

Not Exactly Dead (MI5 1/2, Book One)

By Kathryn Judson

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2003, 2011, 2014 Kathryn Judson

Revised April 24, 2014

All rights reserved

ISBN: 9781310802881

License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Characters, agencies, places, and policies are fictitious, or used fictitiously.

Other books in this series are _Not Exactly Innocent_ and _Not Exactly Allies_.

# CHAPTER 1- THE LADY IN THE TRUNK

_London, several years back, in the wee hours, in thickish fog_ – The driver of the luxury sedan (saloon, in Brit-speak) was driving amazingly well for a man who knew he had a gun pointed at his head. The man with the gun, on the other hand, was getting nervous. The driver didn't seem worried enough. People being kidnapped ought to be begging, the gunman thought. They ought to be falling over backwards to be nice to you, he thought. Someone being kidnapped ought not be acting so sure of himself, that was for certain. Maybe this was some sort of set up? The thought that maybe he'd been set up made the kidnapper angry. He wasn't sure how he could have been set up since he had the weapon and ought to be in charge. The uncertainty of what might be going wrong made him even more upset. "No funny business," he said from the back seat, trying to sound as gruff as possible. "If you start driving funny or try anything like reaching for gadgets, I'll just blow your [deleted] head off. I don't mind if we crash, see? I'm one of those lucky sods who doesn't care if he lives or dies, see?"

"I'm glad to hear it," a woman's voice said from behind the back seat. "And watch your language. There are ladies present."

The kidnapper dropped into a miserable, drugged heap. Behind him, a small, feminine arm pulled back behind a partially turned down seat. The driver reached back and deftly removed the gun from his abductor's limp hand, as a short woman of hard to guess middle age gingerly got the back seat turned down. The woman crawled into the car proper. After checking the kidnapper, and rearranging him some so he looked more like he was napping, she crawled into the front passenger seat and started to snap herself into the safety belt. She stopped, looked at the buckle quizzically, and shot a questioning glance at the driver. When he shrugged, she buckled herself in. A very observant person might have thought she braced herself just a bit as the two bits of the buckle connected. She smiled at the driver. "You'd be Richard Hugh, I believe," she said.

The driver didn't confirm or deny the name.

"Otherwise labeled Triple-O Five," the lady said.

The driver didn't bother to look astonished or confused, but he didn't confirm the code name, either.

"Unless, being British, you prefer Triple-Nought Five?"

Still no response.

"Or would that be something more formal yet? Treble-Nought Five, perhaps?" She thought she saw him bite his lip on the inside, but it didn't look as though he was going to budge. She decided to stick with Triple-O Five unless told otherwise. "I'm Emma Chapman. American. Code name Two Thousand Nine. And before you protest that Americans don't have a quad-number squad, perhaps you remember the project that got called the Frankenstein Project? That wasn't the official name, but it turned out enough monsters, heaven knows. I'm one of the survivors. Pleased to meet you, by the way. And if we're going to the Chunnel, don't you think we'd better lose our passenger first? Even a rookie inspector on a bad day is likely to notice what looks like a grown man dead in the back of a car, yes? Even if the fog doesn't lift? For that matter, I think we've upset a truck driver or two already. Excuse me, that should be lorry driver, shouldn't it? I haven't got a handle on the local lingo yet. Besides," she said, glancing back to reassure herself that the bad guy was still out cold, "he's not as dead as he looks and I estimate he'll be getting up, very grumpy likely, in about three quarters of an hour. Maybe less."

The driver quietly changed course.

"I hope that's relief I see on your face," Chapman said. "I know I'd be glad to know I wasn't in a vehicle with a murderess and a corpse."

The driver clearly didn't intend to respond to that.

Chapman fell into what could have been mistaken for companionable silence. Shortly afterward, the driver pulled into a curious garage in a curious location and some cheerful men in coveralls removed the unconscious kidnapper, and attacked the upholstery with high-powered vacuums and industrial strength fingerprint removers. "By the way," Chapman told the garage superintendent, "that new drug I used to knock the fellow out with? The recipients tend to wake up intensely angry and belligerent, and surprisingly agile and coordinated for someone who's been out cold. No need to worry about an antidote. It wears off nicely. Except for the mood problems."

"Right. Thanks for the warning," the superintendent said. "Perhaps you could name the drug for me?"

"I wish."

"Done here," the cleaning crew chief called out, with the pride of someone in charge of a really good pit crew.

"Out of here, both of you," the superintendent said to Chapman and the driver, "And don't count on us being here a second time."

"Of course not," Chapman said with a smile as she climbed back into the car. "NASCAR could probably use your services if you get tired of this," she called out as they left, which got her a harvest of sheepish grins.

"Really, I mean it," Chapman said to the driver. "Those guys are amazing."

The driver seemed determined to intimidate her with silence.

She matched his silence for a while. Then she laughed. "All right," she said, "in case you're wondering where to drive, I was hoping to get to Paris. I've come to England especially to talk to you. I don't need more than a few minutes for that, but I would appreciate a ride to France, if that's where you're heading. That is the case you're working on, isn't it? At any rate, for Pete's sake stop driving in circles. It's wasting gas."

"Why should you be worried about my petrol?" the driver asked in a cultured (but not snooty) voice.

"He talks! I thought he might have laryngitis or have had his vocal cords cut out," Chapman said to thin air. She shifted position, focus, and tone; getting businesslike. "Well, since you ask, Mr. Hugh, I happen to think you might need to make a run for it before the day is through, if my information is correct. Which it may not be, of course."

"Of course."

"I don't claim to be perfect."

"But you think you know enough to know who I am?"

"For an ordinary citizen, you'd be showing a curious lack of excitement over an apparently dead body in your back seat and women coming out of your trunk."

"Oh, are there more? You did say 'women', plural?" he asked, interrupting before she could get around to mentioning the curious garage and its even more curious pit crew, which, now that he thought about it, he probably shouldn't have visited with a conscious outsider along for the ride, much less an intruder he didn't know.

"Sloppy English. Sorry. Not women. Just me, sir."

"Oh, now it's 'sir'?"

"Over here, you do outrank me."

"Over here?" He raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, good grief," she said. She drew a phone from a pocket and (after a slight pause and glance in his direction) punched some numbers. She watched his hands as she did so and, sure enough, he reached toward where a man in his profession might be expected to have a holster, even in countries that officially frown on guns. He also, despite himself, glanced around to see if his kidnapper's gun was still lying about. It wasn't, of course. The men at the garage had taken it while they were cleaning. It wouldn't do to have a firearm of dubious history where it might get a stellar government employee suspected of unsolved murders or something.

"Hello," Chapman said into her phone. When she got a return "Hello" in a Received English accent, she held the phone in front of her, gathered her courage, focused her wits, and punched a button. A screen lit up to show a woman who looked like she was the sort to be in charge of things. (Please note: in those days, a phone with a video display was almost unheard of outside of elite circles. Also note: that Chapman could tie in to a covert British system was a rather impressive feat, as well as a subtle way of proving she wasn't your average civilian). "Hi. Remember me?" Chapman asked.

The woman on the other end appeared to be fighting noxious opinions, albeit in a dignified way. Chapman bit back a grin. "Yes, well, I'm in England and thought I ought to check in. Professional courtesy and all that. Could you quick run a voice check and confirm that I'm Two Thousand Nine from America?"

"You match," the woman-in-charge said, sounding a bit testy. "What's the point?"

Chapman noted that the woman didn't appear to bother with a voiceprint machine. She opted to let it pass. If Mrs. Wyatt wished to slide on through without high-tech backup, that was her call, and there wasn't any sense contradicting her.

On second thought, it was tempting to rub it in a little. Chapman kept her voice respectful, and the twinkle out of her eye, but said, "Very fast work, thank you, and now that you have the machine set up will you tell me if I'm dealing with Richard Hugh or with an imposter, please?" She swung the phone toward the driver. "Say something, okay?"

"Hello, chief. Sorry to bother you. I'll take it from here," he said.

Satisfied that bona fides had been established in both directions, Chapman said good-bye.

"Triple-O Five, are you in trouble?" the chief stuck in just before the connection closed.

After a few seconds of deep thought, Chapman said, "Maybe you should call her back?"

"Why?"

"If you want to be rescued when you don't need to be rescued, that's your business. But I'd like out before they get here if that's the case. It's too embarrassing, not to mention dangerous. All I need to tell you is that the maniac who keeps leaving Mighty Planetary Master messages on dead spies is probably on his way to England and I'm over here trying to intercept him."

"What has that to do with me?"

"I want to stick close to his next intended victim."

"And?"

"And, we caught him on a wiretap saying he was going to go get Richard for what he did to Nan, and from what we can tell, you're the most likely Richard. I haven't a clue which Nan he might be talking about. My agency can tie you to no less than eleven different Nancys or Nanettes." She paused politely, as if she hoped he'd drop a hint or two.

"Why not go to headquarters?" he said.

"You saw how your boss lady likes me. Give me a break."

Richard Hugh studied his passenger out of the corner of his eye. She looked rather like a middle-class woman who spent her spare time successfully selling raffle tickets for church bazaars. Her clothes were casual, but reasonably neat: tweed slacks, a brown shirt (not silky), sensible shoes with good, thick soles, a brown raincoat, perhaps reversible, with tannish lining. Nothing looked horribly expensive, or obviously cheap. Her shoulder length strawberry blonde hair was weeks late for a haircut and needed a wash. There was no gray in it, but it looked like it was beginning to fade. Her nails were neither particularly long nor particularly short, and were devoid of polish. Her head barely reached the bottom of the headrest. The faint and few lines in her face suggested that she smiled more often than not, but certainly wasn't one of those odd and scary people who did practically nothing but grin. This was hardly the sort of presence that would make his chief send out rescuers on his behalf, he thought. On the other hand, his chief had ended on an anxious note. Women! Inconceivable creatures, at best. He spoke at his dashboard. "Connect me with the chief. Give me a visual." A screen popped out of the lower dash, out of view of neighboring drivers. It stayed blank until the chief activated it at the other end. She came into view with one eyebrow raised. Hugh smiled and shrugged, as if to say he was sorry for any inconvenience. "So you know this lady?" he asked.

"I wish I didn't."

"Mind telling me why?"

"She attracts trouble."

"I don't attract trouble. I follow it. Sometimes I try to get in front of it, same as you guys," Chapman said.

Hugh gave in to temptation and smiled. It may have been a slightly condescending smile (although within bounds for well-bred gentlemen). After all, members of British intelligence are taught to take it as a matter of faith that no one else would – or could – operate the same way, much less as well as they; and he was in a special, unacknowledged branch of the service, decidedly elite. So of course it was silly that this slip of a foreigner was comparing herself to him. But there was no reason not to be polite about it. He managed to wipe the smile off his handsome, albeit middle-aged, face. He waited a few seconds to give his chief time to elaborate, but got only mute signals that Emma Chapman wasn't a welcome sight but certainly wasn't thought to be on the wrong side of things.

"I'm getting a later start than expected," Hugh said, "but I think I'll be able to make it to Paris for the party." He paused just slightly. "Over." Responding to 'over' said in isolation, the screen went dark and disappeared back into the dash.

Hugh assumed the chief could understand that he didn't want to discuss the matter any more than she did, at least not in front of his passenger. Besides, after all, the only real reason he'd called was to reassure her that he was in control of the situation. He considered that he had pulled that off, at least. He stifled a sigh. Female chiefs did need different managing than their male counterparts. Not that he didn't like this chief. But she did sometimes require more from a fellow than some of her predecessors, in his considered opinion.

Chapman looked at him until he acknowledged her presence. "Before I forget it," she said, "somebody called Hoddel – I'm guessing that's the crime boss Frank Hoddel, but that's just an educated guess – had several disgruntled and chatty men backing up the gunman who eventually fed you into the car. If their gossip is correct, there are three guys with sniper rifles near the Chunnel, masquerading as anti-terrorist patrols, meaning to knock you off if your kidnapper somehow didn't persuade you to drive off to wherever it was Hoddel wanted you. Unless you're going to change your route, why don't I drive, just for that part of the trip?"

"Not a chance."

"Just for–"

"No."

-

As they neared the Eurotunnel, Hugh mumbled, "I don't like this."

"Of course you don't," Chapman answered from the driver's seat. "No man in his right mind who has a very nice car can stand to have someone else driving it. Get back down and keep pretending to be napping. We're almost there. I hope you've stashed your gun and holster somewhere?" She took his stifled mumbling as reassurance that he'd properly hidden anything that might get them arrested or investigated. When he didn't sink out of sight fast enough for her liking, she shot him an exasperated look. He shot her an irritated look in return, but sank from view.

Chapman hummed a bravely happy tune, and shifted gears. It was a remarkably wonderful car in regard to gear shifting; everything felt so precise. On the other hand, even though the rearview mirror wasn't exactly right, she didn't fiddle with it. She could use the mirror if she craned her head. She treated that as good enough under the circumstances. The moisture on the windshield (windscreen in Brit-speak) was nearly enough to warrant wipers, but she didn't seem terribly interested in finding the wipers. A very observant person might have noticed that she was careful to keep her hands on the same spots on the steering wheel as much as possible, that she always shifted with her hand in exactly the same position, and that she lined her foot up carefully before she made contact with a pedal, as if she was afraid of touching something nasty if she deviated from previous efforts.

-

Hugh usually found ways to creatively fidget his way through the Chunnel – brush up on his French, read briefs, sing songs under his breath, practice whistling, whatever – but having a companion, especially a stranger, put a crimp in his style, he found. It helped his mood that she'd let him retake control of the car when it had come time to drive onto the train, but being in the driver's seat didn't help much, since it was almost impossible to ignore the fact that there was essentially an ocean above his head on this journey. He routinely argued for less expensive ways to travel across the Channel, but his superiors, bless them, couldn't seem to take the hint, and he'd decided he'd rather die than tell them he hated traveling under water.

"Ever been through the Chunnel?" he asked.

"No."

"Not much to it. Just a shortish spell of enforced idleness," he said, trying to sound encouraging.

"Do you mind if I read the paper?" she asked, eyeing a never-read paper in the back seat.

"It's yesterday's, I'm afraid."

"I'm sure there's something in there I don't know yet," she said. "Unless you're hinting it's not really a paper, but merely something disguised as a paper that–"

"Let me reach it for you," he said.

She turned out to be the sort of reader who read with intent focus. That put him in charge of watching out for both of them, he felt. That, and the fact he was the man in the car, not to mention the person on home turf. He got out to stretch, and to assess his surroundings. He made a point of looking pleasant and well to do, while giving off the impression that he was the sort of man who could look out for himself. It was an aura that had prevented trouble in the past. Besides that, he liked it. In short order, he could have provided a good description of the persons and vehicles in view, front or back. No one seemed particularly interested in him, unless you counted the woman in the car behind who puckered her lips at him in a playful stab at flirting, which he ignored. He got back in and waited for Chapman to nag him for being reckless or something. She kept reading. He wondered if she'd even noticed he'd been out.

"If you're waiting for me to remind you that you're suspected of having an ugly little checkmark next to your name, the fact is I didn't think you had forgotten. Anything you want a second set of eyes to check out?" she said, without looking up.

"No, thank you."

"Just holler if you want something."

"I'll let you know."

"Thanks for looking around."

"You're welcome."

"I don't suppose you're up on this stuff that's being reported out of Venezuela?"

"Can't say that I am."

"I think this reporter probably got led around by his nose on this story."

"It happens, I'm told."

"I'll leave you alone now, unless there's something you want to discuss."

"Can't think of anything, thanks."

Hugh picked up a section of paper and read, by habit holding the paper so it obscured part of his face, also by habit giving off the impression that he was aware of his surroundings without being wary. He moved the paper forward and back, trying to unobtrusively find a distance at which he could focus. The agency doctors wanted him to wear contact lenses, but weren't insisting upon it yet. Contact lenses seemed a massive bother, to be steadfastly avoided until actually needed. Glasses might be better, but only just. He wasn't looking forward to messing with those, either. He read half-heartedly. He liked his job, but sometimes too much came to a head at one time. Chapman's Mighty Planetary Master scare might be unfounded, but it had to be taken seriously. For another thing, Frank Hoddel wasn't by any means the only gangster he'd irritated lately. For that matter, worse yet, some sort of delayed reaction to having been kidnapped with a gun to his head was setting in. Not that he was afraid of dying. Not really. Not too much, anyway. Not during a crisis, at any rate. Dying whilst addressing an emergency seemed a manly way to go.

He wasn't about to let an American see him shake – even a little, even if mostly from relief – if he could help it, but his arms and hands weren't taking orders as well as they should, and the paper was amplifying the tremors. He set the paper down, and forced his mind onto other things.

Chapman kept reading, seemingly oblivious to his distress.

-

To Hugh's chagrin, Chapman somehow persuaded him to let her drive the first leg in France, on the theory that what she'd heard was that Hoddel's men were going to be near the Chunnel, but no one had said which side. He reluctantly and rather peevishly settled down for another 'nap.' Soon after, Chapman let loose a small whoop. It sounded very much like an ah-hah-so-I-was-right sort of a whoop. "You're not experimenting with any of the controls, are you?" Hugh asked. "I asked you not to, if you remember?"

This being before hands-off cell phones and other nifty devices transformed the world into one where people publicly talk to thin air as a matter of course, Chapman answered in a form of sing-song, so it would look like she was singing along to the radio instead of chatting with an invisible someone. (Besides, there's no sense hiding someone, and then talking toward the hiding place. It rather tends to defeat the purpose.) "Of course I'm not," she chanted more or less to a Rodgers and Hammerstein tune. "I just think we've found our guys. Three men in camo. Very interested in pearl gray sedans and keenly interested in the license plate. They swore when they saw me."

"I understand the sentiment," Hugh muttered to himself.

"Keep your head down if you want to take a peek to see if you know them. The shoulder this side of the road," she sang. "Behind us... now."

Hugh stuck his head up for a look. Gunfire erupted. Witheringly accurate gunfire, as it happened. If there hadn't been super-heavy-duty bulletproof glass in the way, Hugh would have had a serious head wound.

"I said to keep your head down!" Chapman snapped.

"You said to take a look!" he barked. He hadn't quite meant to bark, but having a bullet stop only inches from his face had jarred his normally placid nerves. Besides, as he reminded himself, the woman had barked first.

Chagrined even more by the attempt to justify himself than for the momentary lack of control, he sucked in a deep breath, tore his eyes off the bullet mark, and forced calmness into his voice. This was not a time to be arguing, not with his would-be killers piling into an oversize jeep-like vehicle. "I apologize–"

"Never mind that. I think I can bail out over the seat or something and let you in here, if you want to chance it. I don't feel real comfortable driving this particular car with mercenaries on our tail."

"Pull over. We'll switch then."

"Much better plan than mine. Thanks." She pulled over and stopped, shifted the seat back so Hugh would fit, and dove into the passenger seat. Hugh slid into the driver's seat, and pulled back into traffic. An onlooker could have been excused for thinking they'd rehearsed the procedure.

She pulled off a shoe and rummaged in it. She came out with three items that looked like they could be used to help prove authority. Her face fell as she looked at them. "Lovely, just lovely," she said, as she stuffed two of them back. "Let's try not to have to use this," she said, nodding at the credentials she'd decided to keep. "But if we do, for Pete's sake don't set it up so I have to say anything. The cover people have apparently seen fit to set me up as a mucky muck in the _Direction du Renseignement Militaire_ , and I don't speak French. Not enough for that, anyway."

After hearing her pronunciation of _Direction du Renseignement Militaire_ , Hugh agreed that she didn't know French well enough to pass as French, although he didn't say so. Plus, her being in the DRM was impossible, for several reasons that he didn't intend to state.

"What is that, anyway?" she asked. "Sounds like a Directorate of Military Intelligence maybe? Are they a secret police or something? I don't usually work in western Europe, to be honest with you."

"The others weren't any better, I take it," Hugh said, as he sped up some, but not enough to cause crashes (he hoped).

"The other options are a diplomat's ID from Zimbabwe, complete with a picture of a colleague of mine, and a badge for a Bobby Brown at Scotland Yard," Chapman said. "Bobby's spelled the masculine way. Or like slang for a cop. I'm not sure it's New Scotland Yard, either. The address seems funny."

Hugh hadn't the time to stare at his companion, but he gave the impression of staring by maintaining a prolonged silence as he drove. "By all means," he finally said, "I think you're best off with the one you selected. If you prefer being shot at sunrise to being laughed at on the spot, that is."

"Of course, your British suppliers have never goofed up that bad."

"Not recently, anyway," Hugh said. He allowed himself to project a rueful look that implied (correctly) that he had his own stories to tell about bureaucratic bungling (if, of course, he were the sort of man to tattle).

Chapman smiled her appreciation. "I won't tell anyone you said that," she said.

"You'd better not. On the bright side, if we're looking for a bright side, at least they issued you a phone that works over here."

"This time," Chapman said under her breath.

"What was that?"

"Nothing."

Hugh looked in the rearview mirror and didn't like what he saw. "Hang on," he said. "We might be in for trouble."

"I just love that good old British penchant for understatement," Chapman said, perhaps a bit overpolitely. "Oh, excuse me," she said, suddenly serious. "Were you hinting that I should call somebody?"

"No need, thanks. I've got it."

Chapman looked vaguely dubious. Hugh let her see him depressing a button in the steering wheel. She still looked vaguely dubious. Hugh decided that was reasonable for anyone whose life was possibly in danger, who was forced to rely on a stranger for protection, even a stranger known to be a seasoned agent, such as himself.

"Let me know if you want me to do anything," Chapman said.

"Will do."

# CHAPTER 2 – TURN AROUND

The would-be killers settled into a game of cat and mouse with Richard Hugh. Every once in a while, perhaps out of boredom, one or another of them let loose a bullet. Since the bullets ricocheted off the reinforced windows or thunked off the bulletproofed body of the car and weren't aimed at anything really vulnerable like tires, Hugh felt they were just playing with him. Not that, from their position, they could get a shot at the tires, especially now that he'd lowered the special mud flaps. He was taking great pains to prevent them from getting into a good position for a truly disabling shot. He did not find the game amusing. He turned off the main thoroughfare onto secondary roads, aiming for a place where he could unleash some firepower without involving civilians, or risking getting caught on hidden traffic cameras that were rumored to be thick as thieves along the main road toward Paris. Just as he thought how nice it was that his passenger was being mercifully quiet and letting him think, Emma Chapman spoke. "I wonder if that's significant, or just a fluke?" she said.

"What's that?"

"The oncoming traffic seems to be getting mighty thin up ahead."

He looked. There was a steady stream of vehicles almost to the horizon. Almost. Like perhaps a roadblock had just been set up just past where you could see. One could hope for a roadblock set up by proper law enforcement, though of course it might be an accident blocking traffic, or a herd of sheep crossing the road, or just a fluke. It might also be a roadblock set up by enemies. Time would tell. Until then, a man might as well stay quietly optimistic, with his wits primed to adapt as needed. That, and possibly send coded signals via buttons hidden under the carpet near one's left foot, and hope the right people got the message in time. But he disliked and distrusted advanced technologies and most gadgetry almost as much as he hated asking for help. If he'd been alone, broadcasting for help would have been out of the question. Having a passenger complicated things, though. Having a woman passenger especially complicated things.

"That's possibly good, isn't it?" Chapman commented, still looking ahead. "It might mean a roadblock, which means we might be getting help, I hope."

"Yes, if only they understand that the crooks are them and not us. After all, our pursuers are the ones in official dress. I think you'd better lose the DRM badge."

"I think you're right. I'd better lose the Scotland Yard and Zimbabwe stuff, too, don't you think?" She scrambled to dig the offending items out of her pocket and her shoe. "Do you have something – anything? – that will destroy them? Acid bath, maybe?"

"Heavy-duty shredder. It's ahead of you there. The green switch, I think."

Chapman froze halfway to the switch. "You think it's the green switch?" She sat back again, the color drained from her face.

"Hurry, will you? French officials aren't noted for their sense of humor about fake French officials. I haven't time to be locked up for three days whilst they sort us out."

"The last time I was in a British secret service car and somebody wasn't sure about the switches, I wound up having an unpleasant flight in an ejector seat equipped with an inadequate parachute. To be honest with you, I'd much rather be arrested."

Exasperated, Hugh reached over and flipped the green switch. Little knotted nails dropped on the road, puncturing tires of vehicles traveling behind them. Horrified, he flipped the switch back to its original position. Finding the way cleared as lamed cars yawed to the side of the road, his attackers smiled and saluted. Obnoxiously. One of them leveled his rifle over the roll bar and began shooting in earnest. The bulletproof windows and reinforced body armor of the gray saloon held, but each hit made a substantial thud or ping, and one or two hits sounded as if something was cracking. Doubly exasperated now, Hugh moved a toggle just to the left of the green switch. A small bin opened. Chapman shoved her dubious documents inside and closed the bin. A reassuring churring and clunking ensued. The bin slid back open. She lifted it from its holder, opened her window a few inches, dumped the mangled contents, and quickly shut the window tight again. The small mess she'd left on the road riveted the attention of one of their pursuers. As luck would have it, it was neither the driver nor the head sniper who'd been distracted. The driver and the head sniper were showing relatively good discipline so far, if you discounted the fact that conducting a running gun battle inside France was in and of itself a very stupid thing to do.

"Too bad they've got puncture-proof tires," Chapman said, wistfully. "Now that I know what the green switch is for," she added, deadpan.

Hugh thought the comment not worth acknowledging.

The driver of the jeep gunned his vehicle, bringing it right on the gray car's tail. Hugh grinned with malicious glee at him. The jeep driver dropped back, visibly disconcerted. The three men in the jeep started yelling at one another. Clearly they thought this job wasn't going as well as it should. Hugh was very happy about them being unhappy. "There. I think I have them a bit worried, anyway," he said, by way of reassuring his passenger.

"Pardon me for not being very reassured," she said, studying the killers behind them. "Oh, oh. The sniper's giving way to the third man. I think they're giving up on the rifle," she said. She submerged in her seat and ducked her head into her arms and audibly consigned her soul to God.

Hugh looked behind again, just in time to see the third man fire something that looked very much like a smaller anti-aircraft gun of some sort. The rear end of Hugh's car lifted several inches and crashed back down. Lights flashed all around. Sirens blared. French law enforcement vehicles materialized from two directions, forcing the saloon and jeep to stop. The French vehicles discharged serious looking officers, well-armed, and with the air of not being shy about using their weapons. This was, indeed, a proper roadblock if ever there was one. Hugh felt an odd twinge at being in the teeth of it, rather than being one of the teeth.

He suspected that the police were none too pleased with the chaps in military fatigues who'd been discharging firepower inside their precious country. But, he suspected, being French authorities they likely wouldn't blame the reckless gunmen nearly as much as the reckless gunmen's quarry for being silly enough to try and get away from what appeared to be an official patrol of some sort, and never mind if the French police weren't sure themselves which agency had sent out the patrol – it was the principle of the thing.

He considered trying to remove and hide his holster and gun, but discarded the idea. For one thing, the French policemen were eyeing him closely, and at least one of them would undoubtedly see him at it and would almost certainly assume he was up to no good. For another, he wasn't convinced he might not need firepower, if the three chaps in the jeep were as stupid as he was beginning to fear they were. He got out of the car and put his hands in the air in a well-practiced but natural-looking manner that didn't put the shoulders high enough to splay his jacket enough to show the holster, and prepared to be the model detainee. He tried to look resigned but innocent as he swept his eyes over the French officers, looking for a familiar face as well as watching for any signs of nervousness that might need to be quelled before it got out of hand. (Or redirected. He wasn't sure that he'd mind very much if one of the French cops panicked and shot one or more of the chaps from the jeep. It was an unworthy sentiment, and he knew it, but at the moment it was pleasing to play with the idea.)

After sulking some for show, Chapman stepped out of the car and more or less exploded, after the manner of a well-connected Englishwoman accustomed to having the way smoothed for her. "What is going on around here?! I want to talk to the man in charge. Who's in charge? All right, I'll just find out who is," she said as she punched buttons on her phone. "Honestly!" she huffed, as she waited for the connection to be made. "Jennifer, I need to know who's in charge of northern French security. Really in charge... Are you sure? Right, thank you." She rang off. She looked at the nearest French officer. He was looking unhappy. "Oh, it's just a phone. Here, do you want to look?" she said, as she offered him the device.

The officer did not want to look. He'd been concerned that she had one of those phones that housed a gun. There had been a great deal of trouble with those. Now he was afraid it hid a bomb or something.

"Oh, all right, will it make you happy if I put my hands in the air until this gets sorted out?" Chapman said to the line-up in general. She didn't roll her eyes, but she might as well have; she gave that impression.

The man in charge eased through his men until he was front and center. "We would be most happy if you would," he said. "Please place your phone upon the ground first, slowly and carefully. Thank you."

She placed the phone on the ground, and turned to the three men who'd been chasing them. They were clearly trying to factor in what to do about her, and no wonder. They'd been sent after a man fitting a detailed description and driving a specific car. No one had told them about a woman, much less an outraged and outrageous, possibly crazy, woman. She glared at them. "Who are you and why have you been shooting at us? I already know you answer to a man named Maigret. Right?" The bazooka man nodded his head automatically. The startled driver shook his head. The sniper, the quickest-witted and coolest of the lot, watched the French officers out of the corner of his eye to see their reaction. He shook his head.

Hugh, sensing where this was going, and finally over his shock at Emma Chapman morphing into a quite passable Englishwoman, said, "Pardon me. But that's the French fellow." He winked at the French commander. "These fellows seem English. I'm not sure but that they answer to Lord Peter Wimsey?" He nodded his head in sympathetic encouragement at the three men. "Yes?"

The driver and the bazooka man both nodded. One might even have thought they were grateful for the help in sorting this out. The sniper smelled trouble and pointed officiously at Hugh. "We've been ordered to take him in. I don't know who the woman is, but they'll want to talk to her as a likely accomplice."

The commander looked carefully at Hugh, who looked him in the eye and said, "I believe there's been a horrible mix-up. Please let me hand you my documents and you can call it in if you want and check for warrants or whatever it is that you do." He handed over a driver's license, unobtrusively tapping it to draw the commander's attention to a precise spot on it.

The commander made a show of going to his car and checking in. He came back with a studiously official look, and handed back the license. "Obviously there has been some mistake," he said. "I am most sorry. You understand, of course, that we must take such matters seriously, and regrettably there are sometimes the mixings-up?"

Hugh graciously assented that he understood entirely.

"Do you think your vehicle can make it back, or shall I arrange for repairs to be done in France?" the commander asked with exaggerated politeness.

"Oh, I'm quite sure I can make it all right, thank you," Hugh said. He opened the passenger door and handed Chapman in. He hopped round to his own side and settled into the seat and started the engine, exuding efficiency while trying to not look unduly hasty.

"To make sure you get out all right, I will provide for you an escort," the commander said, waving some of his subordinates into their cars.

"Oh, not necessary," Hugh said politely.

"Oh, but I insist," the commander said, in a tone of voice that cut off negotiations. He leaned in closer and whispered, "You will take the ferry back to England, I think."

Hugh gritted his teeth, but nodded. Standard procedure on this level of foray was to let yourself be kicked out of a country quietly if someone with local authority insisted. The higher-ups would then alternately fling insults and reassurances at one another out of public view, and swap a few notes, and then everyone would agree that both sides had held up their side admirably, and finally everyone could go back to chasing criminals. It was a bother and a shame, but this sort of thing happened in international investigations. The French commander undoubtedly had his orders regarding British agents. It was no good asking him to pretend he didn't.

