind a dead nurse and police guard.

Sam soon discovers that lee-Ann belongs to an elite Israeli hit force and is bent on avenging her husband's death. She disregards information that Lee-Ann has enormous funds secreted away, allegedly from assassination pay-offs. Sam steadfastly refuses to believe that Lee-Ann is really a Mossad assassin setting out to prove her innocence.

With the help of police detective Geoff London, Sam's ex husband and current lover, she undertakes to discover the truth about Lee-Ann.

The Hounds of God is a secret arm of the Mossad and a crack assassination team of which Lee-Ann is a member, and Sam in her quest to prove Lee-Ann's innocence becomes dangerously involved.

Terrorism, assassinations, cigarette smuggling, trade in illegal arms put Sam and those she loves in terrible danger. 