The French contingent made a great show of directing Hugh into the lanes headed back to England. A French car fell in behind him. Another pulled in front to act as guide. The little convoy headed out.

"A bit tired of British agents coming across the border in gussied up tanks, are they?" Chapman asked, her voice and manners back to American. She got no answer. "I don't suppose I could look at that license you handed the French captain or whatever he was?" she asked. She got no answer. "I just wanted to look at that part of it you tapped as you handed it over. You have some kind of code there to show they need to call the Foreign Office or something?" She got no answer. "He did seem to pick up very quickly that you were unofficially very official."

Hugh shrugged. "Durand and I know each other fairly well," he said.

"In other words, I didn't need to go through that nonsense about Maigret?"

He didn't answer, but looked like he'd like to say something.

"All right," she said. "I might have pulled any name from thin air, as long as it was the wrong one, but I picked the most famous fictional French detective. It was taking a bit of a chance, I know. But I figured that every French policeman alive has heard of Maigret. Love him or hate him, they'll have heard of him. I wasn't so sure that our jeep contingent would be up on old detective fiction. All I wanted to do was to make the real officials wonder if the strangers from the other bank were on the up and up. By the way, I thought adding Lord Peter Wimsey was a nice touch. Played pretty wide, maybe, but your friend Durand got a kick out of it. The younger officers, for the most part, didn't pick up on the joke, but their boss sure did. What's Durand's first name, anyway?"

"Leandre."

"Fits him, somehow. Do you suppose he's read all the Wimsey books? I'd be glad to send him a first edition or two for sweeping us out of there like that. Sayers, is it? Or is it Allingham? Aird? I forget. Sayers, I think. Dorothy, is it? I keep getting my British authors mixed up, except for Christie, and Manning Coles. They're easier to keep straight, for whatever reason, at least for me. By the way, should we drop Durand a hint that the three he's just picked up are possibly in the employ of Hoddel?"

"I've got it covered, thanks," Hugh said, trying by tone and manner to be mysterious enough to imply that perhaps he'd done so already. Never mind that he hadn't.

The car gave a small lurch and made an unhealthy clicking noise, distressingly irregular. Hugh experimented with changing gears and speed, jiggling the steering wheel, and other maneuvers, until the noise went away. Chapman stopped talking, and let him concentrate on his driving.

When they reached the dock, their police escort explained to the ferry officials that the fresh bullet dings and other damage to the British car were properly accounted for – then resolutely stood guard to prevent the British car or its occupants from somehow slipping off the ferry and back into France. It was not until after the ferry was well underway that they returned to their cars and left. Durand, it appeared, had given them strict instructions via phone or radio. Either that, or they were taking advantage of the rare chance to stand about, watching waves, without a supervisor looking over their shoulder. At any rate, they made themselves look as impressive and dauntless as possible.

-

"I'll check back, probably just before docking," Chapman said, as soon as she and Hugh were on board. She got out of the car and left.

During the voyage back across the English Channel, Hugh saw Chapman several times but she didn't seem to see him. She looked out over the water. She ate at the snack bar. She visited happily with other passengers. She strolled all over the ship. Once, when he walked past her while she was chatting with a renowned scientist, Hugh thought he heard her saying playfully that she had learned Boyle's Law and Charles' Law the same week and had never got them untangled one from the other, but that anything to do with Bernoulli was different, because it was more challenging. He hurried away. He wasn't sure that he had Boyle's Law and Charles' Law straight either, though he was fairly certain that they had something to do with the properties of gasses.

Halfway across, the ferryboat's second-in-command struck up a conversation with Hugh and invited him to see the command center. The security guard for the command center seemed to be on awfully high alert, but other than that nothing about the voyage struck Hugh as interesting. Of course, he didn't see the second-in-command winking at Chapman as she strolled by.

Hugh didn't see Chapman the last half of the ferry trip. No one did, for that matter.

-

On the drive back to London, Chapman let Hugh concentrate on nursing the vehicle home. She wondered, briefly, why he didn't call and have his agency send a tow truck. Or, better yet, a box truck. She'd heard that upscale cars in Europe were generally hauled along to repair shops inside a truck, to prevent embarrassment to the manufacturers and rich owners. She expected, though, that she knew the answer and she suspected that the British agent would fib about it. She guessed that, like most men she knew, he'd hate to call for a tow while he had the remotest chance of coaxing the vehicle along. She suspected that he'd say he was being practical, or saving taxpayer money, or not wasting time sitting around waiting for someone to show up, or something like that. There was no sense, as far as she could see, in asking about it.

A very observant person would have noted that she systemically but discreetly scanned her surroundings, paying particular attention to any vehicles that were getting relatively closer, and pedestrians who seemed to be hanging around near cover and/or keying in on the pearl gray saloon.

# CHAPTER 3 – PLAN B

The car's communication system broadcast a series of hums and beeps, signaling that a dispatcher had a message to relay, at the agent's earliest convenience. Richard spoke toward the proper position on the dash, telling it to proceed at half volume. That way, at least in theory, he could still listen to the car in case it made further troubling noises. A formal, official, female voice proceeded, as if announcing the weather. "An informant reported that there might be an estimated three men perhaps armed with sniper rifles, waiting for you at or near one of the Eurotunnel entrances, most likely disguised as an anti-terrorist unit. Reporting Party heard, but was not able to confirm, that these men are in the employ of someone named Hoddel. The RP also told us to try to inform you secretly that there are at least five hostiles waiting for you near where you parked your car last night. RP proposed to hide in your car if feasible, to provide backup, and asks that you 'not, repeat not, shoot first and ask questions later if a woman pops out of your trunk.'"

Hugh stared straight ahead, trying not to turn red, whilst fighting off a childish impulse to cut off communications, turn on the radio, and pretend that he hadn't heard anything from an apparently incompetent command center. This is not to mention that he'd been happily harboring a grudge against Chapman for not going through channels, when obviously she had. Oblivious to Hugh's distress, the woman continued, her tone more conversational than before. "Sorry, sir. I know that's a nonstandard report. A new girl, sir, who hasn't quite got the hang of writing proper briefs, took it down, without factoring in that it must be in some sort of code, considering the improbability of the content. Since the RP broke off before a more senior person could conduct an interview and obtain a key for coded portions, we've had a bit of a time trying to decipher it. Perhaps you could shed some light? We rather guess the RP meant your boot instead of your trunk, unless that's code for something we don't know about? Unless you've been issued a trunk and we've not been notified?"

Emma Chapman seemed to be admiring the clouds. They were not pretty clouds. They were a solid mass of varying shades of rather ugly gray. At least the fog had lifted, so she didn't have to pretend to admire fog. Hugh didn't much feel like discussing boots vs. trunks under the circumstances. "Any information on the reporting party?" he asked.

"Oh, American, but experienced and quite reliable in her own fashion. We, of course, checked, sir."

"And, when, if it's not too much trouble, did this report come in?"

The woman, back in weather-casting mode, gave a precise call-in time, which Hugh reckoned to be about ten minutes prior to his being ambushed. He took a deep breath. When he spoke, his voice was also in weather-station mode. "Just so everyone is up to date, before dawn a man with a gun forced me into my car. Said assailant was turned over unconscious to Auxiliary Technical Unit NE27, and should have been available for questioning hours ago. Three men posing as an anti-terrorist unit ambushed me just inside France. They are in French custody. I am unharmed, but the vehicle is drawing unwanted attention due to bullet damage, not to mention uncustomary noises. If you think you can do so in less time than it took to get this report to me, could you make sure that appropriate persons at HQ got the report that I transmitted shortly after I boarded a ferry from France? If they didn't, tell them that I am en route to the labs. I would appreciate a new vehicle or quick repairs on this one, and/or the office having air or train transport lined up for Paris. For two people, please, just in case. American quad-number 2009 is working parallel with me and is with me at present. I will give particulars when I get there, but make sure we have someone available for what we're likely to need, will you? Any questions?"

"If any come up, I'll have my supervisor review the recording," the woman said, clearly intending to convey to Hugh that she thought he'd been insufferable, and that her supervisor would agree, and that it was all to the good that she had a recording with which to substantiate her grievance against a man who clearly didn't properly appreciate the hours of work they'd put in so far, just on this one message.

"Just be ready for me, will you?" Hugh asked, patience written into his voice.

The woman properly heard it as over-tried patience. "Over and out," she snapped, breaking off communications from her end, quite against protocol.

Hugh tried to grit his teeth without tensing his face muscles, hoping to keep his frustration hidden from the woman in the passenger seat. The current crop of dispatchers were prone to making themselves feel powerful by showing field agents they could take the upper hand. It was bad enough when they did it when only persons from the agency were around. That one of them would get uppity after being told a foreign agent was present was very nearly beyond endurance.

There was a silence of a good two minutes, which of course seemed longer than two minutes because of the heavy silence and because both people in the car were trying to avoid eye contact without looking like they were avoiding eye contact. Chapman spoke first. "All right, which of us is going to say it?"

"Say what?"

"That we're even, bad badges for fumbled messages."

Hugh didn't reply.

"We are even, aren't we? My side messed up, leaving me with no good cover and several bad ones that could have gotten me arrested, at the very least; and your side just let you down in a way that easily could have got you killed. I'd say we're even. So let's forget it, why don't we? Well, I expect that you'll want to talk to your HQ about your dispatching mess and I'm certainly going to let my side know about the credentials fiasco, but, I mean, between us, why don't we call it square?"

Hugh did not reply to this, either.

"I noticed you said you might be needing this, that or the other thing for me?" Chapman said, changing tack.

"We might decide to keep you where we can see you," Hugh said. His voice subtly registered his disapproval of her horning in on his territory.

Chapman forced some cheerfulness into her voice. "Moving right along, unless you want to try to explain having an American with you when you report to some secret site, why don't you drop me off somewhere and we can meet at a restaurant or something later? There seem to be several good candidates along this street. There. That looks likely. I like the mix of people coming out of it. What's its name?" She jockeyed for a look through the plane trees (she thought of them as sycamores) lining the street. "The Stuffed Pelican? Yikes. What a name. I hope it hasn't got stuffed birds with plastic fish sticking out of their mouths for decoration. But..." She looked carefully at the people coming and going. "...I do like the looks of it. Executives to housewives to students, all well-groomed, washed, polite-looking. Why don't you drop me off a few blocks from here and I'll shop my way back, and aim to be there about 4:30, unless you have another plan?" She paused. Getting no clue from Hugh, she went on. "Here's my phone number, so you can get hold of me if you want." She wrote it on a slip of paper and handed it over. "And I'll call you guys if the restaurant doesn't feel acceptable on the inside. If your chief wants to talk to me, I can come down by taxi or bus to the British Museum, and walk from there."

"You're sure you know where it is?"

"I haven't been there in three years, that's true. I know the main research lab has been moved, and so far I don't know to where, but I'd be very surprised if HQ moved. I'm not saying you guys aren't adaptable, or that the old place didn't need a lot of work. Last time I was there, buckets had been placed around to catch drips. But however manfully the department heads try to change things, this is a bureaucracy we're talking about, isn't it? And monsters like that tend to stay put, don't they?"

"I'll let you know," Hugh said as he pulled to the curb.

"Of course, MI5½ is smaller and more nimble than its larger and better known counterparts. Not to mention more, shall we say, feisty? You-all might have just moved yourselves out to your own location..." Chapman let the sentence dangle.

"I'll let you know," Hugh repeated, with as much neutrality in his voice as he could muster.

"Oh, tell me you haven't been shoehorned in under MI6's wings? There was some talk of that happening." This was met with a pointed silence. Chapman gave up fishing. "Just don't forget that the idiot who calls himself Mighty Planetary Master probably has you on his hit list. I want him stopped," she said. She got out of the car, paying no attention to the damage (like it was old stuff, and no longer to be bothered about), and sent Hugh on his way with a friendly wave.

Hugh manfully unclenched his jaw and went on his way mentally muttering under his breath. He wished that Americans would get out of the habit of calling his sub-agency MI5½. So what if it neatly encapsulated the concept of this branch having both foreign and domestic duties and privileges? He really wished they would just stop using it, all the more so because it was also meant sometimes as a jab, as in 'hey, you don't rank your own full number, lads, hah!' Not that Emma Chapman had sounded like she meant it that way. One might even think she thought it an admirable organization. As it was. It was one of the best, if unsung, and he rather liked that it was unsung. Being unsung meant that it got less than an average intelligence bureau's share of glory hounds. It got some, of course, but the average self-serving sort wanted to work somewhere he could brag about in fiction-enhanced memoirs.

But, the woman would bring up buckets and drips. There had been a new outbreak of leaks, and it rankled. So did the reference to MI6. MI6 liked to lord it over the other agencies. Especially his, he thought.

Giving in to a sudden curiosity and wariness, he looped back to see what Chapman was up to now that she thought she was on her own and unobserved.

She was easy enough to find, just meandering along like any tourist. She seemed a bit lost. She smiled at him to acknowledge that she'd seen him, but her eyes held enough wariness that he realized that she was concerned about his reappearance. As well she might be, he realized, considering what the two of them did for a living, and why she was in the country. He slowed to a crawl, and hung his head out the window. "Missed my turnoff, have to go at it again, that's all," he called out, trying to be reassuring. Bystanders were amused. Chapman smiled sympathetically enough, but didn't seem to buy the lie. Chagrined, he headed off again.

Chapman watched until he was out of sight.

A couple of older women chuckled. "Is he as adorable as he looks?" one asked.

"We've just met, actually," Chapman said. "Earlier today, I mean."

"Ooh, and he can't stand not catching another glimpse of you? That's nice," the woman cooed, before her embarrassed companion muttered warnings about strange men and dragged her away.

-

When Hugh got to the labs, there was a small group of men standing about, eager to see the damage to his vehicle. They were most impressed by the underneath of the car, where the missile had exploded. Hugh was congratulated all around on getting the vehicle home under its own power.

A young woman marched up to the party and latched onto Hugh. "Off you go, the chief said to tell you. And you might as well hop to it because she said she'll decide what she wants from us only after she talks to you," she told him as she steered him to a waiting limo.

"You're gorgeous when you're being efficient, Felicity," Hugh told her. He kissed her hand as he stepped past her and into the vehicle.

"Still incorrigible, are we?" the limo driver asked. He double-checked that all the safety features were in place – windows up and locked, with full tint so no one could see the passenger; doors double-locked, under-carriage camera in operation...

Hugh watched the man going down his mental checklist. "Still doing pre-flights, are we?"

"Always," the driver replied, with a wink. "When I have the time, of course."

"Of course."

"Just the one of us today?" the driver asked, having got down his list to where he checked that everyone was on board. "Chief said you might have company."

"I'm meeting her later."

"Her, eh?"

"Never mind."

"That hot, eh?" the driver quipped. Getting no encouragement, he raised a bulletproof and soundproof barrier between them and eased the big car out the garage door. Soon they were driving sedately along, with heads turning to admire the limo and wonder who was in it.

Hugh felt vaguely boxed in and trapped, like he usually did when in the back of a limo. He didn't mind stepping out of an amazing car at a high-class function and soaking up admiring glances, but he'd just as soon skip the riding around part of the charade. Besides preferring, in general, to have the wheel in any vehicle, he knew that nearly every 'safety feature' in one of the department's limos could be used against whoever wasn't in the driver's seat. He was, therefore, at the mercy of the driver, something he didn't like at all. He looked up to see the driver looking at him in the rearview mirror, almost forgivingly, he thought. That was the other thing. Some of the drivers seemed able to pick up on his nervousness. Annoying, that. He pushed the 'talk to driver' button.

The driver opened a small window in the barrier. "Yes, sir?"

"I'm sure I don't need to mention this, since I'm sure you're always on guard, so I don't mean any offense..."

"Sir?"

"I've been shot at today and there's good reason to suspect I still have someone on my tail. I didn't notice anyone on my way over, but..."

"A little extra caution would be nice."

"Right."

"No offense taken, sir. And thanks. It's nice to know when trouble is more likely. Makes my job a bit easier. Is there anything else?"

"No, thank you."

The window closed. Hugh sat back and stifled a sigh. He'd been given what looked to be a fairly simple reconnaissance mission in Paris. He liked Paris, or at least the part of it he was expected to run around in for this type of thing. He liked playing the role he'd been asked to play, too. He was good at coming across as a high class high roller, if he did say so himself. But now, suddenly, he was being sidetracked by a major assault by Frank Hoddel's gang, and a projected assassination attempt by a lunatic who appeared to have decided to kill spies on a full-time basis, not to mention an American agent who wanted to use him as bait for the lunatic who appeared to have decided to kill spies on a full-time basis. Really, it was not the best day he'd ever had. On top of that, it was a very short American agent. At least the Americans might have sent him a John Wayne look-alike or some hard-muscled martial arts expert, or... or something. He wanted to be fair about it, but there was no getting around the fact he felt at least slightly humiliated being rescued by someone like Emma Chapman.

What she thought she was going to be able to do if she ever ran across the so-called Mighty Planetary Master he couldn't imagine. Probably call it in, to alert some covert special operations team to its target. Surely she was just a bird dog, sent roving to sniff out the bastard? That thought didn't help. Suddenly he was sure she would need protection. Surely–

No. Wait. On second thought, it occurred to him that he didn't know enough about Emma Chapman to be sure of anything.

He turned his mind to more familiar ground. Just his luck, now that there wasn't proper time to waste on him, now Frank Hoddel would make a move. On top of that, having his kidnapper and assassins drop out of sight would likely make the gangster even tougher to smoke out, since he'd undoubtedly increase security and secrecy measures. Therefore, the case was likely in worse shape than ever – plus Hoddel would probably be more ruthless than usual, which was saying something, if the information they had on the man was correct.

Hugh caught himself thinking "Angels of mercy and ministers of grace, preserve us." Silly that, a mental tic probably picked up from his father, who tended to say it as a joke. Invoking Pascal's Wager, Hugh sent silent apologies for his flippancy skyward, in case there were angels of mercy. He rather doubted it, looking at the world, but the sincerely Catholic Leandre Durand had arguments in the other direction that almost made sense. Almost. Sometimes.

Speaking of Durand, Hugh looked forward to hearing Durand's explanation for giving him the bum's rush out of France. That's if he could get the man to give one. Durand was one of the few men on the planet who didn't care the least little tiny bit if you didn't like it if he kept his own counsel.

-

At HQ, the chief didn't waste any time. "Come in, sit down, and don't fume if you can help it Triple-O Five. I understand you have reason to be upset. So have I. Great clumps of support staff seem to be suffering from mass senility, or something. Honestly, you'd think they'd tumble to the fact that if someone knows enough to tie into our command center directly, they're someone worth keying in on with all available speed, if for no other reason than to try to figure out how in the world they know how to tie into that level directly. This is not to mention that a message of clear and present danger should have been buzzed right out to you, instead of being shuffled over to the check-this-out-and-see-what-you-think desk. Or they might have thought about rounding you up some backup. That might have been intelligent. I apologize. I'm following up. Now, to business. The party tonight in Paris was just icing. We can skip that. The real show is tomorrow night. So let's take our time and get our ducks in a row. Like Emma Chapman. Where is she and what is she doing over here?"

Not comfortable with Mrs. Wyatt's intensity and attitude, Hugh affected an understated everything-under-control-at-this-end manner and said, "Presently, she's planning on doing a spot of shopping and meeting me at a restaurant any time after sixteen-thirty that I can get there, unless she gets word to the contrary, or unless she finds the restaurant unsuitable, in which case she'll call us."

"You told us that you may be traveling with her to Paris and might need papers, or tickets, or something. The message I got was rather foggy and swirly. You said she was working on a parallel mission? Are the Americans also going after Finley's continental operations?"

"I don't know. Yet."

"Fair enough, for now, under the circumstances. Should we equip her with anything to help her blend in with what you're doing? Clothing? Jewelry?"

"It wouldn't hurt, if she winds up going. I haven't any idea what she has at her disposal."

"Rather than call her supervisor and give him a chance to put his oar in, I think we'll just set her up our own way and deal with Uncle Sam later. That she checked in with us and is willing to go to Paris with you says she's willing to cooperate, right?"

Hugh let it look like his attention had wandered and he hadn't heard. The chief let his stunt pass. That he hadn't warned her off was enough, for present purposes. Besides, there was no good reason he should openly approve of doing an end run around American spy handlers.

The chief read from a file on her computer. "It says here that at last report she was a fraction taller than 4'11", weighed 115 pounds, measurements in inches 35-29-38... must have lost her girlish wasp-waist... was rather famous for it, if you don't know. Oh my, she wears a children's size shoe. My word, I forget between times what a midget the woman is. At any rate, does she look like she's much heavier or lighter than that these days?"

"I'd have guessed just above that, but not much. Perhaps a size up, but no more than that. If that. But, then, precision sizing women by looks isn't precisely my forte."

"Right, then. Hang on while I call it in. They're apt to need time to do shortening up."

Hugh tried to not fidget while his chief arranged wardrobe and accessories. His mind tried to picture Emma Chapman with a wasp waist, for one thing. For another, if you wanted to be accurate, Chapman wasn't precisely a midget. On the other hand, there was no question but that her hands and feet were uncommonly small. Her hands were almost dainty, really, if you could call middle-aged hands dainty. He wondered about the linguistics. Dainty implied flawless complexion to him in addition to small size and delicate proportions. He wondered if that was the real definition or something he'd fallen into by mistake.

"Now, then, let's talk about you," the chief said as soon as she rang off. "I've been told that you're unharmed. You looked fine walking in here. But? Any problems we need to take into consideration?" He shook his head. The chief continued, "The lab said they should be able to have more or less the same car ready to roll, fresh as new, in three hours or less. Any reason you need a different car?"

Hugh hesitated a fraction of a second before answering. "No. Hoddel's men might be looking for the car, but they'll be expecting a mauled one. If the number plate is different, it should be all right."

The chief responded to the hesitation instead of the statement. "But a different color might be nice? Let me see how long that would take." She hopped back on the phone. "They'll make it darker. No difference in the time frame," she announced after she hung up. "They tell me painting the whole car is as fast, or faster, than doing touchup on mended places. Or they might pop a new body on. There was a bit of jabber both ways, which I'm translating as them saying 'Trust us.' Which of course was the idea in the first place." She shook her head.

Hugh thought she might be fighting off the urge to roll her eyes. "They can be sensitive at the labs," he conceded. "Artists at heart, you know."

The chief ignored his commentary. "All right, then. Covers... back stories... whatever the proper term for it is this week. Do you and this Chapman woman want to look like you're together? Or like strangers? Hang on..." Wyatt said, closing one file, opening another, then going back to the first one. She stared at the screen. She shook her head. "Just what we need – a bit of weirdness."

Hugh raised an eyebrow. "You sound a bit as if the devil just caught up to you, as grandfather used to say."

"Oh, sorry. I was just confirming how old she was, to know whether to consider casting her as a sister or an aunt or what have you. Guess how old she is? No, don't guess. We haven't time. She's your age. Literally. You're twins. What are the odds of that, I wonder?"

Hugh swallowed hard. He wished he hadn't made the crack about the devil catching up to someone. There were folk tales about twins you didn't know about; the evil creatures were about as nice to have show up on your doorstep as changelings with mischief in their twisted, nonhuman hearts. (Not that changelings or evil twins were really real, of course. Surely not.) He tried to read the chief's reaction. She didn't seem to be thinking about supernatural trouble. Of course, she didn't come from the same part of the realm, and hadn't been raised on the same nursery nonsense. He squirmed, feeling very silly that bedtime stories still raised their ugly heads in his grownup life, and said boo at awkward moments.

"Oh, don't worry, Triple-O Five," Wyatt said, oblivious to the fact she'd kicked a superstition loose, "I wouldn't ask you to try to act like twins."

She sank deep in thought, trying to recall something that was filed in the far corners of her mind. "Oh, I remember something," she said. "I saw her once at a high society dinner. She was the only woman not dressed in black, bright red, or the gold-braided monstrosities that were considered fashionable at the time. She had on a dark brown dress, very plain, and very effective. I wondered why the brown, until I saw her stand in front of someone wearing black. She's one of those women who has all the color sucked out of them when they wear some types of black. Then I saw her beside someone in red. She's hideous in association with bright red. Neither color is worth the risk, in any case. She'd draw the wrong sort of attention. Hang on." She picked up the phone and told the wardrobe people to avoid blacks and reds, and to try brown or blue or some sort of green instead. She turned back to Hugh. "I guess the main point is that she behaved beautifully. You would've thought she was a top debutante who'd moved on to being the perfect high society wife. Did it straight, too. Not a shred of pathos or irony anywhere. It's an awfully hard role for a modern, independent woman to get right, and probably doubly hard for Chapman, given her background. I'd nearly forgotten, because she was careful to be forgettable. Nice job. So I know she can pull off looking like a high-class wife. Are you feeling up to the idea of posing as a husband? It would give you the chance to work as closely or as far apart as you like. With the girlfriend routine, people expect you to stick close. Wives you can shed for much of the day without turning heads. Oh, in case I haven't mentioned it, Chapman's widowed but not likely to make herself too accommodating. In this case, given her looks or lack of them, we may want to work off the rich heiress angle, but I'll leave details like that to you. We could get her a place to stay tonight, if she doesn't have one yet, and the two of you could meet up in the morning and go down to Paris. Yes? No?"

He thought for a few seconds. "Maybe."

Wyatt thought back at him for a few pregnant moments of silence. "I get the feeling that I'm missing something here," she finally said. "Let's back up. What do you know that I don't know? Like, perhaps, why she's really over here? Maybe she dropped a hint or two?"

Hugh loosened his collar. He didn't want to admit he'd been chosen as rat bait, but it seemed the sort of thing his superior ought to know, now that he thought about it. He explained Chapman's theory about him being a likely next target for the self-proclaimed Mighty Planetary Master.

"That does it," Wyatt said. "I want you in Paris tomorrow. Out of your usual haunts, at any rate. And you might as well take Chapman with you. She'll find some way to go anyway. You'd better do the husband-wife routine, if you can talk her into it. You can watch each other's backs easier that way, and I do want someone watching your back. This wannabe Planetary Master has taken out three men of ours already, if you haven't heard. Let me think a minute." She went silent. She thought for a full five minutes, aided by computer files.

Hugh concentrated on trying to look unperturbed.

"All right," Wyatt said. "Try this on. You're used to working alone. Chapman usually works solo, too. On the other hand, you've both shown you can be team players. You may not like to work with other people, but you can pull it off. But it might be pushing our luck to put either of you on too big a team. I not only can't easily spare anyone today, I'm not sure I'd want to. You have good reflexes and good instincts, and I'd hate to slow you down with a lot of backup that can't keep up with you. And don't let that go to your head. I'm just talking in terms of strategy here. If Chapman thinks our spy killer is on his way over here, we need our ears up and our eyes open, and, frankly, we might as well use her eyes and ears as well as our own. This killer has to be our top priority, unfortunately. Go ahead with the Finley case, if you can, but throw that to the wind if need be. We'll pick the trail up again somehow. As for tonight, there's no point trying to get Chapman to stay at a hotel if you're not where she can see you. The lovely woman would act homeless and sleep under bushes outside your window using your stinking pit bull for a pillow if she thinks you're the bait she needs for this beast she's after. Let me see if we have a safe house open for tonight. I'm presuming you don't want to take the lady home with you?" She gave him time to answer if he wanted. As she expected, he sat mute and genial, like he hadn't heard a question. Wyatt called her secretary, who lined up a safe house not much more than twenty miles from the Channel Tunnel. "I guess that covers most of it for now," Wyatt said. "Time to roll, I guess, unless you have something else you want to cover?"

"Don't you want to talk to Chapman yourself?"

"Whatever for? You can ask intelligent questions and relay anything we need to know. Right?"

Hugh thought perhaps Wyatt was afraid that if she got in the same room with the Chapman woman there might be a catfight. He didn't say so. After he went through the door, he stuck his head back in. "For the record, I don't own a pit bull terrier, or any other manner of dog for that matter, so she couldn't have used it for a pillow whilst sleeping under my bushes, which I haven't any of either."

"Leave me alone, Triple-O Five. I'm busy," Wyatt said, with a smile despite herself. Hugh saluted and left. After she was sure he wasn't going to pop back in with another cheeky remark, Wyatt asked her secretary to assemble everything available concerning Mighty Planetary Master. She'd read the files several times over already, but she hoped there was something she'd missed somehow. Anything. Anything that would help her keep her forces from dropping off the face of the earth one by one.

She typed a quick coded message to a counterpart in the United States, then another coded message, not so short, to a counterpart in France. Then she paced the room. In the normal course of things, spies generally died at the hands of people protecting their own country's interests. It was bad, but it was understandable, up to a point. This stranger, this coward who hid behind a comic-book-style name, seemed to be killing spies almost like it was some kind of sport, and he was killing them all around the world. It's not like you could see any political or even economic motive, or any connection among the dead agents. Mighty Planetary Master had left his calling card in Bolivia, the Philippines, Hong Kong, Lithuania, Cypress, Iran, and Iceland. Try tying those countries together. There wasn't any way to do it, not that she or anyone else could see. Not that they weren't trying.

None of her operatives had been on home soil when killed. Now it looked like this particular threat was probably coming to her doorstep. She stifled a sigh. Whatever else you said about Emma Chapman, she could be counted on to be a reliable indicator of big trouble. It wasn't exactly the woman's fault. It went with her job, really. But still, she might as well have dressed up as the Grim Reaper and come walking into London carrying a scythe, as far as Wyatt was concerned. If past experience was any guide, somebody in the department was going to wind up dead.

She caught herself. Just because the woman was sent on hellish cases didn't mean that they were all predestined to involve bloodshed and major grief. No sense letting that bit of superstitious rot get itself established in her brain – even if the agent at the top of Chapman's Worry-About List was Richard Hugh, whose loss would be harder to bear than most.

Wyatt cast her mind back over the briefing, wondering why Hugh had been uncharacteristically fidgety. That he was holding something back was obvious, but she hadn't seen any point in trying to pin him down. Not yet, anyway. For that matter, it might have been nothing more or less, really, than having returned a truly handsome car in disreputable condition. She'd had more than one male agent sneak off with his tail between his legs, with feelings of having not properly defended really good machinery. Not that that theory fit this situation very well. Hugh was the sort of fellow who would likely shrug it off in any case – and in this case he'd managed to drive the thing back under its own power. Undoubtedly he'd scored a few points for that with the fellows at the lab. (Men!) But he had been embarrassed about something. There was no doubt of that. But then, this being his first encounter with Chapman, she'd likely talked him into doing something that ran against his better judgment. Chapman, when hot on the trail of something, had a knack for talking other people into acting against their better judgment, or even wholly against their nature. Hendrix-Copsley came to mind. After meeting Emma Chapman, he'd walked around dazed, then tried to resign. Of course, he had more cause than most to be upset. He'd been talked into abandoning his post. Henny! Mr. By-The-Book. Wyatt had seen the man flustered over the petty problem of how to properly say good morning to subordinates, since there were so many layers of them. She'd also seen him avoid the issue by dodging subordinates, which sometimes hurt their feelings until they got used to it. Horribly class-conscious, Henny was, having been brought up that way, but a top-notch man. Very dependable. Then he'd thrown in with a professional loose cannon, more or less, in the person of Emma Chapman. The man had found the experience dreadfully upsetting. She wished she hadn't thought specifically of Hendrix-Copsley. He was one of the three she'd lost to the monster who was now thought to be after Hugh.

She forced her mind back to her talk with Hugh. Something about it nagged at her. That he'd gone a trifle red at times she could write off. That he'd gone starkly pale at one point she could not. It made no sense whatsoever that he broke into a sweat as they talked about the strange coincidence about the birthdays. Her best guess was that something unrelated had popped into his mind. She hadn't asked at the time because Triple-O Five was not, in her experience, a man you could profitably pester. On the other side of that, he was a good man. Anything important, he'd tell her in his own good time. Provided he didn't get murdered beforehand, of course. She reminded herself that forewarned was forearmed. It didn't help a great deal.

She consulted a clock. She called the Prime Minister.

# CHAPTER 4 – THE MAKEOVER

Mrs. Emma Chapman, middle-aged, middle-class, conservative American tourist, walked through the front door of the London hair salon and stopped in her tracks. "Oh, dear. I think I've made a–"

"Mistake?" the girl at the counter said. "Not really. We can do non-weird, if that's what you're wondering."

Emma blushed. "I'm not sure I would have worded it like that, but I guess that's close enough to the point." She hesitated. "Really, it's just that I haven't had a chance to wash my hair in a couple of days or so. All I really need is a wash."

The receptionist clearly did not choose to believe her.

"Well, and a bit of a trim," Emma said. She looked around at the mangy clientele, none of whom appeared older than 21, and at the pictures on the wall, which looked like something a Hell's Angel might dream up after eating bad mushrooms. "Maybe," she amended.

The receptionist came around the counter and ran Emma's hair through her fingers with an experienced touch and a practiced eye. "More than maybe on the trim," she pronounced. "Don't worry, ma'am. We've a couple of girls here who got trained for posh salons, but couldn't stand having clients look at them down their noses all day long. They really can do nice cuts with hair like yours, and nothing off the wall. We reserve that for the young set, who like to look different, you know?" She leaned over and whispered confidentially into Emma's ear, "It would be a nice break for one of our girls to work on someone who wants to look nice, for a change. But don't say I said so. By the way, my name's Tabby."

Tabby leaned back, and called loudly for someone named Pat. Pat, when she emerged from the back room, looked like a walking human display case for jewelry, particularly the sort that's attached to a person's body. Her hair was two-toned, where it wasn't shaved in checkerboard patches. Emma quite involuntarily glanced at the door, to make sure it was still there and not barricaded. Tabby took firm hold of her hand, and patted it reassuringly.

Pat looked in astonishment at the woman in tweed slacks and sensible shoes. No one who looked like that usually got within a hundred yards of this salon except by accident, and then they usually bounded out like a frightened animal as soon as they saw the people inside or noticed the decor. Pat walked forward to shake hands. The other girls in the place giggled. Hand shaking was as weird to them as the way the 'old lady' (why, she might be 35 or 40 or possibly even 50!) dressed and behaved.

"Let's go in the back room, and talk," Pat said, leading the way to the shampoo area. Once there, she was surprised to see Emma's eyes twinkling. Pat relaxed. "All right, then, are we getting ready for a costume ball where you want to temporarily horrify all your acquaintances, or were you looking for a decent cut and wandered in here by accident?" she asked.

Emma smiled somewhat sheepishly. "I have a dinner date with a very nice, very handsome gentleman who never has a hair out of place, as far as I can tell. Who am I kidding? The man is gorgeous, and I don't want him scared off. All I'd hoped to do between now and 4:30 was try to get tidied up – get my hair cut, buy some better clothes than I've been traveling around in. Nothing garish, nothing posh, no attempts to be some poor imitation of a beauty queen, you understand. Just kick up the neatness factor a notch or two if I could. Well, and maybe the sophistication factor up at least half a notch, if I can manage it. I'm afraid I'm not naturally sophisticated. I don't want anything terribly short, though."

"Count me in," Pat said. "Let's get you shampooed, and then we'll figure out what would work best as a cut. We don't have any style books around here that would do us one iota of good, but I can draw you a sketch of what I have in mind."

"You're on," Emma said. She noticed that the hairstylist's eyes were gleaming as she set to work, and hoped it was only from the excitement of being handed an unusual project. It must be boring, she thought, to spend all day mucking up other people's hair, and making them look worse than they needed to look. She didn't doubt for an instant that this was that type of salon.

-

A circle of fascinated teenagers planted themselves around the shop, doing nothing but unabashedly staring at the spectacle of a respectable lady getting done up with a conservative cut in 'their' salon. Tabby offered to shoo them out, but Emma said she didn't mind. The kids looked like they were at a magic show – and that comparison, Emma thought, wasn't far off. She hadn't had a really, really good haircut in years. There simply hadn't been time, most of the time – and the rest of the time she'd been portraying women who would have died before being seen in a really good haircut. It just wasn't done, in some circles. But this Pat was working wonders, and it was fun to imagine looking good for a change. Better, anyway. A woman in her forties needed to be reasonable, she reminded herself – especially a woman in her forties with her sort-of-thinning fine hair, and a somewhat wrinkled face with not-exactly-classic proportions. Still, the cut did wonders for her looks. It looked very simple, very sensible, and it was perfectly proportioned. It made her face look better balanced. She was delighted with the result.

"Now you've done it," Tabby joked with Emma at a whisper as she paid up. "You watch. All the teens around here will be wanting cuts just like it."

Emma leaned over the counter and whispered back. "I wouldn't mind a bit."

Tabby laughed. This neighborhood's teens were a pretty scraggy lot, no question about it.

"And now, Part Two of the afternoon's plan," Emma announced to the room at large. "I need new clothes. Something a little more classy than I have on."

"To go with your new hair," one of the teenagers hooted.

"To go with the man I'm meeting, or hope to meet, later this afternoon," Emma corrected. "He's busy and might not make it, but if he does I don't want to be sitting there all brown and tweedy. I need short person clothing, obviously. Any suggestions?" She twirled in slow motion, arms held up mock-fashionably, so the teens could see what they were working with. They ate it up. Likely none of them could remember a grownup asking them for fashion advice. The room erupted in suggestions, some of them appropriate, some of them not quite decent.

Tabby waved everyone into submission. "You might try White's Green Sleevery across the street for your top. They don't have anything that doesn't have at least some green on it, which some people find bothersome, but they've some nice jumpers in muted tones that I think might suit you."

"But watch yourself. They're mean over there," a girl volunteered.

"No they're not," Tabby said to the girl. Turning back to Emma, she said, "Their store policy is to treat customers just as nice or not nice as the customer treats the clerk. Since you're polite, you'll be all right – if you can ignore the people who go in there when they feel like having words with somebody, that is. There's usually someone or another floating around who wants to be treated rude."

"I didn't know that," the volunteer mumbled.

"You wouldn't," her friends said.

Tabby cut back in. "For trousers or a skirt, you'll want Natty Natasha's, for starters, just next block down. They've got the strangest print things up front, but in the back corner they have a basics section to pair with their awful print things."

"I like their print stuff," one of the teenagers protested.

"You would," her friends mocked.

"If those don't suit," Tabby continued, "there are big stores three blocks down that will have standard fare, but you might start with the small shops first as they're on your way."

A young woman ran through the door, looked at Emma, and cried, "Oh, good. I got held up. I was afraid you'd be gone."

A very observant person might have noticed that Emma's eyes scanned the street and verified the location of the emergency exit in the shop. They might have also noticed that she shifted her weight, repositioning her feet, just slightly, in case she needed to move quickly in a yet to be determined direction, or perhaps do a bit of judo.

"Oh, sorry. You won't be knowing what I'm talking about, will you?" the girl said. "I heard you tell Pat you was going to meet a fellow later and wanted some nicer looking stuff to wear, and wouldn't have much time to find it, so I've been scouting." She held up a digital camera in triumph. "See. I got shop assistants to hold stuff up, so I could remember which store had what. I know the girls, see? I even got them to hold out the price tags for pictures, for any stuff that cost very much. I wasn't sure if you was wanting dresses or trousers, so I scouted both."

Emma smiled. "I didn't know London had personal shoppers running around cruising for customers, like taxi cabs do."

"Oh, I don't know about that. I just thought that you wouldn't have time for a proper bit of shopping, or that you'd be tired out if you tried going everywhere, and we've never had a project like this around here and it's been fun really, and won't cost you nothing because I did it for fun, and we better get going, don't you think?"

"You're a genuine genius, Lanie," one of the girls said, prompting an avalanche of giggles.

Emma sensed that Lanie probably came in for more than her share of grief from more worldly girls, so she didn't acknowledge the giggling. She had Lanie scroll through the pictures, and pointed out the clothes she wanted to see. When she went down the street, she had an entourage. Getting her outfitted had become a salon project, involving half a dozen teens who couldn't believe their luck in being around when a stray American woman needed help getting ready for a date. One girl had jumped from a chair, even though her haircut was only half done. Emma noted with amusement that the girl with the half-finished hair didn't look much worse than the others.

-

At ten minutes to five, Richard Hugh stepped through the front door of The Stuffed Pelican and craned his neck slightly, looking for Emma Chapman. The headwaiter, used to such signals, approached him. "Were you the gentleman going to meet a lady sometime after half past?"

Richard nodded. By habit, he straightened his tie and smoothed his jacket as he stepped out to follow the waiter. He noted with relief that there wasn't a stuffed bird or plastic fish in sight. The waiter led him across the restaurant to a small table almost lost in a corner, near the entrance to the kitchen. A small woman at the table was reading a used book. It didn't look the right woman at first glance, and Richard stuttered in his step. And would Mrs. Chapman go in for _The Screwtape Letters_? The woman looked up. Richard, for a split second, still wasn't sure he had the right person. Then her eyes lit with welcome and she smiled. The twinkle in her eyes he recognized, along with the smile. No, he decided, he didn't recognize the smile. The face, yes. The woman, yes. But this was a different smile than that to which he'd been treated earlier. This one settled cozily into her wrinkles (such as she had), which, logically, should have emphasized her age, but instead defied it.

"Will you be wanting a different table now the gentleman has come?" the waiter asked the two of them.

Richard looked to Emma.

"When I told them you might not be able to make it, they were kind enough to stash me over here so I wouldn't be sitting around in front of everyone, looking stood up, if it came to that," she said.

Richard noted that she sounded American, but that she had changed her tone, had made herself sound more dignified. Not stuffy or conceited, just more dignified, and therefore a more likely match for himself, at least in the eyes of onlookers, such as the waiter. It would make the pair of them less memorable. A nice touch, that.

He glanced around. Really, right here was the most comfortable spot available, if you wanted to keep an eye on things, and have options for quick exits. It also didn't have anyone dining near enough to eavesdrop at the moment. The hall that went off to the public toilets was near enough to reach in two leaps if a man needed cover. On the downside, there would be a bit of foot traffic to and from that hall, but if a person paid even minor attention, that probably wouldn't be any problem. After they'd ordered, he could excuse himself and make sure about the hall and lavatories. "This is fine with me," he said, as he seated himself.

"Will you want a menu, or just coffee, sir? The lady said you might not have time for a meal, depending on how your meetings were going."

"As a matter of fact, tonight's meeting was canceled and I have time to eat, thank you," he said. The waiter gave him a menu, bowed slightly, and left, promising to be back soon.

Richard stared across the table.

"I got my hair cut, and picked up some less tweedy clothes," Emma said, by way of helping him sort out what was different from earlier in the day.

Yes, Richard said to himself, that was part of it. This woman no longer looked like a raffle pusher. She wore a well-cut, modest, light green knit top over a mid-length black skirt made of quality cloth. The green went well enough with her coloring, although it might have been better with a smidge more blue in it, or if it had been slightly darker. In any case, he liked it better than the brown shirt she'd been wearing. She didn't look all that bad in a black skirt, although, to be sure, as the chief had said, black wasn't Mrs. Chapman's color. She'd added gold earrings, small and simple, that added balance to her face. Her reversible raincoat, draped neatly over her chair, had been turned tan side out. It didn't go extremely well with the green and black, but it would do, all the more so because the tan side had a more sophisticated finish. The haircut suited her. It softened her face, while making her look tidier and up to date, also more cultured. From a practical standpoint, it would be better for blending into the crowd they'd be running with in France. Plus, she was calmer than before. Not that she'd been frantic, or anything like that. Considering the circumstances, she'd been admirably coolheaded, all in all. But the woman he'd dealt with earlier in the day had made him feel a bit as if he'd been tossed into a hurricane. This woman, on the other hand, gave the rather nice impression of being a good port in a storm.

Still, he couldn't help feeling a very silly impulse to do a hex sign under the table at her, for being a lost twin. He gripped his menu tighter, by way of assuring that neither hand got loose. He was going to be a grownup about this.

"You look very nice," he said. "And tonight's meeting really did get canceled, by the way. I'll be going to Paris in the morning, and I hope you'll be going with me." Saying he hoped she'd be going along was a stretch. He much preferred working solo. It was his chief who wanted Mrs. Chapman to go. But saying that he wanted her along was the right thing to say, given his assignment.

"Ooh, can you believe it? And he is gorgeous, ain't he?" a muffled voice said from the hallway leading to the restrooms. There was a giggle, also muffled, which sounded like it belonged to someone else. Another voice said, in a loud whisper, "C'mon, let's clear out, now we've had our peek."

Richard tried to look at the hall without looking like he was looking at the hall. Emma took a more direct approach. "Come on out ladies," she said, turning and beckoning with her hand. "Let's see who's here." She didn't speak harshly, but it came across as an order nonetheless.

Three young women walked out, laden with jewelry, hair done up in fantastic and ugly fashion. They looked shamefaced. Young ladies who walk around brazenly bizarre rarely look shamefaced, Richard realized, and he was struck by how strange it seemed to see them looking embarrassed. He was also struck by the fact that Mrs. Chapman seemed to recognize them, and, if it was possible, seemed to be fond of them.

"Oh, come on over," Emma coaxed. She turned to Richard. "I'd like you to meet this afternoon's miracle workers. This is Pat, my hairstylist. This is Tabby, the receptionist who kept me from panicking and running away before I met Pat. And this is Lanie, who managed the wardrobe makeover."

The girls blushed deep red. Richard tried to hide his confusion. These girls didn't match up with his companion's new look. Not one bit.

"We didn't mean to disturb you," Tabby said. "You'd just said, well..." She trailed off, looking to her companions for help.

Pat threw her hands in the air. "You'd said he was gorgeous and we wanted to see what he thought of the makeover and we're all lousy curious and we'll be going now."

"Oh, no, you won't," Richard said. "What did you say the lady said I was...?"

"Oh, now you're fishing for compliments, aren't you?" Emma teased.

"Ah, well. After a while, a husband likes to know his wife is still saying embarrassing things about him behind his back," Richard purred, going for broke. He grinned his most encouraging and engaging grin at Emma, begging her to go along with him. "And you do look wonderful, darling," he added for good measure. He turned back to the three girls, who were goggling in open confusion. He tried to figure out what in the world to say or do next, if the American agent didn't help him out rather soon.

Emma laughed. "Sorry, girls. We've never gotten over the fun of acting like strangers meeting for dates."

Richard relaxed. It was nice to know the woman could take a cue.

Tabby stared at Richard and Emma while the news sank in, and then pealed with laughter, openly delighted with the turn things had taken. Lanie shook her head, bewildered. Tabby took Lanie's hand, and patted it. "It's all right, luv. They're married. Isn't it wonderful?"

The waiter walked up, his focus on Richard.

Richard was sure the man was offering to throw the ragamuffins out on their collective ears if only he got the word. "Ah, just give us a half minute more, will you?" he said. "And cast about for a bigger table, one for five, will you? I'm going to try to talk my lady into letting me invite these three to join us."

The waiter rounded up enough nerve not to faint at the thought of alien creatures eating in his restaurant, and started trying to calculate where he could put the party to minimize distress to the other patrons.

"I'm serious, darling," Richard said to Emma. "You look splendid, and I wouldn't mind buying the ladies dinner as thanks for their help. Besides," he said, as he shifted his attention to the embarrassed girls, "I've obviously been badly misinformed about the younger generation. Do come join us and help get me caught up on what I've been missing. And don't protest about taking up our time. Deborah doesn't know it yet, but we've a long night of fun ahead of us, just the two of us. We can spare an hour at dinner."

The girls looked questioningly at Emma/Deborah. "I'm planning on having him all to myself later," she said. "Please do join us, if you can. Our treat." (She'd settle with him later on whether 'our treat' would come out of American or British coffers. Most likely, she thought, her share would come out of her own pocket. Taking a one-time-only overseas hairdresser and her friends to dinner for the fun of it would be hard to justify under business expenses.)

"I can't stay, I've got work," Lanie said.

The other two were persuaded to stay.

-

"By the way," Richard said to the girls in the small conference room the waiter had picked, "call me Henry."

"Finally," Emma said, under her breath.

"Henry Rochester, at your service," Richard said to the girls, with a bow. He seated them with aplomb, as if they were refined ladies.

He felt a bit like an anthropologist set down in a foreign land, trying to get off on the right foot with unchronicled natives, but he did his best not to show it.

# CHAPTER 5 – DINNER AT THE RESTAURANT

"Well, then," Richard said, as he settled simultaneously into his chair and into his role as Henry Rochester, "Do we have all your plunder? Everything made it from that room to this?" Emma nodded. "All right, recent acquisitions accounted for then. Let's get ready to order," Richard said. "Assuming, of course, that you've left me enough to cover the bill." He stole a sharp look at a bag from a more expensive store. He exaggerated the look, so it became comical.

"We're fine, Henry," Emma laughed. "I was restrained today."

Pat and Tabby squirmed. They weren't sure if the married couple were entirely joking. On the other hand, the husband didn't seem the least upset that his wife had been shopping, or at all worried about how much she'd spent, despite what he said. For that matter, the wife hadn't become even slightly defensive about the teasing. This didn't jibe with any shopping expedition on which either girl had been – or rather, the aftermath, when she'd been required to defend herself to parents or a boyfriend, or to a landlord, who, of course, quite reasonably expected the rent on time. Both girls were generally careful and responsible with money, but keeping finances in order was definitely a juggling act for them. They got the feeling that this particular couple may not be filthy rich, but certainly didn't have to choose between buying clothes and keeping a roof over their heads.

Richard watched the two young women conferring with their eyes, and chuckled to himself. He'd not been around people this innocent in forever, their outward appearance to the contrary. He shoved down a despicable little ornery streak that tried to surface. It would be easy, and perhaps fun, he thought, to string the girls along, but he didn't think he'd like himself in the morning if he did. He also suspected that his 'wife' might have a thing or two to say about it, and he was probably stuck with her for at least a day or two, nights included (and what in the world had the chief meant by 'widowed but not likely to be accommodating'?). For that matter, he might be stuck more or less living with Emma Chapman for several weeks, if this case went poorly, and so far she hadn't been exactly shy about saying what she thought.

He decided to try to play it as if these odd young women were temporary daughters, dependent upon his advice for their future happiness. That seemed a responsible thing to do, all things considered. "All right, then," he said, calling class to order. "I'm not sure what rules you girls have been taught, but I'll tell you what has been drilled into the heads of all little Rochesters for generations. When someone invites you to dinner, one must never order the most expensive item, for then you look greedy or heedless. On the other side, one must never order the least expensive option, for some hosts take that as an insult. To be on the safe side, manners-wise, one should pick something in the middle price range, without looking as though you are scanning the prices instead of the dishes. That's assuming one is at a restaurant like this, which lists prices. If you're at one of those odd expensive places that just list the offerings, but are embarrassed to show how much they'll bleed out of you for each item, then you should just order what sounds tasty or impressive or adventurous, depending on your mood, for your host has declared himself happy to go bankrupt at your bidding."

The girls looked at each other and giggled. "That obvious, is it, that we've never been invited to dinner by respectable people?" Pat asked.

"I shouldn't say obvious, but it seemed a good guess. In my usual circle, we are carefully trained to walk to the other side of the street when we see young people walking toward us in your sort of battle gear."

The girls looked at each other, unsure whether to be angry, or mortified, or what.

"He's not making fun of you. He's just stating a fact," Emma said. "He's got good manners. So good, in fact, that if you explain you don't want any help, I'm sure he'll back off without a fuss."

Tabby stared at the table. "I can't speak for Pat, but I guess I don't know when else I'll get a chance to learn good manners from somebody who actually has some..." She trailed off, embarrassed.

Richard smiled gently at her. "Say no more about it. I promise to not put you on the spot in front of the waiter. So, are you vegetarian, or might I try beef something or another without inducing distress?" Both girls pronounced themselves able to handle meat at the table. Richard went on, pseudo-confidentially, "It is, of course, optional these days to let the man place the order, but for what it's worth, I enjoy it. Unless, of course, it's a very complicated order, in which case I sweat and feel miserable until I get through without bungling some part of it; unless, of course, I do botch something, which requires me – as a British gentleman – to stand firm and repair damage whilst inviting proper ridicule, instead of quietly crawling under a table from embarrassment, which is generally the urge."

"Oh, the hazards of being a gentleman," Emma said. She clamped her hand over her mouth.

"I give up," Richard said, "Why are you holding your hand over your mouth?"

"I am strenuously fighting the impulse to change my order to make it more complicated for you. I'm sorry, but your quips hit me as something of a challenge."

"Try to keep strenuously fighting, will you? I'm not as young as I used to be, and my memory is beginning to suffer."

He smiled. She smiled. The girls collapsed into giggles, which re-erupted every time they took a stab at telling Richard what they wanted. They barely got their orders in before the waiter showed up. The waiter was treated to the spectacle of Richard relaying the orders while Emma sat content, and the girls sat still but looked reined in, breathing with sharp intakes, fighting off hilarity with great and commendable effort.

After the waiter left, Tabby said, "I'm glad it was up to you to place the orders. I couldn't have opened my mouth without laughing to save my skin."

Pat kept looking back and forth between Mr. and Mrs. Rochester (as she saw them) as if she wasn't sure she should say something.

"It's all right," Emma said, quietly. "I don't care if it's hot or iced."

Richard sat up. "What's that?"

"Nothing, Henry."

"No, I mixed something up, did I?"

"Not necessarily."

"How could I not necessarily mess something up? Either I got the order right, or I got it wrong. Shall I go in pursuit of the waiter?"

"No. I didn't hear you specify that my tea be iced. Since I like it either way, I'll be happy to take it however it comes. Let's not make a fuss about it. What I'd like to know, young ladies, is how you got into the hall without me seeing you. From where I was sitting, I can't believe I didn't see you go by."

Richard kept from goggling only with an effort. How Mrs. Chapman had slipped up on basic surveillance certainly trumped his not paying proper attention to a beverage order. But he would have never brought it up, if he were she. It looked a good way to wind up with major egg on one's face. These were not young ladies who blended into the background, after all, and there'd been three of them.

"Well, you see," Tabby said, "we got here before you did, so you couldn't have seen us go by because we hid before you got here. We couldn't believe our luck, when you sat at the table nearest us. And if you're wondering how we got past the waiter, we, um, got in through the kitchen, only you mustn't tell, or somebody might get in trouble."

"Like a boyfriend, perhaps?" Emma said.

"The blushes tell the tale, I think, my dear," Richard said. He turned to Tabby. "It's a shame he can't see how red you've got. It does a fellow good to see a woman go all red when she thinks of him."

"Henry Rochester!" Emma said.

"Hasn't the recent rain been pleasant?" he countered. "No. I'm sorry. You're right. Transferring the conversation to weather won't cover it. I owe the young ladies, and you, an apology. I get the very devil in me sometimes, Tabby. I'm sorry. I'm used to hanging about with a different lot, who have a tendency to mistake barbs like that for compliments. But I do know better, and I hope you'll forgive me."

She nodded, but collapsed back into blushes.

Pat plowed in. "And what lot do you usually hang about with, if you don't mind my asking?"

"Oh, didn't Deborah tell you what I do for a living?" he asked, glancing at Emma. "No? I manage finances. People give me great sums of money in hopes that I will turn it into even greater sums of money."

"And do you?"

"Generally. No one's perfect in the investment field, but I've done well enough to be as busy as I'd like. The main drawback is that one gets in the habit of playing some of the clients along. Some of them don't feel they're getting their money's worth unless they get a bit of flattery – or devilment – along with the burgeoning bank balance, or the shrinking bank balance, whichever they've ordered."

"I don't understand about the shrinking balance. Surely no one wants to lose money?" Tabby said.

"People ask to lose money all the time, I'm afraid. Tax dodging, mostly. Occasionally I get a scorned spouse who knows he'll not get anything out of a divorce settlement, and who is hell bent on draining the ocean before he jumps ship. Along the same lines, there's the occasional parent who wishes to not leave anything to not-properly-grateful children, but hasn't quite got enough guts to just hand huge parcels to charity. For the most part, I try to give people what they want. It's not much different from what you do, I'd guess. Here you are, fully capable of rendering service like you gave Deborah, but if a client wants to look like her hair's been chewed on by a goat, you'd likely go along with it, if you thought she was capable of knowing what she was doing."

Pat stayed thoughtful until the waiter brought their food and left again. "I'll grant we're both in the business of playing along with what our clients want, but I'd wager you make a great deal more money at it," she said, when she got her nerve up.

"Sometimes yes, sometimes no. I make huge leaps, but I've also had a nerve-shattering crash or two. It's a roller-coaster sort of a life, with only a limited portion of it controllable."

"Still, you seem to like it."

"It's what I've found that I'm good at. And, yes, most of the time I do get a great deal of satisfaction out of what I do. I'll admit, but not for public consumption, mind you – not a word of this out of this room – I'm the sort who likes knowing I'm doing a job that not too many other people could pull off."

"Speaking of jobs," Emma cut in, "How ever did you girls get off before 4:30 in the afternoon? You're not going to be in trouble for this, are you?"

Tabby giggled. "No, ma'am. We won the draw."

Richard's eyebrow shot up.

Tabby hesitated. The color drained from her face.

"Go on," Richard said. "What draw?"

"Well, it's not like we planned for it to turn out like this or anything, but, well, your wife had such a good makeover, what with the hair and the clothes and all, and she seemed anxious how it would go over with you, and so we held a lottery, like, to see who would sneak over here and try to be peeking from behind something when you got here, to see how it all went over."

"And report back after?"

Tabby gulped. "We didn't think what it might look like to you, sir. Really. It was all in fun, and we kind of got carried away and all. Sorry. I can pay for my meal if you're mad at us."

"No, I'm not mad at you. I am somewhat surprised to find myself the hot ticket of the afternoon for the young set, but I can't say that I'm angry. And I don't invite people to eat and then let them pay. So even if I were furious, your money would be safe."

"I smell something funny here," Emma said.

"What's that?" Richard said. "Something wrong with the food? I'll get the waiter."

"The food is fine. I'm just running the laws of chance through my head, and not finding any way for these girls – the three girls who most helped me – winding up being the three picked entirely by chance. I'm having trouble believing there was any sort of lottery."

"Oh, there was a sort of lottery all right," Pat said. "Only, you're right. It was rigged."

"I never rigged anything," Tabby protested.

"I know you didn't," Pat said. "I did."

"What interesting friends you have, darling," 'Henry Rochester' said, urbanely, to the woman posing as his wife.

# CHAPTER 6 – DINNER IN THE LIBRARY

Chief Wyatt got in the Prime Minister's residence by a back door. Or an underground one, perhaps, that officially isn't there. In any case, she didn't walk past a gaggle of tourists and protestors and go through the front door. She was ushered into a small library, where she was surprised to see a small dining table stashed in among stuffed chairs and end tables. The dining table was set up with silverware and linen. This Prime Minister, she reflected, was awfully good at cozy yet dignified. She was glad he was on her side, or, more specifically, on the side of her country. It ran against the patriotic British character to fight apparently nice people who were good at homey high class. She would have her hands full, arranging a takedown of a fellow like this, should it ever become necessary. She was sure she could pull it off, but it could get ticklish, no question.

"I hope you don't mind stopping to dinner, or eating amongst the books. I'm pressed for time today but don't like eating in front of people who aren't eating," the Prime Minister said to her, as he shooed the butler out. "We'll want food directly it's ready," he said at the man's back. "But knock first." As soon as the door was closed, the PM grinned. "Drives the man crazy, being told to knock first. For that matter, he clearly hates the phrase 'directly it's ready.' I'm trying to annoy him enough to make him either shape up or ship out. So far he's proving impervious, though." He sighed. "We'll likely get vegetarian burgers, or some such thing. If you don't like whatever shows up, I can order you something else. But I'm afraid, in the position I'm in, I'm stuck with what the doctor orders. It's almost enough to make a man make himself unavailable at the next election." He paused, searching her face.

"You're looking fit," Wyatt ventured, feeling he wanted her to say something.

"Oh, I am fit. I'm healthy. I'm healthier than I've been since I was 18. I feel great. Don't tell anyone, but I've actually come to like some of the bloody low fat and veggie stuff. It's just the being more or less forced to eat it that galls me."

He grinned sheepishly, even foolishly, and Wyatt laughed. It was the first healthy laugh she'd had in weeks. She saw the Prime Minister studying her, and guessed that he could tell it was the first healthy laugh she'd had in weeks. She started to speak, but he put his finger to his lips. "Let's not get down to business until we're served and the servants have been relegated to the hall and kitchen again," he said. "That's unless we've got a nuclear warhead already launched at us, and midway here, in which case you've botched the protocol. In that case, you need to set off alarms first, and come to dinner second."

Wyatt knew people in the intelligence game who would have applauded the Prime Minister for his stab at gallows humor. She didn't much feel like giving him the satisfaction, even though he had helped her put her current troubles in perspective. Agents were dropping off, but the country stood. Sometimes that happened. Sometimes, under bad circumstances, it was even a victory, as long as the country – and what it stood for – survived. She felt the tension easing a fraction. If anyone had asked her to analyze how this particular little man seemed always to float to the top of any political pond, she imagined it would be this: the ability to spread calm, even amongst people who had reasons for worry.

The food came. The butler remembered to knock, but disdained to wait for a reply before coming in with two assistants in tow to do most of the actual work. The Prime Minister and his guest were ceremoniously served. The servants hovered, but were politely and firmly told to go away.

"You must come to dinner more often, Zanna," the Prime Minister said as soon as they were alone. "They've allowed me skinless chicken. Must be in your honor."

"Very apt," she replied.

"I'm almost afraid to ask."

"Oh, nothing, really. I'm just feeling a bit like a skinless chicken of some sort myself these days."

"That's not good, coming from someone in your position. I can arrange a really nice excursion to the Caribbean if it will help any."

"Hold onto that idea. When we get dug from this hole, I might take you up on it."

"Under ordinary circumstances, being a civilized sort of fellow, I'd ask you to wait until we're done eating to talk business. But, as it is, I have meetings. Fire at will, and make it snappy. I'll have to be leaving in, let's see, 30 minutes. That's at the latest. My staff would be much happier if I left in 20. Now then, from what specific hole are we digging ourselves?"

"It's a sad tale but short. For background, do you know an American named Emma Chapman?"

"Give me a clue. Are we talking celebrity, politics, money, criminal, law enforcement, reporter, or what? I get so many different sorts of Americans to deal with, it's hard to keep them straight."

"Law enforcement, undercover, international."

"Frankenstein Project."

"Precisely. But how...?"

"Oh, that Emma Chapman. Now I remember. Certainly. Is she still about?"

"She's over here."

"Is she keeping in touch, or sneaking around?"

Wyatt thought that an astute question. Clearly the Prime Minister knew of whom she was talking. "She's keeping very much in touch. In fact, she's more or less adopted one of my top men." She filled the Prime Minister in on Emma Chapman's doings as far as were known, and her plan for having Mrs. Chapman and Richard Hugh work together, at least for the time being. To her surprise, the Prime Minister chuckled delightedly.

"Sorry, old girl. It's just that I grew up with Richard. How I'd like to be a fly on the wall tonight."

Wyatt stared at him, openly puzzled.

"Darling, let me back up and start somewhere close to a beginning," the Prime Minister said. "I did a little unmentionable work in my younger days, back when the Frankenstein Project was bleeding agents and no one was mourning their loss. I do have the correct program in mind, don't I? A handful of super-progressive Americans with too much authority and not enough oversight got the brilliant idea to recruit children, for all intents and purposes, into the spy program. The theory was they'd be easier to train and could therefore be shaped into whatever sort of worker bee the Americans were most in need of at the time. Like many a social engineering project before and since, the theory seemed flawless, as far as it went. However, the youngsters were so malleable that any little mistake in training left most of them rather severely damaged, because they hadn't the real life experience or maturity to steady themselves or steer by. Right so far? And of course in reality no one in America knew the proper way to train perfect little spies. As if anyone would?"

"The Soviets and their cousins came close enough."

"Perhaps we should stop to define what constitutes perfection in a spy? The Soviets had no interest in truth, eternal or temporal. In my book, rewarding people who spin the most politically expedient fairy tales will necessarily weed out the best spies. And besides, look at the results. They ate their own. Constantly. After a while, they were even purposely destroying their best people, including their most loyal leaders. Whichever way the wind shifted, the people on the wrong points of the weathervane were arrested, hauled off, sent to prisons and labor camps, most of them blinking in confusion, and muttering, 'Me? What for? You have to be kidding? There must be some mistake. Me!? What for?' Not that anyone should have been surprised. How does the saying go? 'Tyranny is always whimsical.' Besides, once you become determined to turn people into cogs, there's nothing to be done but flail around at whatever and whoever seems to be preventing your machine from humming along perfectly, and there's never an end to it, since people make horrid cogs. The USSR was an insane project, front to finish, and the craziness spilled over into their spy programs."

"Granted. From what little I know about it."

"I'll lend you some books. And what about those poor soldiers who got taken prisoner by the Germans and agreed to become spies for Germany? Almost to a man they took the training, went across into Russian territory, and promptly turned themselves in, expecting to have a big laugh with their comrades about the stupid Germans – the fools, telling secrets to a loyal Russian and then sending him home. Ha, ha, ha! For their loyalty, they were shot. I've fallen off track, haven't I? What were we talking about?"

"America. Frankenstein Project. Trying to train perfect little spies."

"America, of all places? I mean, really! You'd think they'd know themselves better, somehow."

"Impossible. They reinvent themselves too much."

He smiled gently. "I'll have to think about that. Somehow I think you're wrong, but I'm not sure why or how. Getting back to the Frankenstein Project, about half the teenagers died within three or four years of recruitment. Some dropped dead during training, trying to be superheroes instead of learning their body's limits. Others did silly things like more or less running in front of bullets. There were masses of suicides, if I remember correctly. Others were taken out by friendly fire – always accidentally, of course, in the official reports, but word was going around they'd turned into such obsessive little spies that they had no recognition of humanity left, and were deemed too damned dangerous to be left loose. Some got lucky, and were arrested and detained, one way or another, by America's allies, including us." He shifted his gaze so Wyatt couldn't read his eyes. He lowered his voice. "But we even got asked – by the more power-corrupted, more 'pragmatic' American officials – to pretty please 'let' some of the agents die on our watch. Got them in hospital, and were asked to withhold treatment, or even pump them full of over dosages of one thing or another, if we could see our way clear to do it – which I'm proud to say we didn't. Damned bad show, even for that time period. Leave it to the Americans to believe they could turn out any sort of human being they wanted, starting with whatever happened to be available. Them and their damned anything's possible attitude. Everybody's equal and all that, yes, sir!" He attacked his food and chewed more vigorously than was necessary. "Perhaps you'd like to rethink asking me if I remember the program or any of its agents?" he said. "Now's your chance."

She shook her head. "Your call, but I can handle it."

"Meaning, I suppose, that some of this is old but some of it is new, and you don't know when or where else you'll get the whole skinny on it, eh?"

She shrugged.

"Good for you, by the way," the Prime Minister said. "Shows resourcefulness or something. Give me a minute, I'll think of the right word."

She grinned at him. "Flattery will get you nowhere."

"It's not like I have anyone else I can walk down memory lane with on this," he said, seriously. He searched her eyes, then pressed on. "The program only lasted about ten years, if I remember right (and if I was told right, which is highly doubtful). By the time I left the service, it had been disbanded and the Americans would've been happy to use the program's founders as targets for warheads testing. It's a big black eye for the Americans, if you ask me. Or them. Of course, being Americans, they made a big fuss about how they meant well. Meant well! The current crop of standard-issue agents, for the most part, hasn't even been told about it, the top brass is so embarrassed about it. Officially, I guess, it never happened. For that matter, the very few kids who stayed sane and turned into decent agents are still something of outcasts within their organization, all these years later, at least with the top brass, who are reported to be standing around counting the days until that whole experimental crop of agents is gone and the embarrassment can go away. The poor scarred-up beggars. It's not like it's their fault. Pretty impressive individuals, some of them. It must be a wretched existence, knowing that no matter how well you do, your boss will look forward to the day you're gone, just because he hates your training and some of your long-dead failed colleagues." He scowled, and growled, "If there's one thing I can't stand about Americans, it's their warm-fuzzy, anything-goes-if-you-mean-well, touchy-feely..." He convulsed with laughter.

Wyatt was more than slightly alarmed, not to mention puzzled, by the abrupt mood change. She decided to calmly put out a question to see if the man responded normally and coherently. If that didn't work, she could always tackle the man or douse him with ice water or summon bodyguards, although one did hate to go to those sorts of extremes with one's own esteemed political leader. "I give up, sir. What in the world is so funny?" she said, with no alarm whatsoever sounding in her voice, as far as she could tell.

"I'm sorry. Didn't mean to make you think I'd lost my mind," he chuckled.

"The thought never crossed my mind."

"I hope you lie better to your staff, gal – not to mention foreign intelligence persons and diplomats."

"So what in the world is so funny? I can't imagine."

"Sorry. It's the thought of our Richard and their Emma being stuck in a safe house together. Touchy-feely, indeed. Our Richard is just about the most rakish fellow we've got, isn't he? Or he likes people to think so, anyway. Very jealous of his lady-killer image, isn't he? And their Emma Chapman's got to be one of the most virtuous gals the Americans have on their payroll, after her own fashion. Throwback to the Puritans, really, if I've heard right – not to mention that I hear she's a hardliner on the sanctity of marriage issue. Don't touch, and all that. She's also reputed to be practically impervious to pretty words and handsome faces. I do have the right woman in mind?"

"Sounds right."

"So, Richard's accustomed to females swooning at the sight of him, and he's finally paired with a woman who couldn't care less if he's gorgeous or suave. Should be quite a pair."

"They'll need to be, if her hunch about Mighty Planetary Master is right."

The Prime Minister sobered. "There is that." He sank into thought. "How old is she, anyway?" he asked.

Wyatt cringed. Here she had a serious problem, and the leader of the realm was trying to paint mental pictures of two spies together in a safe house at night? She bit her lip to keep from saying something she might regret.

"Don't be so defensive about it," the PM said. "I doubt Chapman minds people knowing her age. I was just thinking she might be my age."

Wyatt bit her lip harder. He couldn't really have been trying to picture himself in Richard's place?

"Look, my dear lady, before you blow a fuse, you can just haul your mind out of the gutter and back up to eye level. There's meaning behind my madness. Richard and I went to school together. We share a birthday, and caught grief for it from our friends and families. I have an awful tickling in the back of my mind that this Chapman woman's birthday might be too close to ours for comfort, just from some half-forgotten hint someone dropped long ago. 'Fess up. Are there reasons I feel someone walking across my grave, so to speak?"

"So you're all twins, so what?" she sputtered.

"That would probably be triplets, as there are three of us. Holy Toledo. Not the same year and everything?"

"Yes, but–"

"Yes, but you didn't grow up where we did. Never underestimate the power of folklore to distress people."

"What are you talking about?"

"That's my gal. Don't be shy about getting to the heart of the matter."

"You'll not derail me with flattery."

"I wasn't trying to. Listen, if Richard doesn't know, don't tell him yet, will you?" He read her face. "You told him?"

She nodded. She didn't add that she'd thought it funny at the time. At least now she had an idea – more precisely, an inkling – why Hugh had squirmed.

"Oh, well," the Prime Minister said. "It can't be helped. Be sure and remind him that it's the twins you don't know that can sink you. And another thing–"

There was a knock at the door. An aide stuck in his head. "We need to be going soon, sir." He pulled his head back out, but didn't shut the door.

"Shut the door. I'll be out in one minute flat," the Prime Minister said.

The door closed. The Prime Minister glanced at a clock then looked Wyatt squarely in the eye. "Point one: the spy killer who calls himself Mighty Planetary Master is presumed to be on his way to our island and reportedly has our Triple-O Five in his sights. Point two: maverick American agent Emma Chapman has opted to get in the middle of all this. She proposes to work with us as well as she can, always considering that she'll be required to leave us in the ditch if that's what it takes to stay after this detestable fellow. Have I got the gist?" Wyatt nodded. "Anything specific you need from me tonight?" the Prime Minister asked.

"Not that I know of. I just thought you should be informed. And I wanted to know if it was all right with you, me tossing a harness on Chapman instead of sending her packing?"

He nodded, yet managed to make it seem conditional approval. "Keep me posted," he said. He looked at the clock. "48, 49, 50..." He winked. "Drives 'em nuts when I get something down to the very second," he said. As he mouthed 60 he opened the door.

The aide checked his watch. "Right on time, sir."

"Of course I am. I'm the boss," the Prime Minister said solemnly. He shot a look over his shoulder at his favorite intelligence chief, and rolled his eyes. Resuming a look of pleasant dignity for the sake of his staff, he left for his meeting.

# CHAPTER 7 – FIRST ONE THING AND THEN ANOTHER

Richard Hugh and Emma Chapman, still doing business as Mr. and Mrs. Henry Rochester, left The Stuffed Pelican laden with her shopping bags, and looked for his car. It was supposed to have been parked along the block after being repaired and disguised with a darker paint job. Richard was to have been notified by phone if there was any unexpected delay. He had not been notified. They did not see the car.

"Maybe they couldn't find a parking place nearby? Maybe we should call in and ask directions?" Emma said. It was the wrong thing to say, or at least the wrong way to phrase it, and she knew it as soon as it escaped her lips. Richard – as any red-blooded British (or American) male might have done – set his jaw and took off down the street, doubly determined to find his missing car without help.

Emma pulled out her phone. It took her five tries, but she was finally connected to a young secretary at the secret labs. As they chatted, Emma furrowed her brow. Shortly, she thanked the girl and hung up. Richard had stopped a half block ahead to wait for her. When she caught up to him, she handed him the phone. "You can hit this redial button to reach the labs," she said, getting close and speaking so her voice wouldn't carry. "Your phone doesn't seem to be working. Felicity says she's tried to reach you several times but something keeps jamming the transmission. You were considered perhaps missing in action, until the GPS showed that the car was moving. When they couldn't reach you through the car com, they'd just about concluded that this part of London is under some sort of private sunspot or something, and were waiting for the car to move out of the interference area. They're distressed that you aren't in the car."

"I'd say that I'm not very happy about it either. If you'll excuse me a minute?" He stepped out of her earshot and as far away from other pedestrians as he could get, in shadows along a building.

He found himself face to face with a sinewy man who snapped open a switchblade and ordered him to step into a nearby alley. "And don't make no noise or fuss about it," the mugger said. He jerked his knife menacingly, if covertly enough to not draw unwanted attention.

Richard noted that the man knew an efficacious way to hold a knife, and was aiming it where it could do real damage. He moved quietly to the alley, keeping his hands in plain view to reassure the man that he was cooperating. Just before he stepped off the sidewalk, he caught a glimpse of a short woman in a tan raincoat, fleeing back the way they'd come. He'd deal with her later, he vowed – or, better yet, have his chief throw this particular nervy American into permanent exile, so that he wouldn't be obliged to deal with her later.

His assailant grabbed him by the arm and dragged him into deep shadow. Richard took the momentum of the pull and added to it, throwing the mugger off balance. He followed up with an open-handed blow to the man's solar plexus and a few well-placed kicks that left his would-be robber flat on the ground, facedown and moaning – and Richard wishing he were a younger man. Such a simple little fight shouldn't have felt like that much work, he thought. He glared at the mugger, while fighting back an undignified urge to kick the fellow again for making him feel old.

"Oh, Henry. I've brought a policeman," Emma called from the end of the alley. She managed to block the officer for the split second it took for Richard Hugh, aggrieved but controlled agent, to turn himself into Henry Rochester, innocent molested business professional. "Are you all right?" Emma asked, as she let the policeman move her to one side.

Richard, not trusting his voice yet, nodded.

"Was there just the one man, then?" Emma asked, as she looked, semi-frantically, up and down the alley.

Richard cringed. He'd handled the one man well enough, but he hadn't checked round to see if the man had accomplices. He knew better. "Never assume it's just the people you see that you're up against" was practically an agency motto. For that matter, it was practically the mission statement of intelligence communities around the world. It was a bad thing to forget, even if all you were up against was (to all appearances) a garden variety street criminal. Grant some points to the American.

He noticed that her 'semi-frantic' searching managed to be methodical, and took in more than ground level. Grant her a few more points.

She'd turned so she could pay particular attention to the landscape behind his back. He wondered if he might have underestimated her just a little.

This was not to mention that she'd gotten a policeman there in something like one minute flat. He hadn't particularly remembered seeing any cops about. She obviously had. And she'd somehow summoned the policeman without bringing the whole neighborhood by to watch. More points to the lady. Now that he thought about it, perhaps that would explain the way she looked as she ran off? Perhaps she meant to exude the aura of a self-centered sissy who panics and runs to the cops for every little uninteresting annoyance.

The cop looked up and down the alley to make sure he wasn't missing anyone. Then he put cuffs on the mugger and rolled him over to get a good look at the face. "Well, well, well. We've been looking for you, haven't we?" he said.

The mugger tried to spit in the officer's face, but couldn't quite manage it yet, after his unexpectedly rough encounter. It was infuriating, from a mugger's point of view, to run into a well-dressed fellow who didn't sissy up to save his precious clothes, or get paralyzed and stupid with self-righteous indignation. It was nearly as infuriating as not being able to spit on a policeman when wanted.

The cop grinned at the would-be victims. "There's reward money on this fellow, if you'd care to apply for it," he said.

"Oh, good heavens, no," Richard said, not wanting to come across as a scurvy sort who'd bleed reward funds dry without having the excuse of needing the money.

"Is your husband all right, then?" the policeman asked Emma, now she'd had a chance to look him over.

"He seems to be, thank you."

The policeman gave Richard a look that Richard translated as "I hope you don't mind that I asked her. Women do like to be asked that, and it tends to calm them down." Richard, being in wholehearted agreement that women should be soothed and shown special consideration after they've had a bad scare, smiled reassurance at the policeman.

"I hope you don't mind me saying so, sir, but that wife of yours can run like fury," the policeman said. He wiped his brow to underscore the statement. "I had to pull out the stops to keep up with her."

Emma blushed. "I'm sorry. I was rather scared, I guess."

The policeman sobered. "You had a right to be, ma'am. This fellow has a reputation of liking to cut people whether they hand over or not. Your husband's lucky, although from the looks of things he made some of his own luck."

Richard shrugged. "Used to compete at karate when I was in the military. I'm a bit rusty, but I guess the old drilling paid off."

Emma looked like she wanted to say something but was afraid to say it.

"What is it, darling?" Richard asked.

"It's just... Well... Oh, dear, I don't want to sound like I'm letting the side down, or anything, but if the man's already wanted for a number of things, I was wondering whether we really needed to press charges ourselves?" She looked both shamefaced and hopeful.

"We do have some pretty solid cases against him without this," the policeman said. "But, of course, we'd be glad to press ahead if you want. Can't have people pulling knives on you."

Richard hesitated. "Here. How's this? I can give you my card, and if you find that you need me for anything, I'll do what I can. Otherwise, if you can leave us out, I guess I'd be grateful." He handed a card across.

The policeman shook his head. "If I take that, I'll have to file a report naming you. We've got him, and thanks. He's one we've wanted rather more than most." He hauled his catch to his feet.

Richard and Emma gathered scattered shopping bags and merchandise, which Richard had necessarily ditched during the battle. Seeing what looked to be her phone, Richard pretended he hadn't seen it, and told the officer thank you and goodbye. The cop nodded farewell, and marched his captive toward the fuller sunshine along the street. Richard went to look at the phone, or what was left of it. It had gone through some sort of self-destruct procedure, possibly triggered by impact, and was misshapen and steaming.

Emma took a look. "Not to worry," she said. "No one can get anything get off that. Leave it, unless you want to burn your fingers." She headed out, Richard behind her.

The officer had stopped nearby, probably to assure himself that they got out of the alley all right. "Sorry if we kept you waiting. We had to make sure we had all the purchases," Richard said, smiling, the very model of an indulgent husband.

"Oh, excuse me, officer," Emma said. "Just one more thing. We seem to have lost our car."

"Darling, let's not bother him with that," Richard said, more than a bit appalled that Emma was pulling regular law enforcement into a search for a car that could likely be tracked down by satellite signal or other standard agency means – a car that she ought to remember was no longer in the vicinity, in fact, if the GPS readings were correct.

"The garage was supposed to deliver it somewhere around here while we went to grab a bite to eat," Emma said.

The mugger's ears went up. "Must be some kind of car, if they'd deliver it," he said.

The policeman and Richard glared the mugger into silence.

Emma ignored the mugger's interruption just as smoothly as she'd ignored her 'husband' when he'd tried to shut her off. "We didn't see it so we called in. They confirmed they delivered it, but I can't find the place they said they'd left it. Uncle Birdie Wordies, or something to that effect?"

The cop cringed; it could be so embarrassing, working a beat that specialized in shops with stupid names. "That would be the pet shop across the street, ma'am, that specializes in talking birds," he said politely.

They all looked across the street. There were no likely cars in sight. Every parking space was taken, but none with the sort of car one would expect to be special delivered.

"Reddish four-door?" Emma said, drawing on information obtained when talking on the phone with Felicity at the lab. "I don't suppose you've seen..." She let the sentence trail off, as the policeman got a funny look on his face.

"I did see a well-kept reddish car along there earlier," he said, not liking the implications of what he was saying, considering that he and his partner unhappily shared the neighborhood with zealous traffic wardens who gleefully targeted otherwise law-abiding citizens. "Hang on. My partner might have something on it," he said with as much encouragement as he could muster. He activated his radio. "H'lo, Shirley? Rodney here. Can you meet me in front of the pet shop?"

The odd little group of uniformed cop, handcuffed mugger, debonair tall British man, and tentative-looking short American woman traipsed together across the street. A policewoman nearly six feet tall met them. She somehow gave the impression that she was friendly only to nice people.

Emma saw a piece of litter on the street and felt a strong urge to go pick it up, so as not to be in any trouble, even though it wasn't her litter. She looked for a trash bin to move it to if she did pick it up. There wasn't one in sight, probably as an anti-bomb measure.

The female officer watched with silent amusement. She was used to people feeling they must tidy up whenever she was around. She rather liked that people took her so seriously.

"A repair shop reportedly dropped off their car along here," Rodney said.

"Brown-red luxury saloon?" Shirley ventured, tossing out a description of a car she'd seen earlier that seemed to go with the successful-looking couple in front of her. Everyone looked at her expectantly, which she took as confirmation that she was on the right track. "It was in the no-park zone. Got towed. Sorry. Here's what you need to know to get it back," she said, handing a card to Richard. "Probably you can get your repair shop to pay for it since they're the ones who goofed."

Richard stared at the card, numb with disbelief. How could anyone connected to his department miss a no-park zone? It was unthinkable. Agency drivers were supposed to be especially good at remembering details and checklists and whatnot, and avoiding traffic citations.

"What no parking zone?" Emma asked, looking at signs posted along the street.

"That one," Shirley said, pointing to where the sign should be.

It wasn't there.

The officers and the mugger, being longtime locals, stared at the empty signpost, wondering why the no parking sign wasn't where it ought to be – where, in fact, it always had been in living memory, often to their annoyance since parking was at a premium. Their minds tried to place the sign there for them, as memory tried to remedy what it saw as a gap.

Richard, unfamiliar with the neighborhood but steeped in the ways of London, stared at the street, recently resurfaced, but not yet painted with those coded lines that might have warned a driver off even without the sign. Perhaps (he mused, with a touch of paranoia brought on by being blindsided), perhaps the street had been repainted, but the lines done away with since then by an enemy of the state? But why? When? How? Surely no one could have targeted him this way? The time frame, the improbability of any specific car landing at that spot, was all against it. Still, it was his car that had gone missing from an impossibly unmarked no park zone. The situation reeked of dangers to be determined.

He noticed Emma looking along the street at the level at which surveillance cameras are often placed. Recovering his composure, he scanned the lampposts and buildings in the other direction. He cleared his throat loudly, to get everyone's attention. "I say. Is that one of those CCTV camera jobbies up there? Might that help us find out when the sign disappeared and who took it?" Without waiting for an answer, he strode across the street to the nearest closed-circuit surveillance booth (this being a part of the city that was experimenting with stand-alone neighborhood CCTV stations) and stuck in his head. "Excuse me, but the no-parking signage in front of the pet shop" – he couldn't quite bring himself to call it Uncle Birdie Wordies – "is gone, and it's causing rather a bit of towing mischief."

Shirley politely but firmly hauled him away from the booth. "I'll take care of this, sir," she said, in a manner that didn't leave much room for doubt. She pointed to a nearby bench until Richard went over and sat docilely upon it. More precisely, he looked docile. Inwardly, he was on high alert, and intently keyed in on his surroundings, this being an odd situation that continued to reek of dangers to be determined.

Shirley turned to her partner. "Rodney, if you want to take care of your suspect, I'll finish up here." Rodney took his mugger and left.

Whether they were a) usually this efficient, b) got lucky, or c) pulled out all the stops because Shirley was breathing down their necks, it wasn't a full minute before a CCTV man announced that at 16:12 hours (4:12 p.m.) that afternoon, a man had detached the sign and made off with it in a small car.

"How soon after that did the first tow truck arrive and haul a vehicle away?" Emma asked from the doorway. Shirley repeated the question to make it official (substituting breakdown lorry for tow truck to make it British). The technicians searched the tapes.

"What the bloody h–" one of them blurted, catching the cuss word mid-stride, out of respect for the ladies present.

"Thank you for not swearing. What's up?" Shirley said.

"It's not two minutes before someone grabs the parking place. And the tow chap is hooking the car up as soon as the car's driver gets around the corner on foot. It's almost like they were waiting or something."

"Hmmm," said Shirley.

"The tow chap doesn't by any chance look like the man who just pulled up across the street, does he?" Emma asked. "Oh, look, they must be done for the day. He's putting the no parking sign back up. Isn't that cute?"

"Yeah. Real cute. I think I'll just go tell him how cute I think he is," Shirley said.

"Something tells me I'm glad I'm not in his shoes," Richard said of the driver, as he watched Shirley heading across the street. "Especially once it hits her that she's likely been party to an ongoing crime spree, by not noticing it before now. Tut, tut, tut. A bad business, this. And right under her nose, too."

As soon as it was clear that the crook knew he was no match for the policewoman, Emma pulled Richard to his feet and urged him down the road. "Let's get that car before anyone thinks of declaring it evidence in a towing scam investigation, shall we?" she said.

Richard hailed a taxi, and made the driver aware that he was a native, was not interested in sightseeing, and was not in any mood for detours since he was running late. Unfortunately, the impound yard wasn't so easily persuaded to get right to work. But, soon enough as these things go, Richard had the agency car bailed out, and firmly in his sweating possession (it didn't do to think of how dangerous it was for such a car to be in civilian hands, for just any number of reasons). Luckily, nothing inside the car, or out, seemed to have been messed with. The tow company must have only been after extra tows, taking advantage of the fact that people who see a sign later will generally assume it has been there earlier and that they just must not have noticed it. People tend to be funny that way about signs.

-

"What would you call this car's color?" Emma asked, as they drove to the safe house. "I know it's more rust-like than anything else, but it's a shiny, well-polished sort of rust color, and I'm sure that nothing in this price range ought to be called something that bad. Help me out. I'm horrible about colors. Especially rather glaring, oddball colors. I guess it could be burnt sienna or something like that?"

"Light mahogany will do better, I think, if we need to refer to it at all," Richard said, knowing it wasn't remotely a true mahogany at all, but not able, off the top of his head, to come up with anything better. His tone betrayed his embarrassment. Here he was with a passenger from America. America had its good points, in his considered opinion, but at the end of the day he couldn't reasonably argue that it possessed much finesse or sophistication. To make it worse, at a guess Mrs. Chapman had grown up in some backwater over there. She likely ate her chips with great globs of ketchup. If a person from that background could understand that the labs had sent him a car that was inappropriate for a man of his dignity and standing, the situation was clearly worse than he'd first thought. Certain cliques within the glitterati might very well be all agog about this shade at present, but it pushed credence that even the sort of high roller he was set to play in Paris would succumb to the allure of the fad. It was a horrid color.

Emma relented. "That's all right. I'll shut up about it. I understand that you-all are just jointly having a really bad day and aren't usually like this. Would it help any if I reminded you about _Direction du Renseignement Militaire_ , Scotland Yard, and Zimbabwe?"

Richard shook his head, but broke into a small grin. In hindsight, the badge bungle was funny. So was the way Emma gamely plowed along in French, and managed to make it sound Italian.

Emma sat up. "Hey, do you think we could stop here for a few minutes?" she asked. "I see a store that sells phones, and I want to replace mine. I'm not a dawdling sort of phone shopper. I could be right in and right out."

"I'm sure I could get another phone delivered to the safe house," Richard said.

"Thanks, but no thanks. As you saw, our labs like to make phones that melt in a crisis. What do your geniuses like to do with phones?"

He shrugged. "I couldn't say," he said. He parked, and let her pop into the store alone.

She came out surprisingly soon, carrying two phones, one of which she handed across after she got in the car. "I wasn't sure if you needed one," she said. "Felicity did say that yours wasn't working. Did you ever call her back, by the way? Like on the car phone or something?"

Richard sighed. He hadn't called in. He'd forgotten all about calling in. He'd been in the process of calling in when he'd been so rudely interrupted by the mugger. He struggled to remember precisely what it was the lab had wanted to know.

"I think all she wanted to know was that you were all right, and to see if they could get you back together with the car that took off without you," Emma said. "But I'm not sure. I'm sorry, but I haven't had anything close to a full night's sleep in more than a week. Between that and the jet lag, I'm not doing very well at the moment. I got a nap on the ferry, after I checked things out, but it's not holding or something. I need to sleep. I know it's rotten timing."

"It's fine. I'll keep a sharp lookout."

Emma shifted just a fraction, trying to get more comfortable without bumping anything that might have been modified by the secret labs. In seconds she was in a deep sleep, exhaustion etched into her unguarded face.

Richard looked across in some distress. He hadn't realized she was so tired. He felt he should have noticed, or guessed. Even without considering jet lag or knowing about the missed sleep, today in itself had been grueling. She'd hidden in a car boot to take on a kidnapper, had been adopted by teenagers and was hauled shopping by them, and... oh, yes, he mustn't forget she'd been in a roadway chase complete with a missile exploding under their car. And she'd been booted out of France... He mustn't forget the dinner with alien youth, during which they'd had to stay on their toes... Then there was the mugger kerfuffle... And the detour to recover a car twocced by a tow company... For that matter, he was feeling a bit worn out himself, if he wanted to be honest about it.

He pulled himself together and placed a call to the labs on his car's super-duper heavily encoded communications system. He kept his voice almost to a whisper as he called in. The car took the cue and broadcast back in very quiet tones. Felicity had gone home, but her successor professed delight that Richard was back with his car and all was well.

She was an older lady, near retirement, and didn't fuss at him or ask him why he was so long in calling. Perhaps she didn't really care anymore, he thought.

The more he thought about it after he rang off, the more he thought her relief seemed forced. He called her back. "Tell me to go jump in a lake if you want, but are you all right?" he asked.

"My grandson has brain cancer. I just found out."

"I'm sorry."

"No, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have told you. You have enough worries, I'm sure. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to say anything."

"It's all right."

"Don't tell anyone. It's not professional."

"I won't tell. Take care of yourself."

"Oh, bother. I'm going to cry."

"What if I told you you're gorgeous when you cry?"

"I'd say you're a liar and a scamp."

"Yep, that's me," he said, playing along.

She started crying. "You're right. I should get somebody to replace me tonight," she said.

"Did I say that?"

"No, but you should have. What if somebody needs something tonight and I can't think straight?"

"Last time I checked, you were tougher than you looked."

"He's 15. Old enough you can't help thinking about what sort of man he's turning into."

"I know people who have survived brain cancer. Sometimes people do."

"I've got another call." She rang off.

Richard pondered whether he owed Emma an apology for being angry with her for asking the cop about the missing car. After all, he'd told her they weren't leaving for Paris until morning. Taking part of their free time to pin down how the car happened to go astray hadn't been an altogether bad plan, in retrospect, especially considering that they both were preprogrammed to want to solve crimes, and considering that making off with a top secret car was the sort of crime that could have caused a lot of actual damage. It was the sort of thing terrorists and other enemies of civilization might do on purpose, and that they must not be allowed to do. Not that her course of action couldn't have gone very wrong, of course. They might easily have become tangled in all sorts of unwanted red tape and bureaucratic bother and unnecessary confusion. Still, he had at the time thought her absolutely mindless, but now he wasn't entirely convinced of that.

-

When they got to the safe house, Richard didn't think he ought to try to carry Emma in while she was asleep. For one thing, she seemed basically ladylike, for all her quirks and assertiveness, and to touch her without permission would be a variety of trespass. For another, on the whole it's a bad idea to try to move covert agents without first getting their consent, if you value your health. So he gently woke her and offered to carry her in half asleep. She thought it better to wake up as much as she could, and walk in under her own power.

As soon as Richard had walked around the house and not found anything suspicious, Emma collapsed fully dressed on the couch and said good night.

"You don't need to sleep there, like that," he said, feeling a bit helpless about it.

"Oh, don't be silly. You're too tall to fit here. I'm fine. Thanks anyway."

And she was asleep again, just like that, shoes on and everything.

# CHAPTER 8 – FIVE IN THE MORNING, PART 1

He was glad the woman had called ahead. These days it was hard to be coherent before eleven in the morning without at least a half hour's head start to clear the cobwebs away. And here it was only 5 a.m. Not that an old man could sleep for more than a few hours at a time anyway, so what did it matter, really, what time he got up?

According to his sources, the woman had more than usual on her plate these days. Big, bad stuff, too. He hoped he could help. Living to be ancient ought to count for something, after all.

"And how's my best protégé this morning?" the gnarled old man asked, over his second cup of coffee, as Zanna Wyatt stepped into the room.

"In need of a cup of coffee," she said, with a mischievous grin.

The man adjusted his trifocals, and looked more carefully at her. As a matter of fact, she did look in need of some sort of pick me up, despite her flawless dressing and nearly perfect grooming. He waved his hand at the coffeepot. She helped herself.

Zanna sat and looked quietly around the room. "It's swept," the old man assured her, meaning the room had been checked for electronic bugs and other unwelcome presences. Considering her security clearance and the sorts of things they usually discussed, it had to be done before each visit.

"I don't know if you can help me, but I'm at sea on something," Zanna said. She slouched in her chair, and ran her hand through her hair. She shook her head as if shaking loose stray thoughts. "Are you on your first cup or your second?" she asked, looking at his coffee.

"Don't want to waste your time, eh? Good girl." He laughed. "Second cup. Ask away. I'm as awake as you'll get me."

"Do you know Richard Hugh?"

"Name's familiar," he fudged.

"Triple-O Five," she prompted.

"I've met him once or twice. Never talked with him, to speak of. Whatever his record is, not much is coming to mind, other than it's generally favorable."

"All right. How's this? You do know the Prime Minister?"

"Yes, fairly well."

"He comes from the same part of the country as you, doesn't he?"

"Yes. We're distant cousins, if that's of any use."

"He and Richard Hugh went to school together."

"Some sort of years-old trouble coming to the surface?"

"No. I'm not heading in that direction. Well, not exactly. Here's the situation: I think I've run into some sort of folklore that's peculiar to that part of the world, and I don't understand it."

The old man grinned. He was rather proud of the things that were peculiar to his shire. The thought of a homogenous world depressed him, for one thing. For another, his birthplace was only one step higher than dirt poor. About all it had to call its own was its unique way of life and its legends. He could brag on those 'til doomsday, if he could keep an audience.

Zanna started to ask about the grin, but thought better of it. "What's this about twins being bad luck?" she asked.

He looked at her blankly.

"The ones not related to you, I mean. People who share the same birth date."

"Ah, I see. The twins you don't always know about." He chuckled. "It's a story we tell our children to scare them before we send them to sleep." He chuckled some more.

"It's not very funny at the moment, sir."

"Oh, why ever not? It's a harmless version of the bogeyman. 'You be good or we'll send an evil twin after you' – that's what it amounts to. It's the stick side of Father Christmas. He brings gifts if you're well behaved. The unknown twin gets you if you're not. That's all."

"Well, it's got both Triple-O Five and the Prime Minister in a bit of a sweat, it looks like."

"Oh, that's not the agent with the same birth date as the PM? I've heard about that."

She nodded and started to say something, but he cut her off. "So either assign a different agent to the Prime Minister, or make sure the two silly blokes are where they can watch each other. It's only the twin who sneaks up on you with ill intent that's going to suck the manhood out of you and leave you a pale, wraith-like creature doomed to spend eternity in the smelly swamps of the next county."

Zanna stared at the old man. "You're joking."

He shook his head. His eyes sparkled.

"Surely you don't feed that sort of tale to children?" she said.

"Every chance I get, the rotten little beggars. But you've missed the important part. If Mr. Hugh and Mr. Prime Minister have got the willies, just set it up so they have control enough to feel they can watch their backs properly. They'll be fine. If they've grown up with each other, they'll have a lifetime of not being sucked half-human to fall back on. They'll get over it soon enough, I imagine. Unless..." He paused dramatically.

She saw the gleam in his eye, and was afraid to ask. "I'm afraid to ask," she said, dutifully.

"Unless one of them really is an evil incarnation sent specially to suck the other one out of the mortal realm." He made hooing noises for added effect.

"Oh, stop being ridiculous," she said.

He took her coffee cup. He set it down with the handle to her left. "Go on. Pick it up in your left hand and drink it that way," he said.

She hesitated. "I don't want to play silly games," she said. She rotated the cup and picked it up with her right hand.

"A silly game is it? Put that cup down and pick it up in your left hand and drink from it. That's an order."

She hesitated.

"All right, then. Don't," he said, gently. "But that's what you're up against. I haven't met a person of your class from your part of the country who can think of drinking left handed. Perhaps some powerful ancestor fifteen hundred years ago decided it was evil. More likely some woman with social pretensions in the Victorian era decided drinking left-handed came across as common or uncouth. Or maybe a nanny three generations back was just having a bit of fun bullying the children. The point is the ruddy superstition caught on and your modern but conscientious nanny likely rapped your knuckles if you forgot, and you've learnt the rule well enough to abhor drinking left-handed. We teach the most stupid things to our children, and then wonder why they turn into silly adults. But it's not all bad, really."

Zanna shifted her cup to her left hand and drank.

Her mentor chose to ignore the stunt. "What I was starting to say is that superstitions have their place, within reason, of course. They impose order on a disorderly world. It's a false order, but it helps us cope. It also gives us something to laugh about, and feel silly about; and in our game, young lady, superstitions also give us an excuse to back out of things we'd rather not mess with in the first place. As an example, you were talking about the Prime Minister. Do you have any idea why he asked for the man he did for ambassador to Japan?"

She shook her head.

Her mentor noticed with amusement that she'd unconsciously switched from left-handed drinking to two-handed drinking. The left hand was still in play, but was getting able assistance from the sanctioned right hand. He decided not to tease her about it, and went on. "The man had no diplomatic credentials, and on occasion has been likened to a country bumpkin. But our Prime Minister lived briefly in Japan, and he knows their superstitious nature. The man he sent is perfect for the job. If he's on board a boat with Japanese officials and one of them says, 'Oh, look, four eagles!' and looks distressed, our man can say, 'Ooh, my. Four is a bad number, isn't it? Plus, oh dear, one of your entourage stepped off the dock onto the deck with the wrong foot. Taken by itself, the wrong foot bungle wasn't enough to worry about. But taken with the four fishing eagles, I don't think we dare sign any agreements today. Don't you agree?' And our rustic ambassador will come across as sincere, because he believes in omens and auguries as much as any Oriental. Then they'll all relax and congratulate themselves on their masterful grasp of supernatural warnings and safeguards. They'll all go home happy and have rice wine, no harm done any way around, unless you count that for the next five hundred years a percentage of Japanese will take great care in stepping onto a boat with their left foot. Or their right. Or both feet together with three bunny hops after, if that's what Our Friend Bob the British Ambassador said was least likely to upset the natural order of things. Whatever bit of superstition our fellow shares is jolly well bound to be passed along to somebody. It's not right keeping important secrets like that from your loved ones and esteemed colleagues."

She stared at him.

"It's basic human nature," he said. "We want to please powers we don't control. And we want to protect our family and friends, as well as ourselves." He chuckled. "Of course, the beautiful thing about all this is that our ambassador isn't nearly the country cousin he's made out to be. Whenever it's crucial to the cause of Britain, he can convincingly pretend to be superstitious even when he's not, and get us off the hook rather nicely that way. I know that waters down my argument, but there it is."

"You're sidestepping Christianity again."

"Most of the people we have to deal with don't think much of Christianity, including many of the ones who claim to be Christian. Therefore they don't think or act like Christians."

"Granted."

"And I'll grant that superstitions and real Christianity don't go together. If you've read the Old Testament or the New, you can't help noticing that God doesn't like people hedging their bets that way, or any other way, for that matter. Either you trust him or you don't. If you believe in him. Which I don't, you know."

Zanna quietly settled her cup solidly into a left-handed hold.

The gnarled old man shifted in his chair. "Well, have I solved your problem with the Prime Minister and his lurking childhood fears?" he asked pleasantly.

"No. You haven't solved my problem. We haven't even come to the problem. It's not the Prime Minister I'm worried about. It's Richard Hugh."

"Look here! If the Prime Minister is teasing your agent, just tell him to stop. If he won't listen to you, I'll take care of it. He's impish but not stupid. I used to ride herd on the blighter from time to time when he was a boy. I've got a few tricks up my sleeve with that one."

Zanna smiled, buoyed by his pluck. She had visions of this gnarled old man taking the Prime Minister to task, and the Prime Minister meekly taking orders like a cowed five-year-old child. She'd seen stranger things when a grown man was confronted with an old sitter, teacher, or rich maiden aunt who had kept him on a tight leash when young.

"I'd love to turn you loose on the PM, especially if I could watch, but we're still not to the real problem," she said.

"Well, get to the real problem, girl. I'm an old man. I could die of ancientness at this rate," he said with some exasperation.

She looked at him. He was looking tired and unwell. "On the other hand," she said, thoughtfully, "you just may have solved my problem, at that. My problem involves a third person. But if the solution is to set it up so the silly blokes can keep an eye on each other until they come to their senses, well, I've done that already."

"That should take care of it, given enough time," the old man said. "You're not going to give me details, are you?" he added, slightly disappointed.

"Maybe someday, luv," she said as she stood to leave. "But right now I have the very devil to deal with."

More precisely, she had several devils to deal with. Mighty Planetary Master had managed to rise to the top of the list because he seemed to be moving his agent-poaching activities into her territory, going after her agents like so many foxes, but his ascendancy certainly hadn't slowed down any of her country's other enemies. She was acutely aware of that.

# CHAPTER 9 – FIVE IN THE MORNING, PART 2

Emma Chapman woke. As trained, she didn't move at first, but listened while she regrouped her senses and got her memory into working order. Usually it didn't matter if you stretched and yawned and brought attention to yourself when you were waking up, but when it did matter it was good to be in the habit of stealthy coming-to. Sometimes it saved you a beating. Sometimes it could save your life, depending on who was in the vicinity.

She remembered with some relief that she was in the company of a British agent with a good reputation. That is, he was reported to be a good undercover agent. He'd had a rather bad day yesterday. She remembered that she hadn't exactly been at her best, either.

She tried to remember why she was in England... or France? They'd gone to France. No... wait... they were back in England, having been turned around, no nonsense brooked, by a French official named Leandre Durand, who had convincingly pretended to not know the British agent, and vice versa. But why was she this side of the Atlantic? Oh, now she remembered – she was after information on the spy killer who wasn't making any sense to anybody, except possibly to himself/herself/themselves, whichever Mighty Planetary Master was.

There was something else... something about the reputation of the agent she was with. Oh, yes... a lady-killer, a man who prided himself on being attractive and charming. Not to worry, she thought. He'll have other things to think about until this is over. Besides which, she wasn't going to go along with bad behavior, should any crop up. Polite but firm lack of cooperation usually bore good results with all but the worst of the worst of that sort of man, and this fellow certainly didn't seem to be unreasonable, thank goodness.

She sat up, and found herself staring into the eyes of Richard Hugh. He was half asleep in a chair placed where he could watch her sleep – or, at least, see her whenever he opened his eyes. His eyes were half open now, sleepy, but still watchful, and glued to her face. She had the impression that her sleeping-to-wakefulness stealth had been utterly wasted on him. He had the air of someone who could have sensed if she were awake, even if he were sleeping. Emma supposed she should feel grateful to be with someone who was so alert. Instead she felt nervous. Silly that. He'd given her no reason to feel nervous that she could think of, other than the guard-like placement of his chair.

Sometime during the night he'd set her up with a blanket without her noticing. She felt stupid. She could almost forgive herself for missing the blanket business, because she'd been sound asleep – but if someone's only a few feet away, you should know he's there before you sit up and yawn in his face, she thought. She was sure she used to be better at this sort of thing, when she was younger. She looked around to get her bearings, especially the bearings to the bathroom.

"We don't need to leave for three hours or so," Richard said. He shifted in his chair and dropped off to sleep.

Or was he asleep? Emma was willing to bet that he was at least as good at feigning sleep as she was. In any case, she took it as a signal that it was her turn on watch. She tried to tune in to every little sound in and around the house.

After finishing in the bathroom, she slipped into the kitchen to fix tea and toast, if the fixings were there. They were. "Of course. This is England. We wouldn't be without tea and toast," she whispered to herself, jesting with stereotypes. (It may be said that she liked jesting with stereotypes.) She laughed to herself. It had been her experience that Brits were as coffee-mad as Americans, and she knew she was more of a tea drinker than many modern English. She liked the smell of coffee, but hated to drink it. It made her think of battery acid. She had reasons to hate thinking about battery acid, not least because a crime syndicate in Latin America had murdered a beloved colleague of hers using battery acid.

She put sugar in her tea, a small luxury she usually went without, and lathered jam on her toast. No butter, though. The waistline was being difficult again. She had second thoughts about the jam, and scraped off a third of it. After silently giving thanks for the food, she sat and ate while she soaked up her surroundings. Here she was, yet again, in yet another unfamiliar place, but at least someone had taken the trouble to make this house look and feel homey, without making it too cluttered for safety. People in charge of places like this had to take safety and security into account. Or at least they ought to, certainly.

She fought back an inkling of melancholy. It was hard, before dawn in a country where you didn't know anyone well, not to wonder what your life could have been like, if you hadn't spent all of it that mattered chasing bad people.

Speaking of bad people... She forced herself out of her musing, and mentally walked around the house again, listening for trouble. This time she had the nagging feeling that there was someone outside. Aiming to look unconcerned, she sipped her tea as she walked over to Richard, who now, by the way, looked more asleep than he had at first. She stretched and listened again, without looking like she was listening (she rather hoped that she looked like your basic, somewhat restless, insomniac). There was only silence, but the hairs were still up on the back of her neck. She toyed with the idea of checking by herself, but decided against it. She was afraid of who might be out there. Mighty Planetary Master, for all the silly theatrics, had taken out some of the best agents on the face of the Earth. On top of that, she didn't know Richard well enough to even guess how long it usually took him to wake up, or how good his instincts generally were before he was fully awake. "Hey," she said, speaking loudly, as some people rudely do when talking to people who aren't awake, "you don't look very comfortable there. As tall as you are, wouldn't you be best on the bed?"

Faint sounds moved along the outside of the house. When the noise was away from any windows, she pointed toward it, slightly, while sipping her tea.

Richard was watching her out of half-open eyes. Pretending to work a kink out of his neck, he cocked his head and listened. His eyes perked up just as Emma heard another rustle, sounding like it might be on track to the bedroom.

"How many?" Richard quietly asked.

"No idea yet. I've only just heard the one. For all I know, it's a dog or a cat."

Richard hadn't known too many nonhumans that tiptoed their way along in one direction like that, or that would know where the bedroom was, assuming that by some miracle they could have understood what they'd heard whilst eavesdropping. He reached for his shoes.

# CHAPTER 10 – FIVE IN THE MORNING, PART 3

Pat stared upward at nothing in particular. She'd slept off and on since she went to bed, but she hadn't slept much and she hadn't slept well. She rubbed her face, devoid now of jewelry. It felt naked, and better, and worse, all at the same time. She felt she'd cleared some sort of hurdle on her way to the adult world she rather desperately wanted to enter. Adolescence had been fun enough, in its own way, but the image she'd built up over the last few years felt totally wrong, like some kind of cocoon that needing shucking so she could fly. At age 24, she felt she'd fallen down on the job somewhere. Surely a person should be grown up by age 24, she thought. Surely, at least a person of 24 should be able to face the world without hiding behind what Mr. Rochester had called battle gear.

Henry Rochester had made a big impression on her, even more of an impression than his American wife, who'd been an eye-opener by herself. Now, there was a couple to reckon with, Pat thought. But especially Mr. Rochester.

The bunk above her rocked, the breathing changed.

"You awake, Lanie?" Pat whispered.

Lanie, technically 15 but perpetually 12 in many respects, popped her head over the side and looked down at her big sister. "It would be hard not to be, as much as you've been tossing and moaning. Does it hurt or something, where stuff came out?"

"It feels strange, like part of me has been taken away or something."

"Are you going to put them back?"

"No. I want to look normal, like I used to."

Lanie giggled so hard the bed bumped against the wall.

"What's so funny?" Pat asked.

"Guess."

"My hair."

Lanie stopped laughing. "How do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"How do you know what I'm thinking?"

"I didn't know. It was a likely guess. It'll be weeks until the shaved patches grow out to where they don't just look like I'm too lazy to shave. It's apt to look worse before it looks better, if I'm not careful."

"Have you ever wanted to buy a wig?"

"Sometimes."

"Me, too. Too bad they're so expensive. The good ones, I mean. Except, would it put hairdressers out of business, if people had cheap good wigs? I wouldn't want that."

"I wouldn't worry about it, Lanie. Wigs are ucky to wear, and you need room to store them, and all that. Most folks don't want the bother."

"Too bad head scarves aren't fun anymore."

"There are lots of head coverings. I'm sure I could get one that doesn't look like I'm trying to make a religious or political statement."

"I don't know. Head scarves scare me."

"We'll see how it goes. I think I can get the hair to work."

"What are you planning to do, Pat? You got something planned, I can tell. Is it to do with that American lady?"

"Kind of."

"You've been different ever since you had dinner with those people. You shouldn't have had dinner with them maybe. And Tabby says you cheated to get us to go to the restaurant. I know that doesn't sound right."

"I didn't plan to meet the man. I just meant to peek around the corner and see what he thought of my makeover. I know I shouldn't have cheated, but I got mad when they set it up to be a drawing, instead of just letting those of us who pulled it off get to see how it went over. I won't do it again, I promise."

"I can't believe they're married."

"I couldn't either, at first. I wish you could have stayed to dinner, and got to know them better."

"I'm glad I didn't."

"Why?"

"Because they made you all funny, and sad, like you don't like your life anymore, or something."

"I haven't liked it for a long time. It's just that now I have an idea for some way maybe I can move on to something better."

There was pounding on the wall. "Shut up in there, will you? It's bloody five in the bloody morning!"

"I didn't mean to wake you. Sorry!" Lanie called through the wall of the old house that was creatively cut into more apartments than looked possible from the street. "Talk to you later," she whispered to Pat.

Lanie had never lived anywhere that didn't have neighbors sleeping on the other side of thin walls, so being yelled at in the middle of the night by disembodied voices was entirely normal to her. Routine, even, since she loved to lie in bed and talk to whoever else was in the room. She'd never had a room to herself.

Pat had. For a few wonderful months she'd lived alone. She was making good money in those days, working at a posh salon. Good enough, anyway. Then the salon burned down, and Mum got sick, and Dad went to jail, and Pat had been pulled back down with the rest of the family again.

She'd finally talked Lanie into moving out with her. They'd had to move a few times until they found an affordable flat near where they both could find work, and sometimes they'd had to throw in with other girls as roommates, but finally they'd landed here, just the two of them. The current neighbors sometimes went ballistic if you talked at night, but at least no one in the building was into drugs or in a gang. They were relatively safe here, she and Lanie. But it was still not much better than just surviving and Pat was determined to move up, and take her younger sister with her. And she'd decided that Mr. Rochester was going to be the man to help her do it.

# CHAPTER 11 – BACK AT THE SAFE HOUSE

Richard Hugh wondered what might be the best way of confirming that he was in command. Not that the American hadn't proved fairly reasonable so far in their mutual adventures, but too many chiefs and not enough Indians was a good way to get killed. He didn't doubt that one or both of them could get killed. Pre-dawn prowlers at safe houses must be presumed dangerous. But how to broach the subject was diplomatically touchy, especially with a woman. Women could be so dreadfully reactionary and unreasonable about hierarchies they hadn't come up with themselves.

Emma Chapman smiled at him. "This is your country, probably your mess, and I'm not overly familiar with the layout around here. If you're running for leader, you have my vote," she said. She set down her teacup. She stretched, twisted her back one way and the other, touched her toes a few times, flexed her knees, all the while keeping her head cocked to pick up any new sounds from the unknown outside person. "There. I'm weaponless, but willing. And I'm awake now. Where do you want me, and what do you want me to do?" She spoke lightly, but managed to make Richard feel that she understood that the situation was serious, and that teamwork was in order.

Richard considered. The sounds had moved toward the bedroom, then quit. Perhaps the ground went soft past there, and he hadn't heard the person leave. Most likely, though, it meant someone was waiting for him to walk into the bedroom, as Emma had suggested quite out loud for everyone's benefit. "Make noise like you're someone getting ready for bed," he said. "Give me three minutes after I go through the door, then go turn down the covers or whatever. Just give them reason to think I'm headed to the bedroom, plus noises other than my footsteps. If there's any indication someone's got a gun on you, get right back out if you can. At any rate, look to yourself. I'll muddle through in any case. I'm going round the house outside. I don't know which way until I get the feel of things out there."

"Do you ever go over the roof in situations like this?"

He stared at her, wondering what sort of reply she expected. Did he look that athletic? Or crazy? Did Americans routinely swarm over houses instead of sanely staying at ground level? Did the woman watch too much television, and have it confused with reality?

"I'd like to know whether or not to worry about scrabbling noises over my head, if any," she said.

"I won't go over the roof without telling you, then."

"Whatever. I'm adaptable. It was probably silly to ask. My apologies."

"No apology necessary, I assure you," he said, having decided, as affirmed leader, that he didn't want to discourage her from asking questions, even crazy ones. He bit back a smile as he imagined the improbable scenario of himself slithering along on a roof, whilst considering it all in a day's work. Not that he couldn't do it, of course. Emma smiled at him, and he wondered if she'd meant the question seriously, or as a way to ease the tension, or get him into a better frame of mind. He was surprised to find it didn't bother him that she might have been playing him along, perhaps even testing him. Teammates often did that, at least the ones worth working with.

Emma walked to the bathroom and turned on the light. It made a wash along the floor and one wall of the bedroom. If anyone outside was getting impatient for signs that someone might be coming to the bedroom soon, the light should get them happy again, he thought. "Hey, Deborah," he called, in a voice loud enough to carry outside as well. "When you're done in there, let me know. I think I will go to bed and try for a few hours of sleep, at least."

"You got it," Emma called back. She launched into a snatch of song, as some people tend to do when confronted by the encouraging acoustics of a small bathroom.

Richard opened the front door and stepped into the pale light thrown off by streetlights. He had mixed feelings about the light; in a more perfect world, the good guys would be protected by shadows but bad guys would be unable to hide in plain, dark air. He pushed the thought aside. This was no time to be dreaming of a fantasy world, not when the real one was rife with extra hazards. He moved into shadow, and waited, listening, while he let his eyes adjust to the dark.

He was almost sure Mrs. Chapman would give him three minutes exactly before she went into the bedroom. She seemed the sort of person capable of understanding the importance of coordinated effort, at least during an emergency.

Most people, he knew, would find three minutes an eternity under the circumstances, but he'd needed to allow for stealth, and darkness, and unknown and unknowable complications. She'd seemed to understand that, for which he was grateful.

The hard part would be to not get there ahead of time. Keeping accurate track of time whilst sneaking about was a fine and rare art, and it was, he knew, not his strongest point (by any stretch). In fact, that he was so bad at it was one of the many reasons he usually worked solo. Why he'd blithely set things up as if he were good at that sort of thing was beyond comprehension, and, in hindsight, he wished he hadn't. Well, there was nothing for it now but to give it a good go.

At the first corner, even listening for all he was worth, he couldn't hear anyone along the side of the house. He ventured a careful look. Clear. He listened for sounds from the back of the house. Nothing yet. Not if you didn't count the patter of rain that was resuming after a half hour lull. He rounded the corner. He hugged the wall's deep shadow, inching along until he was near the back corner. Sure enough, he could sense, if not actually hear, another person around the corner.

He pulled his gun. He took a slow, silent, deep breath, and got ready for a face off. He didn't allow himself to think too much about it. He concentrated on listening for what his partner was doing – it helped to think of her simply as his partner – or for any movement by the trespasser.

He started to worry about his partner's safety. Worse yet, his mind started to put emphasis on the fact she was a woman, and therefore due special consideration and protection.

He steeled himself. Right now, all that mattered was following the very good emergency procedures he'd been taught to use in deadly circumstances, with a priority on maintaining a proper attitude. His info-gathering senses went on heightened alert. His sense of self he half buried somewhere beneath the conviction that there was a job to be done.

-

Roughly three minutes after Richard went out the front door, Emma called toward the kitchen that she was done in the bathroom, and would go get things ready in the bedroom. She walked into the bedroom and turned the bedcovers down. Under the pretext of fixing a corner of the sheet, she checked under the bed. She hadn't heard any noises from inside the house, but underneath the bed was a natural place to be nervous about. There was nothing under it, except a very fine film of dust on the floor. The dust field had no scrapes in it. No one and nothing had been under the bed recently. That was nice.

-

Richard crouched and peeked around the corner to determine what he was up against.

A man, dressed in black from his stocking cap to his shoes, was peering in the bedroom window. The man reached in his pocket and drew out something rectangular and boxy, also black and therefore impossible to see in any detail. The man brought the device up to window level.

Richard sprang. He pistol-whipped the man, grabbed the little black object, and hurled it away from the house. He'd deal with that later, whatever it was, but best not have it too close for now, in case it was explosive or poisonous. He smashed the stunned prowler against the wall, twisting his arm until the man was rigid with pain. Richard looked around, but didn't see signs of anyone else.

"Deborah, come to the window," he said.

Emma came straight away, and waited quietly for instructions.

"See if there's anything to tie up this man," he said.

She grinned, and waved a roll of duct tape in the air. (It often paid to snoop in drawers while you were puttering around waiting for your partner to ambush somebody.)

"Perfect," he said. "Bring it around through the kitchen, and keep your eyes open."

When she arrived, Richard handed her the gun and took on the task of taping. He was pleased to note that she knew how to handle the weapon intelligently. On top of that, she seemed to have sense about how far to stand away, and where to place herself to best cover his back. And, yet, somehow, she didn't come across as a professional. That was probably for the prowler's sake, he thought. At least he hoped it was for the prowler's sake.

The intruder was quickly handcuffed, and his legs hobbled. Richard decided to leave him sitting on the wet ground for the time being. He thought it might improve the man's willingness to cooperate. Besides, the fellow had pulled them out into a muddy, yucky night, and he probably deserved to sit on the cold, wet ground for a few minutes whilst answering questions.

"Now, then," Richard said, "Who are you and what were you trying to do?"

The man didn't answer, but stared miserably in the direction that his little black device had been thrown. Richard didn't like this turn of events one bit. He took his gun back from Emma and sent her inside with instructions to stay away from windows.

"Now then," he repeated, as he got a better grip on his gun and pointed it at the man's face. "One more time. Who are you and what are you doing here?"

The man fainted.

Realizing it wouldn't do any good to loiter in the rain just hoping the man would wake up before something went off, Richard hauled the prowler inside and left him in Emma's care while he went to find the little black box. He moved quickly. If it was on a timer, he wanted to beat the clock. If it wasn't on a timer, he still wanted to get to it before anyone stumbled across it. The prowler had seemed very concerned about it, whatever it was.

He found it skidded up against an old brick. It looked like a camera. That didn't necessarily mean very much. There were lots of things you could hide inside camera bodies, even pocket-sized ones.

He found a garden rake and used it to roll the object over and over while he took cover behind a wheelbarrow, at last convincing himself that it wasn't going to blow up because of a little jiggling. He carried it into better light, and looked more closely at it. It still looked like a little camera. So why had the prowler been so distressed? Richard toyed with the thought of punching buttons to see what happened, but dismissed the idea as madness under the circumstances.

Going inside, he wrapped his find in plastic sheeting and tied a kitchen towel around it, trying not to depress any switches as he did so. Emma ran for a big, thick bath towel, which she handed across at arm's length before beating a hasty retreat. Richard wrapped the 'camera' in it, set the package in the kitchen sink, put a roasting pan over it, then a heavy cutting board across the top of the sink as a further shield against shrapnel. He knew it probably wasn't adequate, really, but there wasn't anything better at hand. He turned on the tap, and took cover while the sink filled. As the sink filled, he wished the house had a bathtub. When putting water around a suspected bomb, he quite naturally preferred to put lots and lots of water around it.

The roasting pan insisted on maintaining an air pocket and floated ridiculously, so he moved back in and fiddled with it to let some of the air out. When the sink was full, he turned off the tap, resettled the cutting board, and left the kitchen. If it was a bomb, and exploded, now at least some of the force would be contained or absorbed by the sink, the pan, the towels, the plastic wrap, the cutting board, and the water, especially the water. Or that was the theory, anyhow.

He had second thoughts about the roasting pan. He couldn't remember from training whether a pan helped, as per absorbing shocks, or if it likely just represented a potential projectile or, worse, raw material for shrapnel. He decided that whatever was technically best, he'd leave well enough alone for now.

No, on third thought, he didn't like the roasting pan. Really, really didn't like it. He replaced it with a heavy metal colander. It at least looked like a baffle of some sort. Baffles were good around bombs. He knew that much. Or thought he did.

He wondered about asking Emma if she knew enough physics to know if the colander was an improvement or a step backwards from a roasting pan, but decided to not admit ignorance, on the grounds that his gut told him that neither approach was truly adequate if they were up against high grade plastic explosives or something like that. He was happier with the colander. He would content himself with that. But, of course, he would content himself at a distance, discretion being the better part of valor. He retreated out of the kitchen again, trying to exude confidence without letting it slow him down any.

"I'm going to ring up the office from the car," he whispered in Emma's ear. "I shouldn't be long."

"Do you have a mirror?" she whispered back, in his.

Of course he planned to check for signs of tampering, especially to the engine and the undercarriage. A mirror would make the job easier, at that. He got a hand mirror out of the bathroom and went outside.

The car looked fine, topside and bottom; and also inside, as much as he could see through the windows. His little tape markers were right where they should be, and not the least wrinkled, as they would be if anyone had messed with them. He still held his breath when he lifted the hood (bonnet, in Brit-speak). Nothing seemed out of place there. He held his breath as he unlocked and opened the front passenger door. Nothing unusual happened. It was beginning to look like nothing much had happened except a bit of skulking. Still, he decided to check the driver's door only after he'd brought HQ up to speed.

HQ said it couldn't arrange backup for another half hour at the earliest, and, realistically, perhaps not before noon, given what else they were already dealing with, but they authorized a call to the local police as long as he steadfastly maintained his cover during the proceedings.

The dispatcher asked him if he'd had trouble with the safe house's security system. She couldn't see that they'd been notified that there was an emergency in progress, or been sent video to analyze.

"I didn't activate anything. It didn't seem to fall out that way," he fudged, hoping she'd jump to the conclusion that everything had happened in such a rush and tumble that he hadn't been able to reach the appropriate switches. She seemed content with his explanation, which made him feel a bit guilty.

After HQ rang off, he asked himself how a man put up for the night in a safe house could forget he was in a safe house equipped with just all sorts of lovely monitoring devices and protections, there for the turning on?

But, of course, the current policy was to not actually use the devices except during an emergency, on the theory that to have them off left the house with infrared and electronic fingerprints indistinguishable from a normal house. If you didn't count anything as an emergency unless you didn't think you could handle it on your own, he was technically in the clear. Besides, he'd saved electricity, right? Saving electricity was good, right?

He decided to despise himself later, after things were battened down and he could get off by himself somewhere without leaving anyone in the lurch.

He thought, for perhaps the thousandth time in his life, that he would have fit nicely into a uniformly low-tech age. The current age was too hard to keep up with, not to mention rather too interconnected in impersonal ways to suit him. This is not to mention that he didn't think having increasingly more of his actions available on tapes for replay and analysis was an advancement in civilization. Sane men didn't wish for unknown audiences, much less unknown audiences in perpetuity, much less the typically hostile audience of deskbound bureaucrats whose job it was to analyze (read: find fault with) the isolated and out of context incidents given to them to review at leisure in the boring confines of their well-guarded cushy workplaces.

Being honest with himself, he admitted he might not have turned on monitoring devices, even if he'd remembered them. It just went against the grain, somehow. "Better a dozen criminals should go free, than one free man be second guessed by tape watchers peering into his castle," he thought, adapting some half-forgotten old justice-related maxim or two to fit the occasion.

He went back into the house. "I guess we're going to have to call in the police," he said. He didn't bother to speak quietly. He rather wanted to know what the prowler's response would be to the possibility of the police coming by. He couldn't quite read the man's response. If he didn't know better, he'd think the man even relaxed a bit.

Emma suppressed a grin. She'd already figured out that their captive thought he was the prisoner of crazy people. She hadn't gone out of her way to convince him otherwise.

-

The two police officers were a bit surprised, but not much, when they found the suspect taped up and sweating profusely on the couch. For that matter, it was nice that he wasn't bleeding from several stab wounds or something like that. The local citizenry had been reacting rather violently toward burglars ever since that 70-year-old lady had been molested in her home two blocks away. Probably half the houses in the neighborhood had recently acquired hunting knives, or stout canes, many with hidden swords. Not to mention dogs. Big snappy dogs, for the most part. It was nice to respond to a house without dogs. But, of course, this was one of those timeshare houses, used mostly by Londoners on holiday.

The senior officer, upon finding there was a possible bomb on the premises (obviously, his dispatch center hadn't quite got the whole message relayed), put himself in charge of the suspect, and his junior in charge of the suspected bomb, him having had recent special training in bombs. The senior officer then instructed the civilians that if the bomb man called retreat, or yelled to take cover, he should be taken at face value. Absolutely. Immediately. After all, this wouldn't be the first burglar to actually have explosives on hand. Usually the ruddy crook meant to severely damage safes and the like, but bombs had such a nasty habit of not being particular who or what they blew up (begging the lady's pardon for saying so). He then set to work getting the suspect properly handcuffed, and untaped.

Richard led the younger policeman aside and apologized. "I'm sorry. It's probably nothing, but the way he was being sneaky with it I didn't know quite what to do about it, so I wrapped it up and covered it with water, before I even stopped to think. I was concerned for my wife's safety, and..." His voice trailed off in a tone of misery. He blushed. He was the perfect picture of a well brought up, higher class man who'd recently acted out of adrenalin-boosted instinct, and now wondered if he was, quite accidentally, a fool.

The policeman hastened to reassure him. "Well, now, having an intruder in the middle of the night would throw anyone off, sir. Can you describe the object at all?"

Richard's blush, which had started to fade, bloomed again. "Now that I've had time to think about it, I'm frightfully afraid it may have been nothing more or less than a camera."

The policeman grinned. He liked this man, who was so sorry to have hauled him away from other duties at a wretched hour. So often people just expected policemen to show up, and never thought about the inconvenience. "A camera, eh? Let's just hope it is just that," he said pleasantly. "It would be a nice change from what we usually get. And..." He looked around conspiratorially before leaning over to whisper, "...what we usually get, to be honest with you, is dirty nappies in forgotten tote bags. It's amazing how many parents lose track of their baby things, especially what's been used."

Richard smiled back. "Not a chance of that here. Whatever it is, it's much too small."

"Oh, good."

"And there's no smell at all."

"Even better," the policeman said. He looked around to get his bearings. The kitchen area and the living room were essentially one room, with angles and furniture and appliances to differentiate them. He'd need to evacuate the whole area if it looked like the object in the sink might really contain explosives. He rather doubted it. The suspect seemed far more frightened of the people who'd tied him up with tape than whatever menace might be imagined from the kitchen. "Let's just go ask our man over there what he says it is, shall we?" he said, herding Richard back over to the others.

The senior cop shrugged. "Suspect insists it's a camera."

"So far we're unanimous, then. Let me borrow him a minute, will you?" the junior cop said. Without waiting for an answer, he hauled the suspect to his feet and marched him to the kitchen sink.

The senior cop was a bit concerned, but didn't want to say so. In his experience, bomb experts were rather like combat pilots of his acquaintance. They had funny ideas about fate, every last one of them. It usually was futile arguing with them. He moved the householders behind the couch and had them hunker down with him while they watched the proceedings. Really, to be by the book, they should evacuate, or at least go all the way down behind the couch. But since his partner wasn't worried, it seemed ridiculous to be quite that cautious.

-

Emma, as she ducked behind the couch, noticed for the first time that it was a sofa bed. She glanced out of the corner of her eye to see if Richard had noticed her noticing this. He was studiously watching the action in the kitchen. Maybe too studiously. He also looked like he was suppressing a chuckle. Not that she hadn't had enough room on the couch as a couch – but it was perfectly ridiculous to have not used a bed when one was available for the unfolding. She tried not to blush. No luck there. She could feel heat swamping her face. She refocused her mind. Not that explosives seemed at all likely at this point, but still, if the bomb guy yelled a warning, she wanted to be as ready as possible.

-

The junior policeman redid the handcuffs in front so the suspect could use his hands but was still somewhat restricted. He let the man fish the items out of the water. The man did so eagerly, moaning about his camera the whole while.

"Careful with that wet towel, now. Keep it over the sink. We don't want to make a mess in this nice lady's kitchen," the policeman said.

"Speak for yourself," the suspect said. A sharp look from the officer shut him up. He moved proceedings back over the sink, but was clearly not happy about not being allowed to make big puddles as if by accident.

Once it was unbundled, the suspect reverently wiped his little black box on his shirt front, turned it over, pushed some buttons, and started scrolling through pictures that showed up on the screen on the back of the camera.

"It works! It works! I didn't lose my pictures! Celebrities. Candid shots. See!" the man said, proudly showing off his work, which wasn't very good, technically, and certainly didn't flatter anyone. "I am a celebrity photographer!"

Richard and Emma looked at each other in amazement. Make that amazement tinged with horror.

"So why were you outside our window?" Emma asked.

"Oh, pu-leeze," the prowler said, feeling much more confident now that his camera and pictures were safe, and now that the police were between him and the crazies. "Are you going to tell me that he," – he pointed at Richard – "that he, with his car and his looks, is not a celebrity? Hah!" Struck by an inspiration, the photographer raised his camera and tried to shoot Richard.

The policeman batted the camera down and away. The camera hit the floor and ricocheted in different directions.

"You broke my camera!" the suspect wailed.

"I'll break more than that if you don't get out of my house!" Richard roared, the perfect picture of a righteously outraged head of household.

The paparazzo, quite used to irate subjects, started to sneer at Richard. Something about the look in Richard's eyes made him change his mind.

The senior officer looked at the gentleman of the house. He racked his brain, trying to pair the fellow with a film or television show. He wasn't having any luck, although it certainly seemed possible. The fellow did have an air about him.

"I am a financial advisor," Richard sputtered. "I buy and sell stocks and bonds, mostly, and I do it very quietly. I am never in the press. I work for a solid and somewhat stodgy old company in the City, and hope to retire early without making any undue waves. Last time I checked, if a man worked out on occasion, stood up straight, and got good haircuts, that hardly made him public property."

The cops looked at each other. Certainly, privacy laws were different for people who courted publicity than for financial advisors who worked for stubbornly-stodgy companies in that part of London referred to as the City. Not that they couldn't arrest the photographer for trespassing in any case, but further charges might be another matter, depending on the nature of the target.

Emboldened by the cops' hesitation, the photographer decided to sneer after all. "Financial advisors from old-line companies in the City would not be caught dead in a car of the color you are driving," he said, knowingly.

Emma broke out laughing. "Oh, Henry. I'm almost ready to believe there's a curse on that car. I knew we should've left it behind on this trip. I'm so sorry." She fixed her eyes on the nearest officer. She blushed. "Look. The photographer's right..."

The photographer puffed out his chest. Richard fought with his face, trying to keep his puzzlement and growing alarm out of it.

Emma ignored them both. "...No one from the City, at least at the higher levels, at least at Henry's firm, would want to drive a car that color. Least of all Henry. But it got dented, and we sent it in for repairs. It went in a pearl gray that was almost nice enough but came across as a bit washed out or faded, I thought. So, we asked if they could, while they were at it, make the car darker. We assumed they'd make it a darker gray. We did not, however, think to specify gray. We did, in fact, specify that we trusted their judgment as to the best shade. I guess this color's been very hot amongst the jet set lately, and they thought we'd like it. I guess they're used to keeping many of their better off clients up with the latest fads. They consider it part of their superior customer service. Or that's what they said. At any rate, I was somewhat shocked, and Henry was mortified, but there wasn't time to change it before our trip. We're due in Paris tomorrow. No. Today. Oh, dear," she said, looking at the clock.

The photographer's chest went down. "You don't mean to say that he's really an accountant or something like that?"

"And how many movie stars do you know who marry women like me?" Emma asked.

The photographer looked worried. And then he looked devious. "I won't bill you for the broken camera if you don't press charges," he wheedled.

The suggestion did not meet a kind reception.

# CHAPTER 12 – MEANWHILE, ELSEWHERE

Officials in the United States and France, having decoded their messages from Chief Wyatt, were busy in their own ways.

Emma's supervisor was glad to know his agent was alive and among friends, not dead in a ditch somewhere. On the other hand, he was concerned his department might be about to get egg on its face again, thanks to Mrs. Chapman. Her job, in large part, was to come up with new approaches on cases that dead-ended using conventional means and thinking. Chapman was good at it. But, oh my, what she sometimes came up with. One of her latest theories certainly sounded crazy. Alan Pladgett as the so-called Mighty Planetary Master? That was a laugh. Even if he wasn't dead already, trying to imagine Alan as anything formidable was a mindbender. Sure, she'd put it forward as just one theory among many. And really, she'd meant it by way of illustration. It had been blown out of proportion and taken out of context by other people working on the case. This person made her think of Alan, she'd said. That was probably a fair statement. But still, it was a little too oddball, even for someone kept around specifically to be an oddball. For that matter, Chapman was still willing to believe that Mighty Planetary Master might be a woman. She was alone on that branch, too. Cripes. Even if the voice on the wiretaps was one of those that straddled the fence between masculine and feminine, it seemed pretty far out.

Maybe Chapman was going through menopause? That was a scary thought. The supervisor's wife was going through menopause, and she wasn't trained in twenty ways to kill someone bigger and stronger than herself without relying on conventional weapons. Thinking about someone like Chapman having unpleasant hormone attacks was beyond what a man really wanted to deal with. Under the circumstances, her supervisor reflected, perhaps it was a good thing that Chapman was overseas and not reporting directly to the office. He'd rather send the woman on vacation, but he knew the chances of pulling that off when she thought she was on the trail of something big.

Mrs. Wyatt hadn't really requested anything specific, in his estimation. For all intents and purposes she just wanted background on what Chapman had cooking on the case already, if anything. Since what she had cooking on the Mighty Planetary Master case was, in his opinion, the mental equivalent of a fallen soufflé, he thought it best to just let the matter ride for now.

In France, things were a bit livelier. It would be inexcusable to be in the position of trying to explain why they lost someone after the English, of all people, had given them fair warning. Because of this, after Leandre Durand had reported the trouble with the three fake anti-terrorist patrollers, and it was later learned that they had been trying to kill the British agent marked for destruction by Mighty Planetary Master, the matter was bumped to higher levels.

The higher-ups in the French intelligence community were twittering with excitement. To think that the three assassins had been sent to regular jail at first! A regular jail? Horrors! But all obstacles had been overcome, and the three barbarians were now in a proper facility. The potential information to be gained from their interrogation was almost beyond imagining. Just think of it! France may hold in its hands the keys to unlocking the mystery of Mighty Planetary Master! Wonderful! France would be respected as it ought to be respected by the tight-lipped petty little world of spies and spymasters, if only they could pull this off. It would be a grand, if quiet, coup. Even the beastly Americans, behind closed doors, would be required, by the very lowest strata of protocol, to raise a toast! It was very gratifying to be in such a position.

-

Frank Hoddel's thugs were mystified at many of the questions being fired at them. They were also surprised at being held in special cells. But not too surprised.

"I told you the real anti-terrorist blokes got no sense of humor. Didn't I say? Then you had to make me come over to France. Better set-up, you said. Says who? These French blokes, they're still sore about every war they ever lost to our side. And maybe even more sore about the times we saved their bacon for them. They got a whole lot of resentment built up, don't they? A whole lot of resentment built up, just waiting to dump on innocent bystanders like us. I should have never listened to you idiots," the driver said.

"Shut up," his companions said in unison.

The French officer listening in on their jailhouse conversations chuckled. Most things he heard via bug were not at all this fun to listen to.

"These stupid English will be eating each other soon," he told his supervisor. "I tell you. They have no sense of loyalty or honor. And very bad taste."

The French supervisor was very willing to believe these things about anyone English, and gave instructions to let the insufferable British swine cook in their own sweat a little longer.

-

Meanwhile, back in Britain, the Hoddel thug who'd kidnapped Richard Hugh, only to be knocked out when Emma Chapman dosed him with chemicals, had come awake fighting and yelling obscenities and had been promptly knocked out again, this time with something gentler that left him more agreeable to skillful interrogation. Since he was more bold than intelligent, he hadn't been yielding much of what could be called premium information, but the British were carefully cataloging everything they could get. Frank Hoddel had been a large thorn in their side for years. Somewhere, somehow, someone was going to find something that would stick. The bulldog was not a British mascot for nothing.

-

Frank Hoddel, for his part, was tearing out his hair, thanks to (what he thought of as) a slimy financial advisor who'd messed up to the tune of seventeen million euros worth of his hard won (if ill-gotten) gains. It was a lot of money to lose at once and it had clobbered the cash flow. Losing it had made him have to cancel some orders. People in his line of work should never have to cancel orders. Suppliers in his line of work sometimes shot people who canceled orders. He'd placated everyone, but really, he shouldn't have had to put his good name on the line or his empire on hold like that. So he'd declared war on the man and sent out a strike force, split into two groups. He had some of them even in fatigues and armed with a bazooka, or whatever the modern name was for stuff like that. He'd always wanted to do that. It had a certain panache, he thought.

But then, one of his flunkies from the first team, and all three from the second, had just disappeared off the face of the Earth. Totally disappeared. Poof. Gone. Not a trace.

Plus, the first one's backup hadn't been able to back him up because they'd had mysterious car trouble. If they'd been able to tail the jerk like they were supposed to, Hoddel was sure things would have turned out all right. At the very least he would know something more useful than the car the financial advisor was last reported to be driving.

Whoopee. He knew about the man's car already, thanks. He should have just blown it up at the car park, once the jerk got inside. If a fellow didn't blow up too many cars, these days he didn't get suspected easily unless he belonged to certain groups. Having terrorists around had its advantages. Blowing people up had its advantages, too. It lacked finesse, though. And most folks thought it was dishonorable. All right, then, he wasn't all that upset that he hadn't blown the man up. Finesse and honor had their proper place, after all.

On the other hand, what had he been thinking, wanting to try to bring the double-crosser in? Look what it had brought him – four men gone under mysterious circumstances. It was like the whole world had gone mad, everywhere all at once. Or like the universe had developed holes in itself.

The disappearances had been odd enough that Hoddel had stayed in his office all night. He'd made a point of sleeping, mostly to prevent panic among his hirelings, but he hadn't been able to sleep well.

He couldn't shake the feeling that the rotten financial advisor had set him up. Again. Even if that weren't the case, at the end of the day someone, somewhere, somehow, was messing him up on purpose. He was sure of it.

Make that almost sure of it. People did not mess with him. It was nearly incomprehensible.

But it wasn't impossible. Some individuals had no survival sense – like maybe that 'financial expert' who claimed to be good at money laundering on a biggish scale.

Plan A had been to kidnap the man, and make him talk.

Plan B was to shoot him dead if he got loose.

Plan C had seemed unnecessary. A dead man doesn't call for that kind of extra work. For that matter, Plan A had seemed sound enough at the time.

Hoddel realized he was pacing, and had the feeling that he'd been pacing for a while. He also was fairly sure that he'd started thinking in circles, and was furthermore pretty sure he'd been around the same circle more than once already.

He stomped out of his private office into the command center to check with the night shift before they went home.

Everyone looked at him, but no one said anything. They were all afraid to admit that no one had heard anything yet about the four missing men. Or the missing jeep. Or what the boss insisted on calling his bazooka. No one wanted to say any of this. Frank Hoddel had been known to kill the messenger.

# CHAPTER 13 – THE COPS LEAVE

The officers understood that the crime victims needed to leave soon for Paris for an important business meeting. They escorted the weeping photographer out the door, sending wishes for a good journey behind them as they left.

Emma Chapman stared at the door after it closed. "I have a strange urge to move furniture against that door, and refuse to answer summons," she said.

"Don't," Richard Hugh said.

"I know better than to actually do it. I just said I felt like it. By the way, how are we going to arrange for you to get enough sleep before tonight, when you need to work? I refuse to drive that car again until after the Channel Tunnel, with all its fuss and distractions. And then I'll drive it only if I get carefully checked out on what really are the light switches, and stuff like that."

"You don't like that car, do you?"

"I love that car. It survived a rocket attack with me in it. I credit it with saving my life. I also am quite frankly afraid of that car. I've had very unpleasant experiences with specially-equipped cars made by your government."

"So you told me. Ejector seats, was it?"

"That was the worst. You don't want to get me started on the others. Not if we need to leave in an hour. By the way, thank you, I think. I saw there are clothes my size hung up in the bedroom closet. I'm fairly sure I didn't put them there. If you did, and they're for my use, thanks."

"They're for your use. My chief thought she'd better make sure you could blend in when we got to Paris."

"So, you tell me what I should wear today, all right?" she said, as she went to the kitchen. "Do you want tea? I'm going to fix– Yinga!"

"What!?"

"Sorry. Didn't mean to startle you. The cops went off and left the crook's broken camera. Do you have something to put the camera in to protect the fingerprints? Plastic bag. Paper bag. Something like that?"

"Why do we need fingerprints? The police have the actual person."

"Maybe we don't need prints. But I wouldn't mind finding out for sure who he was, without having to press the point with the regular cops. I mean, he sure was cocky, even for a celebrity photographer. What do you call them? Paparazzi? No, that's plural, isn't it? Paparazzus? No, that sounds Latin. This is Italian, right? Paparazza? Paparazzo? Anyway, he sure acted like he had a lot of experience getting bailed out of trouble. I'd guess he's got backing. Not just money backing. I'd bet he's got power behind him, string pulling of some sort that he counts on, maybe the sort that's good at false identities for fun and profit. Something just doesn't ring true with that fellow. Or maybe it does and I'm just paranoid after being scared to death first thing in the morning."

"Speaking of that, I have a question."

"Shoot."

"Funny you should say that. It ties in. I was going to ask why you're weaponless. That's pretty strange for an American, isn't it?"

"Is that my cue to say that I'm a pretty strange American? Okay, all right, you're not being funny. Sorry. I go weaponless because I travel a lot, and have to be able to jump on international flights on short notice without admitting to being in law enforcement. Just like you didn't feel you had three days to sit in jail while the French sorted through fake IDs, I don't usually have the time to be hauled off as a probable terrorist. It's a matter of practicality. Speaking of practicality, do you want to shower first? I'd like to exercise before I shower. That's if you'll be in charge of picking up the camera pieces? I guess we should take care of that first."

"All right," Richard said, not quite as politely as he intended. He felt he was losing control of the situation again. Sure, she'd told him to pick out what she should wear. But here she was, practically telling him to go shower, and assigning him to crime scene detail, too.

Emma laughed and put her hands in the air. "I'm pushing you, aren't I? I apologize. I'm used to being in charge, at least to some degree. Let me rephrase my prior statement. I haven't been getting my usual exercises and I'd really like to take 15 minutes for calisthenics if that works out all right with you?"

He nodded. He still didn't quite feel in charge, but at least the woman was making an effort. And, really, it was professional courtesy to let him be in charge of the camera. It was his jurisdiction, after all.

"Oh, one more question, boss," Emma said. "I was a little surprised when the safe house was empty. Usually you've got someone to keep watch, you know, to provide the safety part of the equation. Should I be expecting anyone to be checking in, perhaps?"

Emma's eyes were aimed at a window and focused outside the house. Richard turned to see two men strolling unconcernedly up the walk, carrying luggage. "Ah, backup," he said, while suspecting it was just another scheduling snafu. At least it was men who knew him well, and vice versa. They'd muddled through worse embarrassments than this. He stepped outside, pulling the door closed behind him. "We have company," he warned. "American agent. Don't get pulled into discussions about HQ, garbled messages, dispatchers, when you were supposed to be here, or whether somebody should have been here last night to stand guard. I'll explain later." He ushered them in.

Emma was gracious. "Hello, gentlemen," she said, stepping forward with her hand outstretched. "Any friend of this fellow is a friend of mine." She shook their hands, then looked at Richard.

He laughed. She was so clearly fishing for which names to use. He turned to his colleagues. "For the moment anyway, we are Henry and Deborah Rochester, husband and wife."

The men involuntarily looked back and forth between Richard and Emma, trying to conceive of them as a couple.

"Try to reserve judgment until I've had a chance to shower, change clothes, and comb my hair. I don't look this bad all the time, honest," Emma said lightly. She headed off to the bedroom to do her exercises. As per good safe house interagency procedure she left the door slightly ajar, so the hosts could keep tabs on the outsider.

The newcomers looked at each other, then at Richard.

"Bit of an elf, isn't she?" the younger one sniped.

The other withheld comment. He'd known Richard Hugh for more than ten years and had never seen him look that way as he watched a woman. He couldn't tell if Hugh was puzzled or amused or frightened. Perhaps all three at once? In any case, the lady-killer image was missing, and it was odd to see him this way. It didn't seem a good thing to joke about or ask about, though, at least not at the moment. Hugh looked extremely tired and possibly ill, he thought. That needed to be checked out, he decided.

The younger man beat him to it, and not tactfully. "Hey, 'Henry,' old chum. You don't look like you slept much last night." The man winked, and leered toward the bedroom.

Richard let the insinuation pass, at least for the time being. "We had a prowler, if HQ didn't tell you. I've only just now got rid of the police. Speaking of which, they forgot some evidence that I want processed. Our trespasser was carrying a camera. I want whatever you can get from it. Something tells me he might be more than he looked like. I hope I'm wrong. But don't make me guess, all right? It scattered into a few pieces, over there. I presume you can collect them all properly? Do you think you can watch things while I get a shower? I have a bit more dried mud on me than I'd like to carry to Paris." He strode off. He knocked on the bedroom door. Emma waved him in. They conferred on the day's wardrobe, and then he sent Emma, when she was done with her stretches, to take the first shower. He shut the bedroom door decisively and settled in to some serious sit-ups of his own. The main reason, he admitted to himself, was to work off adrenalin that had popped loose when his friend made the crack about not getting much sleep during the night. It had been all he could do to not deck the man. He wasn't sure why he felt angry about it, either. Usually he left hints like that happily floating about; they bolstered the lady's man image he generally favored.

He allowed himself a shake of the head over Emma's choice of exercise routines. It resembled the no-nonsense, nothing-fancy, ever-so-practical Royal Canadian Air Force program that had been all the rage when he was a young man. (Proven exercises, only 12 minutes a day!) Minus certain leg lifts, though, in Chapman's case. (He suddenly decided to think of her by her surname. More professional, you know.) He remembered that the program had leg lifts because leg lifts were the reason his mother and her friends had insisted he remove himself during the proceedings. ('Nothing improper, Richard, but it would be unseemly, dear.') Not that all these years and health club visits later, he wasn't more or less immune to women moving about on the floor whilst exercising, especially more or less plain looking middle-aged women like Two Thousand Nine (or so he told himself, sternly, pointedly reminding himself in the process that she was a visiting foreign agent, thank you very much).

He wondered if the American had left out the leg lifts on his account. She seemed a strangely modest sort of woman, at that. Not fussy, like many 'modest' women, who made a show of tugging clothing into place, or a game of attracting attention and then dodging. Nothing like that. It was something more routine, as if she were simply a decent woman, he thought. Just look at the clothes she'd bought on her own, when she was expecting to meet him later. There was no getting around the fact that they were feminine but self-respecting. He decided there'd been no clue, none whatsoever, that she was anything other than a respectable middle-aged woman making time for exercises that she deemed necessary; making time, as a matter of fact, despite interruptions and distractions like, say, him breaking in on her and telling her what to wear, for crying out loud. He thought of harder exercises than the ones he was doing, and started in on those.

-

The two men were staring after Richard Hugh, who was not, in their opinion, acting like Richard Hugh. That he'd closed the bedroom door and shut off their ability to see him did not in any way stop them from staring in his direction as they tried to figure things out.

Emma went over to them. "Anything I need to know about?" she asked.

"No," they said quickly.

"That no was a little too quick," she said. "Henry seems upset. Or angry?"

The men looked at each other, embarrassed. It was bad enough that Triple-O Five was turning huffy and territorial on them. It was worse that his lady friend could tell that everything seemed to be off on the wrong foot. The offender decided to 'fess up, at least to a point, in a vague way that he hoped would cover a host of possible ills. "I stuck my foot in it, ma'am. That's all. It's nothing to worry about."

She looked like she didn't believe him entirely, whatever he meant. "I think I'll go take a shower before our mutual friend has a chance to figure out I didn't go straight there," she said.

"Probably a good idea," he said.

-

When Emma was done with her shower, Richard found that he didn't feel like finishing his exercising in front of her, especially since she was only wearing a bathrobe. He wondered why that should bother him, but it did, even though the garment was well-fastened and didn't show anything.

While he showered, he cursed himself for being so self-conscious all of a sudden. For good measure, he cranked the shower down to cold, and tried to pretend that he liked it that way. Besides, he seemed to remember, taking a cold shower was supposed to be good for overall cardiovascular fitness, or something, wasn't it?

-

Emma took advantage of decency expectations and closed the bedroom door before changing clothes. As soon as she heard Richard get into the shower, she grabbed her phone and called his chief.

"She's not here," the chief's secretary said.

"Don't have her call me. I'm trying to talk to her behind Richard Hugh's back," Emma said.

There was the sound in the background of a door closing, and footsteps, and someone calling a routine good morning across the room. "Oh, good, I hear her coming in," Emma said.

"Please hold."

Emma, trying to dress and hold the phone at the same time, managed to hear a muffled reference to 'wanting to talk to you behind Richard Hugh's back,' then a clear and crisp, "Wyatt here. What's up?"

"Look, he's in the shower, so I haven't got much time. He didn't sleep much last night, and that might be an understatement. We also had a prowler this morning, which gave him a bit of a workout. That car is awfully garish, and is drawing way too much unwanted attention. Something else seems to be eating him, too. I don't know what. The safe house guys just got here, but there isn't time for him to sleep if we're driving. I just wondered if taking the train would be the better option, all things considered, assuming there's no strike on, and, if so, whether I should plant the seed or leave the whole finagling to you? He looks horrible, and I don't know how much he'd let me drive. I also don't know how much I'd like to drive that particular car. That's your call. Sorry I got the report so jumbled, I'm trying to do three things at once."

"Well, then, stop the other two and listen to me."

"Yes, ma'am. Like I should have done in the first place," Emma said, as she happily got the last button buttoned on her new dress, which seemed to have a hundred buttons along the front, neck to hem. "Oh, oh. The shower's just turned off," she said.

"Do not suggest the train. Do not tell him we talked. I'll call him in a few minutes. Ring off."

Emma hung up. She gave her hose a tug, and just managed to get herself decent before there was a knock at the door. "Come in," she called, as she turned to check herself in the mirror.

Richard walked in just in time to hear her say, "Oh, rats."

"What's wrong?" he asked. He closed the door behind him to cut his buddies out of the conversation.

"Laugh if you want," she said. "I was thinking of something else while I was dressing, and that's a dangerous thing to do with this sort of shirtdress." She showed him that she'd mismatched the buttons and the buttonholes, so that the dress was hanging slightly crooked, with an extra button at the top and an extra buttonhole at the bottom. "I can repair this in the bathroom, if the others don't need it yet?" she said.

She started toward the door, but Richard gave in to an impulse and stepped in front of her. "I'll get it," he said, as he reached forward and began, slowly, to unbutton her dress.

She watched him warily.

He unbuttoned a few buttons, and then put the top ones right, leaving a few undone so he didn't tug the fabric as he got it into place, leaving a few undone so he had room for his hands. He undid a few more, and again put the topmost ones right. He was careful to keep her covered as he worked, and after a while he watched her eyes more than the buttons. He carefully kept his hands away from her body, but not too far away. As he got lower, he had to get down on one knee to do the job. Perhaps it was his fancy, but he thought her breathing changed, and it certainly seemed like she trembled a little. Annoyingly enough, his own breathing became harder to regulate. When the buttons were all fastened in their proper places, he stood up and gazed into her face.

"Well, we are married," he said.

"Not exactly," she said. She backed out the door and bee-lined to the bathroom, officially to finish with her hair and to put on a light layer of make-up.

-

The newcomers had settled on the couch to watch the show, if any, after Richard and Emma had been in the bedroom together. When Emma slipped from the bedroom to the bathroom, they noticed that she was blushing furiously.

"Now, that's our Henry," one of them said, relieved that the world seemed to be settling back to normal. "It is 'Henry' this morning, isn't it?"

"Perhaps we should start some breakfast," the other one said as he headed to the kitchen. "Unless you want 'our Henry' to catch you sitting about watching the bedroom door?"

-

They would have revised their opinion about their colleague acting like normal if they'd been able to see into the bedroom. Richard sat on the bed, blinking, wondering what it was about the American woman's eyes and responses that had cut right through his usual defenses. For safety's sake, he forced his mind to categorize her simply as "the American woman." Or he tried to.

# CHAPTER 14 – THE LAB EXPERIMENTS

"Good morning, Felicity. I don't suppose we could talk you into getting us coffee?" one of the lab techs asked the young secretary as she walked past their station on the way to her own.

"Not usually," she said.

She looked at the men huddled intently around test equipment and decided she'd make an exception. She headed to the coffee machine, and came back with a tray of coffees. Three of the men were so intent on what they were doing they just reached up blindly to let her maneuver a cup into their fingers. "What's up, or dare I ask?" she asked.

"You know how we haven't been able to call Triple-O Five on his phone, but have been able to talk to him on the car?"

"When he's with it, yes. So?"

"So the problem seemed to be with the phone, right?"

"I'm with you so far. So have you figured out how to call him, then?"

"Better yet, we've figured out a way to make his phone send us covert locator signals."

"I can't see where that's better, since at the end of the day what a phone is for is to call people with."

"Well, yes, of course we'd like to turn it back into a phone, in addition to all this. But if we've got a way to track people without them knowing it, that's one up for us. On the flip side, if other people discover this way to track our people without us knowing, that's one up for them, unless we find some way to block this kind of thing. Either way, we need to figure out why we can do this with Triple-O Five's phone and not with anything else we've tried so far."

"I thought most of our phones had trackers in them, like for emergencies, if nothing else."

"Absolutely. But this isn't that system, and it's not your usual, tower-dependent triangulation like regular law enforcement can sometimes use with regular mobile phones. We came across it by accident and so far we haven't been able to make any sense of it. The only thing it ties in on so far is the Franklin-Patterson-Henderson Number 247 module, beta 3.2. It's weird."

"Cut the yattering, will you?" another of the techs said, as he struggled with a tricky calculation and a new diagnostic run.

Felicity excused herself and walked to her desk. The gray-haired woman she was replacing smiled indulgently at the excited little gaggle of scientists.

"They've been at it since yesterday," the old lady said.

"All five of them?"

"Plus some fellows in the field. They've even talked a couple of people who had a day off today into taking test equipment with them, for doing range checks or some such things from wherever they happen to be at various times of day, and also to sneak a peek now and then to verify the phone's actual location. They don't know if Triple-O Five has set something wrong, or if the phone's shorted out in a wonderful way, or what, but they're in gadget geek heaven trying to figure it out."

"Does Triple-O Five know he's being tracked?"

"And run the risk of him getting irritated and dumping the phone off somewhere? Or punching buttons like crazy to try and knock them loose? No, darling. They'll have someone nab the phone from him as soon as he comes back to London. In the meantime, what he doesn't know can't hurt him, right?"

# CHAPTER 15 – PLAN C

The safe house phone rang.

"Can't be for me. Wrong country," Emma Chapman quipped.

All three men jumped up and headed to the phone in the name of the UK. The senior man exerted his rights and took the call. "Birmingham residence, James speaking," he said, with hearty assurance. His last name was not Birmingham, nor was his first name James, but it nevertheless managed to be the correct thing to say.

He turned to Richard. "Chief needs to talk to you." He handed the phone across.

After some quiet consultation, during which, amongst other things, Richard was ordered not to try to use or fix his malfunctioning agency-issue phone (which he imaginatively took as a warning it could blow up or melt into his hand if he did anything with it), Richard reported to his companions, "There's been a change in plan. Chief wants a Mighty Planetary Master conference, so she's calling me in." He looked at Emma. "She'd like you to come?" Emma nodded. Richard stepped away to quietly finish his call. After he rang off, he said, "Gents, the car I was driving is being transferred to you. A colleague coming up from France will pick up the lady and myself in about 15 minutes."

"Fast driver or already en route?" Emma asked.

"Both. I can handle the packing, if you'd like to finish breakfast."

"Thanks. Is there room in a suitcase for what I bought? Not that the shopping bags are a huge bother."

"It'll fit, I think. I wasn't sure if anything in there was private?"

"I wish," Emma said. She thought it was sweet of him to be reluctant to go through her shopping bags.

Richard wasn't sure what to make of her comment, or the smile that played around her lips, but he didn't want to ask. He tossed the saloon's keys to the senior man, went to the bedroom, and started packing.

Emma soon joined him. "I got the feeling that you weren't telling me everything out there," she said.

"I wasn't."

"Anything I need to know that you couldn't say in front of the others?"

He hesitated. "Later, I think," he said.

"All right. Anything you want me to help with?"

"From your tone of voice now I get the feeling that you aren't telling me everything?"

"Right on the first guess. They were making rude suggestions about how lucky they were to have a dishwasher in the house, meaning me, so I decided not to volunteer for anything. I would have helped with clean up, but they blew it." Richard started to say something but she cut him off. "Don't apologize for them. There's no need. They just were unlucky enough to hit the only nerve of mine the feminists managed to rewire."

"Well, sit down and relax, then. Durand will be here any time now."

"Durand from yesterday? Oh, I get it. You weren't going to say who was coming. You were going to see if I recognized him?" She sat down, just out of his reach.

He shrugged. "I was tempted," he admitted.

He moved the last packet from her shopping bags into a suitcase. Unlike the others, this one was wrapped in gift paper.

She cast a questioning look at the packet. "What's that?"

"What do you mean, 'what's that?' It's in your bag."

"I don't remember buying it. Hand it over."

He wasn't sure she should be in charge of unknown wrapped packages hidden in the bottom of bags. He hesitated.

"Or you open it, I don't care," she said. "Only, brace yourself..."

He looked at her. Her mood was too light for suspected bombs or possible packets of anthrax, or other such hazards for which a person quite naturally had to be on the lookout.

She shrugged. "I just remembered that my teenaged escort was giggling en masse something fierce at one point, after I'd been turned away from the bags. I didn't think too much of it at the time, because they giggled half-fiercely almost constantly, but now I think they may have been conspiring in negligees shortly before the worst outburst. Maybe not. I generally find it next to impossible to keep accurate tabs on packs of young females, despite all the noise they make."

Richard found a small card just inside the wrapping paper, on top of tissue paper. When he read the card, it was all he could do to keep from blushing. He peeked inside the tissue paper. The wrapped item certainly looked like a lot of lace. Or, rather, a high percentage of lace to solid material in what looked to be a skimpy female costume of some sort. Just the sort of thing aggressive young women might buy a conservative older woman as a joke. He couldn't help but wonder if Emma would find it funny (that seemed likely, or at least it seemed possible)... and... if she'd wear the thing... under the right circumstances...

A car pulled up outside. The car's horn blared.

Emma grinned. "Sounds like French impatience to me. Shall we check?"

Richard was grateful for the interruption. The gift-wrapped package he stuffed without comment into a far corner of the suitcase, to be dealt with later. The offensive card he palmed into a hidden pocket in his jacket. "Our minders will check it out," he said.

"Yay, minders," Emma said, while wondering why he'd palmed the card. She kept her eyes carefully away from where the card seemed to go – no sense letting him know she'd seen the trick. "And you're right about having them check things out, by the way. I'm just not used to having minders, I guess. My apologies."

"Durand is here to pick you up," one of their colleagues announced from the front room.

"So much for trying to surprise me with someone I've met," Emma kidded.

Richard grinned. To his horror, he felt himself start to blush. To his relief, Emma appeared to be too preoccupied with luggage to notice. She grabbed a suitcase and left the bedroom. As she passed the two men, she told them "Thanks for watching our backs, gentlemen."

The senior man cleared his throat. Emma stopped.

"I want to apologize, ma'am. We don't usually get – I'm not sure how to say this – we don't often get decent women in places like these, and I'm not so sure that we've treated you right."

She sighed audibly. "And here I was enjoying being mad at you," she quipped. "I probably owe you an apology right back. You are obviously very nice, and I've been holding you at arm's length." She set down her suitcase and gave the man a hug. It was a small, platonic hug. The man still nearly staggered from embarrassment. She pulled back, and winked a friendly wink at him. She faced the other man. "You I'm a little afraid to give a hug. You strike me as the suave lady's man type." She gave him a quick hug, picked up her luggage, and went out the door before either man could recover enough to offer to carry it for her. They stood there speechless, staring after her. It wasn't so much from the hugs. It was the intensity of the woman behind those eyes; the depth and strength that a person only saw if she let him see.

Richard, who'd watched the proceedings from across the room, decided the best course of action was a quick run through without allowing any time for personal questions. As he passed one fellow, though, he couldn't resist lifting the man's slack jaw back into place. "She can do that to you," he kidded. "And, oh, that's the infamous Emma Chapman, if you don't know," he said, conspiratorially. Trying to save the situation, or at least spare everyone further embarrassment, Richard beat it through the door at the fastest walk that allowed for any dignity. He didn't know what had possessed him to clown around like that. He would probably never hear the end of it, he decided, and it would serve him right, he further decided. He considered going back in and saying goodbye properly. But he decided that would be more embarrassing than just letting it pass.

-

When he saw Emma carrying a suitcase down the walk, Leandre Durand hopped out of the car. "These Englishmen are becoming dogs," he remarked.

She laughed. "Are the French and the English ever going to stop fighting each other?" she asked, in a pleasant, professional grade American voice, and with a twinkle in her eye.

Durand bowed slightly. "I hope we are through with the battlefield wars against the English, but I hope I do not offend the lady with the very pleasant war of words?"

"Oh, no," she said. "But I hope I do not offend the gentleman if I like both the English and the French, very nearly equally?"

"Oh, well. Perhaps you merely have not met the right sort of Frenchman?" he said, with a wink. He stepped smartly forward to take her suitcase.

"I'll get that," Richard said, sharply.

Durand hid his surprise. Richard Hugh was not often unsettled, or at least he never showed it. Even yesterday, after being chased and shot at, he'd been outwardly calm, to the point of being irritating. Durand put himself on higher guard. He'd meant to tweak his friend by outclassing him by British standards of chivalry, but surely the response was all out of proportion?

Emma handed Richard the suitcase. "I forgot to ask inside. Is there any reason I shouldn't tell him who I am?" she asked.

Richard realized, at that moment, that Durand hadn't recognized Emma. He felt foolishly glad of the fact. To cover up emotions he couldn't contain, he playfully assumed the air of an overdrawn diplomat, waved his hand expansively, and said, with exaggerated dignity, "No reason at all."

Emma turned to Durand. "I don't believe we were properly introduced yesterday. I'm Emma Chapman. I really appreciate you getting us out of there alive, and in such quick order. For reference: brown shirt, tweed pants, bossy, bad temper, love of old detective books, English accent and mannerisms."

She urged Richard to put the suitcase in the car. It was a very basic car. It blended in with all the other cars on the road, unlike the brown-red deluxe one they were leaving behind. Emma bet herself that it wouldn't have hidden ejector seats, either. She was very glad to be getting into a regular car.

"I am an idiot," Durand said. "I did not recognize you."

"Considering that I went to a lot of trouble to come across as a different woman, I'll take it as a compliment. And if you want to hear a funny story, if Henry doesn't fall asleep for the whole trip, you might ask him about our adventures yesterday at The Stuffed Pelican."

Richard wondered why she'd bring up The Stuffed Pelican, then realized she was reminding him that when he walked into the restaurant, and saw her for the first time after her makeover, he hadn't recognized her at first either – and he had known exactly which woman it was he was planning to meet. " _Touché_ ," he whispered to her, as he handed her into the front seat.

"By the way," Richard said to Durand, "don't be surprised if she and I go by Henry and Deborah Rochester if we run into anyone. Cover names, you know. It will depend on circumstances, and likely it won't come up at all, but I trust you'll try to keep up with us in any case?"

Durand smiled and made a slight bow. He then made a point of getting into the car just before Richard did. An outsider might not have noticed, but Richard did. He wrote it off to Durand being French, and thus prone to showing off in silly ways.

As they drove away, Richard looked wistfully at the brown-red luxury car they were leaving behind. The color annoyed him, and the car had been bad luck, but still, it was nice to have such a formidable vehicle around you. Durand was driving an economy car, for pity's sake; great fuel efficiency, but hardly bulletproof, much less rocket proof.

Durand saw his English friend look sadly in the direction of the car they were leaving behind. He stifled a sigh. He understood the frugality of being assigned a small, economical car, especially for such a long drive, but sometimes it felt embarrassing that the French intelligence services so often let the English outclass them automotively. Still, one must do as well as one could under the circumstances. "My friend, as I understood my directions, I am to ask you to try to achieve a nap. Two reasons. For one, they think that you may need to be rested for what they have planned for you. For another, I fear, I think they wish to have you out of sight as much as possible for the moment. I know it is too small of a seat for such a tall man, but I trust you will do the best you can?" Durand nearly added that Richard certainly looked like he needed the sleep, but decided against it, on the grounds that it might make his friend wish to prove that he did not need as much sleep as people might think; Richard, alas, sometimes let his otherwise admirable manly competitiveness manifest itself in sorry ways.

There was no conversation in the car for several miles. Richard was pretending to sleep, but neither Durand nor Emma believed him. They waited, patiently, for him to drop off for real. In the meantime they contented themselves with scanning their surroundings and playing silently with theories about each other. Durand, for his part, was willing to bet that Emma would be very easy to underestimate, and therefore should be watched closely. He did not mind the thought. She was, in her rough American way, an intriguing woman, he thought. Certainly she had his friend, Richard Hugh, squirming in unaccustomed ways. Emma, for her part, was willing to bet that Durand and Richard had survived dangerous situations together. They had that sort of assurance with each other, when they weren't playing at being strangers like they had the day before.

Emma twisted around for a good look. Richard's breathing had changed, ever so slightly, and so had his face. She turned to Durand. "I hate to say this," she said quietly, "but I haven't the least idea when he's really sleeping and when he's just pretending." As soon as it was out of her mouth, she realized the statement might have unintended implications.

Durand smiled gently. "Do not worry, _madame_. Not all French men have their minds in the bedroom all of the time." He peeked into the back seat. He, too, thought that his friend might finally have gone to sleep. And if he hadn't, it looked like he was resting. That, surely, was the main point. "And, now, if I may ask a few questions?" he said.

"I can't promise to answer."

"Of course not. Oh, but first I must thank you, I think."

She waited patiently for him to explain himself. Durand enjoyed that she was willing to be patient, instead of rushing to guess what it was for which he might feel thankful. Again he thought that she might be more formidable than at first glance. Most women could not, in his experience, stand silence. He drew the silence out. She seemed content to wait. He found that he, instead, was starting to fidget. That would never do. The psychological experiment had been interesting, but it was time to move along. "For the books," he said, "I think it was you who bought me the books anonymously yesterday? At the used book shop. By phone."

"If it's not too personal, what did I buy you?"

"A gift certificate, to be precise. In a very appropriate amount, for which I thank you. It was enough to be kind, but not enough to make anyone wonder what I might have done to deserve it. It was there for me when I stopped by on my way home after work. I am a little concerned, however, how you knew that I shop at that particular little shop?"

"I got a listing of secondhand book shops near where I met you, and I called around to see if I could find one where people said that they knew you. I found that shop on my third call."

"I am relieved."

"I wouldn't be too relieved. They volunteered a good description of you, and also that you show up there frequently, usually shortly before closing."

He hesitated. "You would have let me know?"

She feigned shock that he would think otherwise. "Absolutely. But since I was trying to be anonymous, I asked a fellow named Jerome Robertson to follow up for me. He says he knows you. He assured me that he'd make sure you knew your booksellers were being over-helpful, and also that you wouldn't waste much time worrying about who your anonymous donor was. I take it he hasn't contacted you."

"He left for me a message to contact him at my convenience. I regret to say I have yet to return his call."

Emma laughed. "You wouldn't be the only person on the planet who hesitated to return Jerome's calls. I'm sorry. I needed to ask him something about a case I'm working on, and I knew he'd worked in France and might know you, so I asked him for background, and things moved on from there. He loves being the discreet go-between, and he wanted to be useful and so I fobbed it off on him. Probably not my best move ever, although, to be fair, he does tend to be good at this sort of favor, and usually doesn't go beyond his instructions on this particular sort of thing. At least not to my knowledge."

"I think it is fair to say that when given a carefully outlined, concrete assignment, he is known to generally contain himself. At least to my knowledge."

"Shall I call him off?"

"Not necessary. No, I will call him."

"I notice you're not telling me which books you bought, which you know full well is what I was asking you earlier. But that's fine. I don't need to know."

Durand laughed, quietly, so as not to wake Richard. "You will be disappointed, I think," he said. "I bought two books by Vercors, that I have read already, but of which I have never had my own copies."

"Oh, no. I'm not disappointed. Old books are old friends. I'm willing to take it as a compliment that I was linked with old friends."

"You are a philosopher, I think."

"Perhaps we could shift to business? I don't suppose anyone told you why we are being jerked in?"

"No. I had hoped you could tell me."

Emma shook her head. "Our friend in the back took the call. All he told me was that we were to report to HQ, and that someone from France would be by in about 15 minutes to pick us up. As it got closer to your arrival, he graciously volunteered that it would be you who would be coming by. I think he half planned to not tell me, and see if I recognized you."

"That is unusually playful for our friend in the back seat."

Emma didn't feel comfortable discussing exactly how playful their friend in the back seat had or had not been (him redoing her dress buttons came to mind, amongst other things), and thought it best to change the subject. "He's had a rather bad last 24 hours or so. That's all I can vouch for. For all I know, he's had a bad week. I don't think it's my place to tell you any details, but let's just say that the messiness in your jurisdiction had competition for worst event of the day, and I'm not sure it won."

"No wonder his chief is worried about him."

"Did anyone tell you why I'm over here?"

"They said our friend in the back was working with Americans who were tracking the unspeakable assassin who goes by the ridiculous name."

"I'm not sure it is such a ridiculous name. Look at your own reaction. You don't want to bring yourself to speak it out loud. In America, we're having the same problem. No one likes being on such a stupid-sounding case. We manage, but we hate it; it's stifling. But, putting that to one side, it's one of the worst adversaries we've had in a long time, and we can't seem to pin him down. He doesn't seem to be attacking countries, or factions, or alliances. So far, the only things the victims have in common is that they're male and they work in the intelligence community and they wind up with humiliating notes pinned to their sometimes abused corpses. Not even the handwriting or the writing style is consistent. This person is mad, but mad, I'm afraid, like your garden-variety terrorist is mad; capable of heinous plans, but not incapable of putting those plans into action. Despite his madness, or her madness, this self-proclaimed Mighty Planetary Master is dangerous."

"You think it might be a woman?"

"I think it's almost certainly a man. But I don't know enough to rule out a woman. Or a gang. Do you?"

"That is almost the worst of it, is it not? No one seems to have any helpful information. Only scattered bodies and conflicting clues. They said that you thought Richard Hugh was on Mighty Planetary Master's list?"

Emma noticed that Durand was careful to prove he could bring himself to say the criminal's nom de crime, but decided not to say anything about it. "It's just a guess," she said. "No, less than a guess. A hunch. But I have nothing better at the moment. Something I overheard on a wiretap got me started, but I think I should wait until we're at HQ to say anything more about that. Henry's chief will want to be in charge of who knows what and when they know it, I think, and since I'm on her turf I guess I'd better be careful what I tell you for now."

"In that case," Durand said with a gleam in his eye, "perhaps I can invite you to visit me in France. It is a wonderful country, France. You would like it."

Now that they'd covered the basics, and the American visitor had announced her intention of waiting for the meeting before saying much more, Durand contented himself with being pleasant in a general way. France was, after all, a country of variety and admirable quality, and there were many things to tout about it. And, of course, there was no reason to bring up the truly embarrassing things, like the probable lack of integrity of some highly placed French officials. This was not, after all, that sort of conversation. For a while, he happily touted.

Emma steered the conversation to British-French relations. They discussed the Entente Cordiale, also the astonishing number of French people working in the United Kingdom, and the equally astonishing number of British citizens who owned second homes in France or who had retired there. The conversation quite naturally drifted to American-French relations.

"You must not judge us too harshly, please, regarding our recent differences," Durand said. "Whereas your country has been bloodied but a few times, we have been reduced to ashes many times in the past. We have learned to be more, shall we say, cautious in our disputes."

"There's a danger in developing that mindset, isn't there? For instance, coddling immigrants who see no reason to assimilate, just because you don't want to confront them, is worrisome, isn't it? Unless you insist on some form of common culture you're headed for serious trouble, aren't you?"

"We have already the serious trouble, I regret to say." He refrained from saying that the United States, in his humble opinion, had a worse problem with non-assimilation, and not just with immigrants; that indeed it seemed to be a cornerstone of the Democrats, at least, to keep people sorted into subgroups and unhappy about their own country – not to mention unversed in true Christianity, which, given time, by itself could overcome such manmade divisions, one maturing convert at a time. On that last point, alas, France was as bad as the United States, if not worse. It did not bear thinking about, much less discussing with a newly met colleague of unknown depth of understanding.

"Plus," Emma said, "France has seen fit, apparently, to protect its financial interests by investing in rogue states. That's true, isn't it? French banks have carved a niche making loans to countries that can't or won't work with the United States, or with US banks? I'm sure it's profitable in the short term, but in the long term it makes your country and mine natural enemies, I think. And it'll place your country in the wrong time and time again, as far as the international community is concerned. Take Cuba, for instance. Any attempts at containing Cuba or making El Big Brother prove what his system is really worth are toast as long as French money pours in like water from a fleet of tankers."

"I am afraid I cannot enlighten you on French investments in Cuba."

"Sorry. Rude of me to bring it up, I'm sure."

"No. It is not rude to fish for information instead of relying on only one point of view. I regret that I am not the one to know how to respond."

Emma smiled sympathetically. "For that matter, we both come from earnest nations that can embarrass the most loyal of citizens from time to time. And China's efforts in Latin America will make both our nations look like amateurs if we're not careful, but that's another issue. Tell me – not to change the subject or anything – I've seen pictures of this monastery, I think it was, perched on top of some sort of natural pillar. There's this valley, and bam, right on some flatland is this big, really tall, skinny rock with a towered building at the top, and a walkway circling its way up to it. That's in France, isn't it?"

Durand lit up. "I suspect you mean Le Puy-en-Velay, which, indeed, is in France. The city is built in an old volcano, and the cathedral sits on a singular stand of volcanic rock. Oh, the pictures do not do it justice! The city is known also for its lace. And it has gone to great trouble to re-dress the buildings in many neighborhoods so that it once again is truly a medieval city to all appearances, at least in those neighborhoods. And at the same time, it has forged ahead with the newest technologies and industries. If you have the time, a visit to Ville du Le Puy-en-Velay is well worth one's time."

For the rest of the trip to London they kept up a companionable silence, broken from time to time only by general conversation, or by the delivery of another of Durand's happy verbal postcards of his beloved country.

Durand filed Emma's comment about China and Latin America in that part of his brain he used for things to be checked out soon. He had a hunch that she was relaying an unofficial warning; that she was, for whatever reason, very much worried at the moment for France as well as the United States vis-à-vis whatever China was up to. She had somehow made it clear, he thought, that she'd said as much as she could or would say on that subject. Very well, a hint had been dropped, whether intentionally or by accident did not matter. He could take it from there.

-

After they entered London, Emma appeared to become a bit nervous.

"You don't know who else might be at this meeting?" she asked Durand.

"I am afraid that I do not. You act perhaps as if there is someone you do not want to see?"

"I guess I was just wondering if it had been bumped very high. I'd hate to bother somebody like the Prime Minister just on my little guessing."

"Hmmm," said Durand. "Do you mean anyone high in office, or specifically the man who is Prime Minister?"

"Is it that obvious?"

"I am afraid so. What is it about this man? He has not mistreated you, I hope?"

"No, we've never crossed paths, as far as I know."

"Some of his policies have disturbed you?"

"No. Actually I approve of most of his policies."

"Then I do not understand, I think."

"It's just that I'm not really wanting to meet him."

"I think perhaps I am getting to know you well enough to say that you are holding out on me, if that is how the Americans say it?"

"That is how the Americans say it, and you're right. Sorry. It's nothing against the man, really. Laugh if you want. I know it's stupid. But I lived for a while next to an Indian reservation as a kid, and the elders there got me convinced, despite myself, that people who are born on the same day can be bad medicine."

"And you share a birthday with the Prime Minister?"

"Right on the first guess. At least we weren't born to the same mother. We probably would've been drowned at birth, to supposedly save the tribe from evil spirits or something. At least in the old days. At least in that tribe."

"I do not think the Prime Minister will be there. If he is, I will do my utmost to make him station himself away from you. Will that do?"

Emma turned her head to hide her embarrassment. She studied the images in her rearview mirror to give herself something to do.

In the rear seat, Richard was having trouble pretending to be asleep. His earlier worry about her being his unknown twin had been pushed away by bigger and more tangible troubles. He didn't want it to come back. This is not to mention that finding out she was possessed of a similar superstition made his feel doubly silly, not to mention more aboriginal than he'd previously thought.

"Look," Durand said, pointing, "There is a restaurant called The Stuffed Pelican. Is that the place where yesterday you had your adventures?"

Emma nodded, but kept studying the rearview mirror, now out of the corner of her eye.

"Trouble?" Durand asked.

"Maybe," she said. She raised her voice slightly. "Richard, please wake up but keep your head down. Please let me know when you're awake enough to move fast if you have to."

"I'm awake," he said. He would rather have pretended to be just waking up, but he didn't think it wise to doubt the hint of urgency in her voice.

"Durand, the cab driver two cars back. Tell me that he's not following us," Emma said.

# CHAPTER 16 – CAR TROUBLE

"I think I will drive around the block, or perhaps loop back, just to see if we are imagining things," Durand said, after taking stock of the situation.

The cab didn't follow them around the turn. Durand and Emma kept careful watch, on the side streets as well as behind, as Durand drove according to the usual rules for shaking a tail, as taught him by his agency. A few minutes later, they saw the cab again, four cars behind them. "He knows what he is doing, whoever he is," Durand said.

"If something goes wrong, Durand, remember that Hugh's a higher priority. Keep moving. I'm getting out for a better look," Emma said, when Durand slowed for traffic. She bailed out of the car over the objections of both gentlemen, and jogged toward the cab.

The cab driver did a dangerous U-turn and sped the other direction.

Durand had slowed to a barely perceptible crawl as soon as she bailed out, which was his idea of 'keep moving' under the circumstances (not that he wouldn't have stopped altogether, or gone into reverse, if he deemed it necessary). Emma caught up to him and dove back into the car. "I got the plate," she said. She called Richard's HQ. It didn't take MI5½ long to scurry up what was known so far. "Stolen this morning," Emma reported after ringing off. "The driver's body showed up in the Thames about twenty minutes ago."

"Naturally," Durand said.

"I'm going to sit up now, orders or no orders," Richard announced, as he did so.

"Go ahead," Durand said. "What else can go wrong?"

The car in front of them stopped abruptly. The driver behind them tried to hit the brake and hit the gas instead. Durand's car violently acquired unhealthy pleats, and the engine gave out.

"Do not say it, _mon vieux_ ," Durand pleaded with Richard. "I know, I know, already. One must never ask what else can go wrong. It is bad luck." He turned to Emma, "And you think you are superstitious?" She laughed. Durand looked at her carefully, trying to decide if she was all right or merely pretending to be.

"Are we all convinced this is an honest accident, and not an ambush disguised as same?" she said. "So far, I vote for accident."

She looked out the window. She suddenly looked uncomfortable, perhaps even worried. Durand placed his hand on the door handle, getting ready to jump out if warranted (provided that the door would open, which wasn't all that certain), and followed Emma's gaze. A tall female police officer was walking toward them with a sense of purpose. When the officer stopped, she leaned down to get a better look at the occupants of the smashed car.

"Hello," Richard said.

"Hello again," Shirley said back. "You know, most people would think losing track of a vehicle and having it towed would be enough bother for one week," she added, quietly emphasizing that she was the sort of police officer who didn't quickly forget people who were associated with trouble on her beat.

-

The headwaiter at The Stuffed Pelican didn't greet Henry Rochester with quite as much enthusiasm as he had the day before. Of course, on the first encounter, Mr. Rochester had shown up immaculately groomed, and was 'the gentleman' who was going to meet that well-groomed and very polite American lady, who had, quite charmingly and romantically, turned out to be his wife. It was only later that the three wretched young women had shown up, and two of the said wretched creatures had been persuaded to stay and eat. Not that they'd behaved all that badly once the gentleman had got them settled down, but they had looked terrible and he'd been obliged to hide them in a conference room. Then today 'the gentleman' showed up looking wrinkled head to toe (my goodness, it looked like he'd slept in his clothes) and smelling of spilled automotive fluid of one type or another, with his wife and a Frenchman of some sort in tow, also reeking of radiators. The headwaiter considered telling the pathetic little party that every table here was reserved, but perhaps they would like the café down the street. Very casual atmosphere, but edible offerings, he could say.

Richard, sensing that he was about to be brushed off, and feeling his obligations as host agent, leaned over and spoke as if confidentially, but loudly enough for a getting-ready-to-leave couple to overhear. He was banking on them being regulars and expecting their headwaiter to come through for England when the chips were down. Even if they weren't regulars, the man looked the sort that a headwaiter would want to please: older, richer, and oozing influence. "I'm dreadfully sorry," Richard said, "But we've been in a car smash. We're not hurt to speak of, thank goodness, but the car's a write-off. I don't suppose you've somewhere that my wife and I and our guest can lie low whilst we arrange for other transportation? We won't stay long – just until we can arrange for something. It's just that it's awfully embarrassing to be seen hanging about looking like we've just been dragged out of wreckage."

The headwaiter felt the eyes of his regular customers boring down on him. "Of course," he said deferentially, "Perhaps the same room as your private party yesterday? And I shall arrange a taxi personally."

"Nonsense!" roared the old man who'd been leaving. Having got everyone's attention, he proceeded at normal volume. "We have a car, and room enough, and time to take you wherever you need to go, don't we, dear?"

His wife looked doubtful.

"Oh, we could not ask you to carry us in your undoubtedly fine vehicle. We have drips upon us," Durand said. He brought his most doleful look to bear on the old man's wife, to impress upon her that he quite appreciated her refinement and therefore would not under any circumstances expect her to help persons who had rudely got themselves too close to geysering radiators and transmission fluid, or whatever it was that had been spraying about.

However well this approach might have worked on the average French woman, the British wife found herself bristling with the native enthusiasm for coming through rough spots with the proverbial stiff upper lip, plus a bit of cheeriness when appropriate. "Oh, don't be ridiculous. Of course we will drive you," she said.

Her husband hauled Durand and Emma out the door, one in each elderly fist.

The relieved headwaiter rushed to hold the door open for the stragglers. Richard offered his arm to the old man's wife and genially escorted her outside. He was still working on a way to beg out of the arrangement when he saw the couple's car. It had lightly tinted windows. Perfect. He casually looked up and down the street, looking for anyone who seemed interested in their movements. He wished that he'd had a look at the cab driver instead of having been hidden in the back seat, but he trusted his instincts to pick up anomalies. He thought Emma would do a fairly good job of scanning the area. He knew Durand would. But still, he'd have his own look around, thanks.

Durand and Emma checked out the street in both directions and conferred with their eyes. Neither had seen the cab, or its driver on foot. They looked at the tinted windows, and conferred with their eyes again.

"This is very kind of you, sir, _merci_ ," Durand said as he helped Emma into the car and got in after her.

"Nonsense," the old man said. "Been feeling useless since I retired. A bit of rescuing is just what I want right now. And don't you worry about Regina. If I know my wife, she'll be the hit of her bridge circle for weeks, telling all about how I dragged her into this." The old man winked, to assure everyone he was kidding. He shoved Richard into the car – there was no sense letting anyone change his mind about being rescued, and thereby spoil an old man's chance of being useful.

# CHAPTER 17 – RELATIONS

"Hi'ya, uncle!" the man said as he walked into Frank Hoddel's private office. The cheeriness didn't match well with his escort – two bruising big and perpetually solemn men who knew way too much about kneecaps. The man knew the cheeriness sounded forced. His knees shook. Sweat dribbled down his nose.

"Leave," Hoddel told the two solemn men. They slid through the door and closed it in one smooth motion. Hoddel grinned. He liked it when he could get good help.

"Sit," Hoddel said to his nephew.

The nephew sat.

Hoddel turned to paperwork and worked for a while. Finally, having established that he had better things to do than sit around and talk with a foolish nephew, he leaned back in his chair and studied his sorry excuse for a relative. "I am not happy with you," he said.

"Uncle, if you–"

"Don't call me uncle."

"No, sir."

"You got no right to call me uncle, if you're going to screw up this bad."

"Yes, sir."

"I am tired of bailing you out. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, sir."

"Of all the stupid things to get arrested for. Trying to bribe a police officer? How stupid are you?"

"I wasn't trying to bribe any police officer. I was trying to cut a deal with a chap who hadn't wanted to be photographed. I'd forgot it was the copper who broke my camera and totally ruined some of my best stuff ever. They just all took it wrong."

"You are charged with trying to bribe a police officer. Also disturbing the peace. Also trespassing. Also being a Peeping Tom. Didn't you learn anything the last time you got caught looking in windows? What are you, some kind of pervert? If you are, you are going to get over it, you understand me?"

The nephew nodded.

"And don't expect to get shipped to South America like your brother. I decided that course of action costs too much money. You heard from your brother lately?"

"Not for a couple, maybe three, months."

"What did he tell you?"

"That you cut him off without a peso. I don't think he was complaining, though. He knows better than to complain."

"Like you know better than to get caught looking in bedroom windows and then getting the hackles up on police officers afterwards?"

"It looked like a good scoop."

"Shut up."

There were a few pregnant moments of silence, during which Hoddel turned his attention back to papers on his desk.

The silence was too much for the nephew. "Look, I'll make it up to you."

"Don't try too hard. When you try too hard, you get stupid. I should've had my sister spayed, or something. She didn't have one good, solid, lousy pup. Just a lot of whimpering, sniveling little jerks who think they're important. But maybe I'm not being fair? I'm a fair man. Aren't I a fair man?"

"Yes, uncle, you can be very fair."

"Stop calling me uncle."

"Yes, sir."

"So, since I am a fair man, and just for grins, why don't you tell me what happened? All I got is what my men called in. What my men called in doesn't sound so good for you. But maybe they got it wrong. Maybe you can straighten me out? Maybe I don't need to go crawl under a rock with total shame to be part of this family?"

"No, unc– uh, sir. Sir. No, sir. See, I remembered about calling you sir."

"I ain't got all day. And I'm not impressed that you call me sir. Everybody with any sense says 'no, sir' and 'yes, sir' and 'please, sir' and 'sorry, sir' to me. Preferably, they don't have to say 'no, sir' or 'sorry, sir' very often, but I expect them to be honest and say it when they should. I'm a fair man. I appreciate honesty. So, what happened?"

"It was an honest mistake. Really. It could've happened to anybody. I was cruising around going from some of them timeshares and posh hotels down south to others, you know. Good hunting, you know, if you want to catch people in holiday mode, which often makes for better pictures. And this really photogenic chap drives past in a car in that new coppery color like stars and suchlike can't get enough of right now, and I know I've seen him somewhere before. I don't remember where. But somewhere important. So, anyway, he and this woman, probably a servant or a secretary I think, get out at a place you know he don't live at, like probably it's one of them holiday places that tries to look like it's part of the neighborhood. You know, like some of the really big stars like? So they can pretend to be common, you know? I _know_ I've seen this fellow before. Distinctive, you know. Holds himself likes he's somebody. Smooth. A real head-turn–"

"I'm not interested in how good the man looks."

"No, sir. Of course not. Anyway, I can't think who this bloke is but he looks important, and so I wait until the middle of the night and go back and go and look in. You know what? The lady is asleep on the couch, and he's just sitting in a chair looking at her. Weird, huh?"

"Cut to the car chase, Graham."

"Yes, sir. Well, I can't get a good shot from where I'm at, but, finally, the lady wakes up, and goes and makes tea, and tells him to go to bed. Finally, I think, I'm going to get something I can sell, or maybe just threaten to sell, which, quite frankly, usually pays better, as you know. It's amazing what people will fork over to keep certain pictures from showing up on newsstands. So, anyway, she's in there turning down the bed and the bastard jumps out from around the corner of the house and pistol whips me. Honest. Really. Hits me with a gun. Which worries me. But all he does is tape me up with that silvery sticky tape like you... like..." The nephew faltered. Reminding this uncle of ways to bind up people didn't seem like a good idea. In fact, it felt like a very bad idea under the circumstances. Sweat rolled down his face. He wondered what happened to people when they ran out of sweat. It was a scary thought. He dove back into his briefing, trying his level best to sound reasonable. His uncle didn't generally eliminate people who were reasonable. "Anyway, to cut to the car chase like you said, these two wrapped my camera in towels and sunk it in the kitchen sink in water like they was afraid it was a bomb or something, and then the cops show up, and I told everyone that I was a celebrity photographer–"

Hoddel snorted.

His nephew forged ahead. "...and I thought everything was going to work out, once the cops got me loose, except for the broken camera, which the cop broke accidentally. Wham-o, it hit the floor and it was smithereens. Damn junk. Damned expensive junk, too. And all that work lost, some of which was worth a lot, I tell you. Exclusive stuff. You won't believe who I got doing what."

Hoddel tented his fingers and looked sad. His nephew realized he wasn't helping himself by taking detours, even really interesting detours.

"...But to cut to the car chase, sir, it turns out that this man last night isn't a celebrity. He's an accountant, or something like that. A financial advisor, I think he said, who works in the City. How many bean counters do you know who carry guns, ambush and pistol whip photographers in the middle of the night, worry that cameras are bombs, and look like stars? And drive copper-colored cars? Nobody would have guessed he was an accountant, and therefore not fair game, I tell you..."

Graham Lockridge stopped talking. His uncle had turned a funny color, and was shaking his head, his eyes closed, his fingers clasping the bridge of his nose. Hoddel roused himself and dug a file out of a filing cabinet. Out of the file, he pulled a photograph. He tossed the picture so it landed in front of Lockridge. Puzzled, Lockridge looked at the picture. His brain fought with his eyes, refusing at first to believe what he was seeing. As he somewhat adjusted to the impossible, what little color had been left in his face drained out. He looked at his uncle, awe mixed with horror. "How'd you know it was him? Oh, man, oh man, he's not one of your men, is he? I'd never mess with anybody who works for you, you know that," he said.

"Shut up."

Hoddel looked at his creepy nephew, about to be useful for about the first time in his life, purely by accident. "I got my whole organization after this joker, and my nephew has him in his sights and lets him go without a peep to me. Why have I got to have such a worthless family? Why me?" he said bitterly, under his breath. He settled into his chair and put on his most indulgent smile. "Now, Graham, remember what you said earlier about making it up to me?"

Lockridge nodded, nervously. It was not generally a good sign when Uncle Frank started acting friendly – or when he was suggesting courses of action whereby somebody could make it up to him.

"Tell me about the woman," Hoddel said. "Did the man seem to like her?"

"Oh, yeah."

"Care about her?"

"Yeah..."

"You said she was a secretary, or something?"

"I said I thought she was his secretary or something. Only she wasn't. It turned out that she was his wife, if you can believe it. You'd have thought a fellow like that would have a drop-dead wife."

"Maybe he does," Hoddel quipped. "Or will, when I'm done with her... unless..." The beginnings of an inspiration tickled his brain. He strode out into the command center. He looked around to see if there were any visitors, prisoners, or anyone else he didn't want to overhear him. The coast was clear. "I would like to have your attention, please. Everybody."

Everybody stopped what he was doing and prepared to listen carefully. A very observant person might have noted that most of the people in the room reassured themselves that they were close to substantial cover, in case bullets started flying.

"You know that financial advisor idiot I said I wanted killed?"

Everyone nodded.

"I don't want him killed now. In fact, I really would like to keep him alive for a while. In one minute, when I am through explaining, I want all of you to get to work to tell people that. I want everyone told. I don't want him killed, you see, because I've just found out he's got a wife."

People stared at each other in confusion. Frank Hoddel was not sentimental.

Hoddel chuckled to himself at their confusion. "He's got a wife, and he took my seventeen million euros..." he prompted.

People around the room smiled. They were beginning to get the idea.

"So, class, how much should I ask in ransom?" he asked.

"Thirty-four million euros! Double your money!" an enthusiastic new employee said.

Hoddel's face fell. "Is that the kind of man you think I am? No. I am a fair man. Am I not a fair man? He took from me seventeen million, fifty-two thousand, one hundred and seventy-six euros the way I figure it – everything we made off that Nigerian deal. Adjusting for interest at the lowest rate I can imagine, and rounding down to the nearest euro, I'm going to ask for nineteen million, nine hundred fifty-one thousand, forty-five euros, even. Not a penny less. Not a penny more. That's fair, isn't it? Then, if he's a good boy, I'll tell him what he can expect if he crosses paths with me again. That's fair, isn't it? Maybe they need wannabe money launderers in Antarctica. I don't know. I don't care. That's his problem."

His minions chuckled, right on cue.

"Call off the hit!" Hoddel yelled. "Call on a kidnapping!"

His people cheered. They grabbed phones, headed for the door, or started typing emails like mad, getting the word out.

# CHAPTER 18 – HIGH LEVEL CONFERENCE

Darlene Dourlein gave Richard Hugh, Leandre Durand, and Emma Chapman a pitying look as she ushered them to Chief Wyatt's private office. "She's not exactly happy with you," she warned Richard.

"No doubt," he said, smiling. He took her hand and kissed it before Durand had a chance.

"That won't help you any," she called after him as he slipped through the door.

In his rush to one-up Durand, Richard had half-forgotten that Emma was with them. He suddenly felt foolish kissing a secretary's hand, even just in fun, while she was around. He avoided catching the American's eye, just in case he was in trouble. He found he was back to trying to catalog her as simply 'the American.' He found it annoying that he felt he needed to do that.

The chief glared at them as they walked in. Richard cringed slightly, Durand decided to be as invisible as possible, but Emma's eyes betrayed a small twinkle.

The chief let loose. "What is going on? We get a call-in from you on a suspicious taxi tailing you. We tell you that the cab is stolen and the driver was murdered. And then what? Your car is found smashed, and you're all unaccounted for. Three experienced agents – you would think that one of you might have had the sense to call in?"

Emma didn't feel like being chewed out. Besides, the explanation was funny. "We were surrounded by clingy Good Samaritans at first, which made calling impossible, or at least a crazy idea. Then we were shanghaied by a well-meaning elderly couple, and Percy and Regina Terwilliger did not strike us as the sort of people in front of whom one should be conducting confidential phone calls," she said. "Or displaying cutting edge gadgets," she added, having just remembered that some secret agents now had phones on which they could type messages, or nifty pagers with coded message buttons, etc. She'd convinced her boss not to saddle her with such things, but she didn't know what Richard and Durand might have been issued, but hadn't used.

The chief stared at Emma, her face showing traces of disbelief.

"As I stated when I made the call," Emma continued, "our suspicious cab driver caught us looking at him and sped away. Shortly after that, we were unfortunately between one car in front of us that stopped, and one behind that didn't. It might not have been so bad, except the fellow behind panicked and hit the gas instead of the brake, plowing us into the car ahead, causing Durand's car to buckle, and putting the doors out of commission. Bystanders had great fun busting out windows for us, through which we crawled, again with happy assistance, especially from the teenagers on the scene. Deciding that we were drawing too much attention, as soon as the cop had what she deemed necessary, we ducked into a nearby restaurant and Mr. Hugh prudently asked for a quiet back room from which to arrange by phone for transportation. Unfortunately, or fortunately, I haven't yet decided which, Mr. Terwilliger yelled 'nonsense, I have a car' and bodily hauled us outside and put us into it. By the time we got loose, we were only two blocks from here, and we felt it best to walk like we were late for an appointment, and get out of sight as soon as possible. At that point, of course, we were here. We did pause coming upstairs to hastily scrub off, which partially explains our red faces, but otherwise we came as quickly as possible. End of report. Ready for questions."

The chief allowed one eyebrow to go up. "Percy and Regina Terwilliger, did you say?"

"Yes, ma'am, that's who they said they are. He's a couple centuries late but still a very good sahib, and she's world class at bridge, he informed us."

"And you say you didn't have them drop you directly here?"

"No, ma'am. Didn't seem prudent."

The chief's face twitched She gave up trying to look tough, and burst into laughter. Emma also collapsed into laughter. It wasn't every day you got rescued by over earnest senior citizens (pensioners, in Brit-speak).

The chief got up to pour herself a glass of water. "I used to live in the same building with them. I finally had to move out. Percy kept wanting to be too much help. Bless his old bones, anyway. He should never have retired. He's an absolute menace with too much time on his hands."

"Sounds the right fellow," Richard ventured.

"And you are right about the sahib bit," the chief said, saluting Emma with her water glass. "The man positively would have been at home organizing tiger hunts." Wyatt sat back down, shaking her head. "I can't in good faith chew you out for not being able to get round Percy, since I rarely could, and I had the advantage of knowing the fellow. And you're quite right to have been dropped off elsewhere and to have walked. Neither Percy nor Regina misses much, for all his bluster and all her refinement. But you will, in future, try very hard not to disappear en masse on me again, yes?"

There came a perfect three-part chorus of "Yes, ma'am."

"Any of you hurt?"

She was answered with three variations on 'not enough to speak of.'

"There's one more person coming," Wyatt said. "While we're waiting, is anybody going to want anything to drink?"

"Yes, please, tea if you have it, any form as long as it's the real stuff and not flowers," Emma said. "With milk and sugar, if I may. I'm not so sure but that I'm behind on calories for this far into the day."

"Hint taken," Wyatt said. She punched a button on her desk and asked for sandwiches, tea for Emma, fresh coffee for herself, "and...?" she said, looking at the men. The men shrugged. "Two grapefruit juices?" She watched the men cringe. "Cancel the fruit juice. Two more coffees, I think. Thank you." She signed off. "Don't tell me you've had such a bad day you no longer have the capacity to choose a beverage?" she said, addressing the two men jointly.

"No, _madame_ ," Durand said. "I am glad to drink whatever is offered."

"I wouldn't say that," Emma quipped. "Her predecessor sometimes served arsenic to people, in small doses, heavily diluted, to see if anyone picked up on the taste."

Durand grinned at her, to show that he knew it was a joke. To his surprise, Richard sank slightly in his chair and Wyatt was suddenly busy checking something in a large stack of papers.

Emma shrugged. "True story. But, of course, when it was discovered, that fellow got booted and Mrs. Wyatt here found herself promoted right away to fill the slot. Can't have superiors using their agents as guinea pigs in poison trials. Not cricket." Emma turned to the chief. "Say, not to change the subject or anything, but while we're waiting, may I ask a stupid question or two about today's cab driver?"

The chief would have approved all sorts of things to get away from the subject of arsenic. She nodded.

"I don't like that the man killed a cabbie and stole his cab, and then drove it around London," Emma said.

"No, of course not," Richard said. "No civilized person would."

"Let me clarify. That this man killed a cabdriver and stole a cab is precisely my point. It's an extremely stupid thing to do. Cabs are conspicuous. On top of that, cab drivers are dangerous adversaries. They go everywhere. They know everywhere – especially London cab drivers, who go through more training than most. They might fight like dogs among themselves on a day-to-day basis, but when there's a common threat they're not to be trifled with. Stealing a cab is bad enough. Killing the driver is worse, because then it's assured that other cabbies will be keeping a sharp lookout. Driving around London in the murdered man's vehicle is so dangerous as to be classified insane. So is our predator of today stupid? Or is he smart enough to understand the danger but willing to take the risk? Or, is he smart enough to understand the danger, and happy to take the risk? What? I'd like to be able to guess what sort of person we had after us. I can only get so far as to conclude that the actions were evil, criminal and stupid, but I know nothing about the man. Musing ended. Floor open."

"Which one of you was he after?" Wyatt asked.

"I couldn't tell," Emma said.

Durand shrugged. "He seemed to be after our car, by the time I saw him. Unfortunately I did not see what inspired him to follow the car."

Richard, still slouched from the arsenic remarks, was working on an imaginary hangnail. "They had me stashed in the back and kept telling me to stay down. Something about orders to keep me out of sight as much as possible?"

"Yes. I asked that Durand keep you invisible if he could. Silly me, thinking that when you're not actually working, there's not much reason to have you where the Mighty Planetary monster, or Hoddel's thugs, can bead in on you. So you are perhaps hinting that you didn't see the cab driver?"

"Nor the cab, when it comes to that."

"Triple-O Five, I'll thank you to sit up straight and stop playing with your fingers. Our visitor is of some rank, and he'll be here any time now."

Richard sat up properly, smoothed his hair with his hand, and straightened his jacket. He composed his face into a mask of competence and calm.

Durand, not wishing France to be outdone, settled into a slightly more formal pose and smoothed his hair, what there was of it, and readjusted his cuffs. His face assumed a look of controlled energy and diligence, with hints of deep thought.

Emma, for the sake of American independence, sat up a little, but not quite as much as she could have, and ran a few fingers through her hair, mostly to make sure it was all out of her face. Her face stayed essentially the same.

Wyatt bit back a grin. Each had acted entirely within character, as far as she knew them. She allowed herself a surge of pride in being British. Richard Hugh managed the best appearance of the lot, she thought.

There was light tapping at the door. A springy little man full of dignified charm stuck in his head. "May I come in?" he asked.

"Welcome, Mr. Prime Minister," Wyatt said. She stood. The others followed suit. Durand took advantage of the standing up to gallantly switch places with Emma, so he was between the two of them.

The Prime Minister didn't miss that Richard and Durand were somewhat protective of the short woman (who presumably was Emma Chapman), or that she was for some reason embarrassed to see him. He racked his considerable brain for an earlier connection between himself and her, but came up with nothing. From what he thought he knew of her from her reputation, her reaction was doubly astonishing. She was supposedly surprisingly unflappable, was not the least impressed with politicians, nor was she cowed by power. A top-ranked spy, actually – and for decades now, which should be long enough to harden anybody. Yet here she was, practically hiding behind Durand.

"Zanna, if I've come at an awkward time, I could wait outside for perhaps five minutes," he said.

"No, come on in. We're ready for you," Wyatt said. She glanced at the agents, to see if they were inexplicably going to make a liar out of her. They all stood a wee bit straighter, as if to assure her they were grownups, capable of behaving themselves in front of company.

The PM strode in and set to greeting the three agents, starting with the one closest to him. "Hello, Richard!" he said. He shot a sheepish glance at Wyatt. "I didn't ask. Are we using names today?"

She smiled and nodded. "We're all ourselves, for once."

"How nice for a change," the Prime Minister said. "In that case, give me a good look at you, Richard, old chum. Good night! Aren't they letting you get any sleep lately? Don't tell me you're ill?" He stood at arm's length and studied his boyhood companion. "On second look, you don't look quite that bad. And our recent troubles would put bags under even my eyes, I think, if I were one of you poor chaps on the front lines."

Richard was too wary to suit the PM. It was like the fellow expected the proverbial other shoe to drop. The Prime Minister patted Richard on the shoulder and moved on.

"It is good to see you again, Durand. And thank goodness under better circumstances, yes?"

Durand bowed his head, but not too much, the dignity of France being his responsibility, and shook the Prime Minister's hand when it was offered to him.

Although Durand's face was controlled, the Prime Minister couldn't shake the feeling that the man was wishing he were elsewhere. Another mystery.

The Prime Minister moved on. "And you, dear lady, must be Emma Chapman, our ally from America. How good to meet you at last. Good heavens, you're not going to be star-struck, are you?" He smiled good-naturedly and stuck out his hand. He saw the woman gather herself before shaking his hand. She looked like she was nervous about being in the same room with him. He chanced a glance back at Richard. Instead of helping him out as an old chum ought to do, the man merely looked embarrassed. What in the world was going on? Ah, wait – that devilish superstition. That had to be it. The poor woman probably had been watching Richard squirm regarding the birthdays coincidence and was afraid of the same treatment from him. Well, it wasn't going to happen. He'd been forewarned after all, and had come ready to joke about it. "I've heard a rumor–"

"Shouldn't we be getting started?" Richard asked, as he hastily positioned a chair behind his country's leader.

The Prime Minister laughed. "Come now, Richard, it can't be that bad, surely? I was just going to mention that since we were twins–" He saw that Emma was confused. "Oh, my dear. Didn't Richard tell you yet that he and I are unrelated twins as well, which makes the three of us some sort of strange triplets, which fact has unleashed some latent and very ridiculous superstitions?"

Richard mumbled something about the subject not exactly coming up.

Wyatt switched her coffee cup to her left hand.

Emma looked at the Prime Minister. "I don't want to waste much time on this, but perhaps you could bring me up to speed?"

"In a nutshell, Richard and I grew up together and caught grief for having the same birthday, because of a legend that talks about unrelated twins dragging people off into eternal damnation in the swamps of the next county. We use it to scare the stuffing out of children when they refuse to behave. When we found out that you were born the same day and year as our humble selves, poor Richard and I have been just this side of needing a shrink to get over it. Poor Zanna here even went on a consulting round, gathering opinions on whether she could reasonably dare have you two working together. I think we finally decided that Richard might have a few awkward lapses because of it, but that he was a big boy now and would eventually get over it. How's he doing?"

"Ask him. I haven't noticed any problems from it," Emma said.

"Let's get to work, shall we?" Wyatt said.

The Prime Minister moved to sit next to Emma, but when Durand intervened, he didn't press the point, Durand showing signs of becoming adamant if necessary.

"Now, then, Mrs. Chapman, why don't you tell us what brings you to our island?" the PM said. "I've been briefed, but would like to hear for myself, in your own words."

"What I'd like to do first, if it's all right with Chief Wyatt, is to play the two wiretaps in question. I'd appreciate everyone's input, without any prior slant from me."

"Certainly," Wyatt said.

There was an awkward pause.

"You should have received a download two or three days ago, along with a cover report," Emma said.

Wyatt stepped out to talk to her secretary. She came back and shook her head.

"Perhaps you could just fill us in?" the Prime Minister suggested.

Emma spoke to Wyatt. "I need a copy over here, in your hands. Give me a secure computer and I'll get it for you. After I'm sure you have a clean copy, you can request another one through normal channels to satisfy protocol. But let's make sure we have one. That particular department has been making your dispatchers look like a precision dance team. I don't want to take any chances on this."

Richard went reddish.

Durand's face went studiously blank.

The Prime Minister made a mental note to ask Wyatt about her dispatchers once they had some privacy.

"I have good reasons to hand you a copy," Emma continued. "I think I recognize a voice on it, but we don't have a file for that voice in our archives. I hope you will. Beyond that, with the turf wars we're having over there, I'm concerned about making sure that the records aren't lost in the crossfire. Where's the nearest secure connection? I can have it for you in ten minutes, fifteen at the most. The next best option, as far as I can see, is to put in a request for our experts to send it to your experts, and then, assuming everything goes well, reassemble this group probably next week to listen to what I've already got in my files, ready for my own use."

Bureaucratic channels often were awkward when you were in a hurry, and everyone present knew that. In this case, moreover, the life of one of the people present was likely at stake. Wyatt, avoiding Richard's eyes, looked at the Prime Minister, hoping to be allowed to dot the i's and cross the t's later.

The Prime Minister playfully rolled his eyes skyward. "I'm not here at the moment, I don't think," he said. He winked at Emma.

"No one could make me say otherwise," Emma said.

Durand snorted, and waved his hand. "And why would anyone think that a man such as myself would be in a private meeting with such a highly-placed man? Preposterous." He winked.

The Prime Minister grinned at Richard. "Don't say a word, lad. It must be assumed that you could lie for your country for a good enough cause." He turned his attention to Wyatt. "Get this gal Chapman what she needs. Chop. Chop." He rubbed his hands together in exaggerated delight. "Oh, boy. I haven't pulled one over on the Americans behind their backs in months, positively months."

"Be careful what you say, sir. I may not always like my superiors or current policies, but I do file rather good reports," Emma said.

She said it lightly, but not so lightly that the Prime Minister felt safe ignoring it. "If that was a shot across my bow, I'm pretty sure I saw it," he said.

"Good. It was a warning volley. We are allies, but not more than that. I'd rather concentrate on our mutual enemies when we're together, than wrestle with what I should glean from what you say, for shipment home."

"Fair warning, that is, and I thank you," he said with gracious formality. He bowed. "I promise to not give you too much distraction from now on." He smiled and clapped his hands. "Bring on that computer."

Durand had gone back to being invisible, but now he risked a look at Richard. Their eyes met. Durand playfully raised an eyebrow. Richard responded appropriately, but looked distracted. Durand turned to watch Emma setting up with the gleeful help of The-Prime-Minister-Who-Was-Not-There. When he looked back at his friend, it was to see Richard staring at Emma Chapman's back and shaking his head. In disbelief? In wonder? In confusion? It was hard to say. Perhaps he was trying to talk himself out of an attraction? Or into one? Durand looked quietly at the chief. She was watching Richard, who clearly did not know that he was under such scrutiny. It was not like Richard to be so oblivious.

"Did someone say something earlier about sandwiches?" he asked, politely. Not to change the subject, or anything.

Emma and the Prime Minister, deciding to play it safe (and also flummoxed by the equipment, although the Prime Minister didn't want to admit it), asked for a wiretaps-and-recordings specialist. MI5½ housed its surveillance-related departments in the same building as Wyatt's office, and so a specialist was there in minutes. As a matter of pride, he set up in world-class time. That Carterson was the sort of man not the least affected by the presence of persons in positions of power helped; he lost no time at all to nervous fumbling. The Prime Minister was grateful. People going goofy in his presence tended to get on his nerves, and he'd had enough of that for one day.

The first recording started with a conversation between two people (men at a guess, but one voice was indeterminate) about a golf tournament (The Masters) and then a football game from the year before (American style, Broncos versus San Diego).

There was a knocking sound, an invitation to come in, then a third person, definitely a man, saying, "Hi, I got a report for ya."

"You know what to call me!" the indeterminate voice screeched.

"Do I have to?" the newcomer said.

"Yes!" the screecher said.

"Even when it's just us? It sounds so stupid."

There was a scream and a shot.

"You didn't have to do that, boss."

"What did you call me?"

"Master. You didn't have to shoot him, he would've said it."

"Said what?"

There was a hesitation, and then a shot. And another. And another. A door opened and closed. There was only silence after that, filled thick with the mental image of freshly shot men, helpless or already dead, left lying in their own blood, abandoned.

The second recording was harder to make out. The sound track was scratchy with an overlay of static. One voice said something that sounded like Master. Another one said something about what sounded like England.

"I thought you couldn't go back there, Master?" a man said.

An indeterminate voice, but probably male, likely the same voice as on the first tape, said, "That was before. No one would recognize me now. I gotta go. 'Cause of what Richard did to Nan. I wouldn't have lost her, if he hadn't ruined her first. Like it was some kind of game. Him and his nice hair and nice clothes and nice manners, stealing women and playing with them, never meaning to devote himself to them, letting them get their hopes up and then..."

And then the sound got too faint to hear. Probably the conversers had walked out of range. The tape ended.

The chief looked at Emma. "You said you thought you recognized a voice on there?"

"That's just it. I think I should recognize the voice of the person insisting on being called Master, but I can't put it to anybody. Does anybody here have any ideas?" She got only headshakes. "Our guys say they can't match it, but I'm not sure they tried very hard after I made the mistake of mentioning someone who died about three years ago. I meant that this kook reminded me of the guy. But it put our guys off the scent, and got me nothing but bad jokes about voices from beyond the grave."

"I get the feeling you would like us to take a fresh run at it, before you say anything more," the Prime Minister said.

"I've already poisoned the well once on this case," Emma said.

"Not arsenic, I hope," Durand said.

"No," the Prime Minister said, "That's just an English expression. 'Poisoning the well' doesn't mean actual poison. It means to turn something to the worse before it has a chance to come out all right."

"English is such a difficult language," Durand said, straight-faced.

"You speak it remarkably well, my friend," the Prime Minister said, by way of encouragement. "Unless there's more, I need to get rolling," he said. He stood, so everybody else stood. He grabbed Richard's hand and shook it. "Not necessarily you, old chap. I'm sure that now Zanna's got the info, she'll check out our other Richards. Bound to be tons of them." He left. Despite his best efforts to the contrary, he left behind him the impression that he was bailing out of whatever discussion there might be.

The secretary stuck her head in. "The sandwiches got here finally. Anybody still want to eat?"

Carterson and Emma raised hands. Durand applauded their spirit, and half-heartedly raised his own. Really, though, his appetite was not what it had been before he heard the revolting little recordings, or watched his friend Richard sink in the estimation of his childhood friend, the Prime Minister. A man who courts a lady's man image always risks damaging, if not destroying, friendships with men who revere women – and rightfully so – but it was always so painful to see it happen, or to see a man such as the PM want to defend a friend, but suddenly realize the friend wasn't quite defendable, at least in the matter at hand.

For his part, Durand was sure Richard wasn't nearly so bad as Richard liked people to think. Also, there had been signs that the man's conscience was bothering him. It was clear, at times (like now), that the man wished he could start over. As, of course, he could, if he would only become Catholic, or otherwise take God seriously for a change. Perhaps an opportunity would present itself to tell him this, but of course now was not the time or place to bring up such a matter and expect to have it receive a proper reception. Besides, when the Holy Spirit was wrestling with a man, who was he, Leandre Durand, to think he could do better?

Wyatt sent Carterson on his way, happily supplied with two sandwiches (he was a young man, and played rugby, and needed his strength).

"I need to think," Wyatt told the three agents. "I also need to get a few balls rolling. In the meantime, I want you to get back to that neighborhood where the cab was, and nose around. I'll tell the CCTV people you're coming. Let's hope they got a good shot of that cab driver. Maybe we can help head him off before he decides to make another go at someone, if only we can identify him. We'll probably have to put it on the back burner while we take care of larger fish, but no sense not seeing if it isn't something we can clear up easily, for a change. Forget Paris, by the way, Mr. Hugh. I sent Malcolm and Muggeridge down after I pulled you in. Sorry about that. Perhaps we can arrange a nice trip to somewhere truly enchanting after we get this wannabe Master business cleaned up. You never saw the Prime Minister today. Not here. Now go."

"Permission for one minute in private?" Emma asked.

The chief shooed the two men out.

"Off the record, but so you don't step on any landmines," Emma said, "a while back, I figured out a way to trigger a copy to my computer whenever the word master was noted in the wiretap analysis division. That's what these were from, since I couldn't figure out how to safely access the central files from here. In plain English, I've just handed you wiretaps borrowed from elsewhere in my agency without all the paperwork being done, and passed along on my sole authority. If I have to be shot at sunrise I figure it's worth it, but I'd hate to have you as company. End of statement."

"Sometimes you scare the stuffing out of me."

"That's my job, ma'am. Yours is to do a replay of the Zimmermann Telegram incident, and figure out how to use information to help the United States without letting the Americans know what you've been up to."

Wyatt smiled. "You do know some of the right buttons to push, don't you?"

"I'm a history buff. Your folks were brilliant about that whole telegram mess in World War I. My country's actions, sorry to say, were less than stellar, shall we say? At least at the get-go?"

Wyatt remembered enough about the so-called Zimmermann Telegram to recognize the case as a masterpiece of undercover war work, but not enough to want to discuss it with a history buff. "Oh, well. We weathered that storm. Let's forget it," she said. "And don't go stealing any of my wiretaps, please. Ask. I might be glad to accommodate you."

"Thank you, ma'am. I'll be heading out then?"

"I'll need a better promise than that."

"You noticed I was leaving a bit of wiggle room, did you?"

"More than a little. Your word of honor, or I'm throwing you into exile, if not detention."

"I give you my word of honor I won't access any of your country's wiretaps without being duly authorized and supervised by a duly authorized British official. One year from today, if necessary, we can review, and possibly renew, the treaty."

"Thank you for not limiting it to my department's wiretaps."

"I didn't want to be here all day, and I figured you wouldn't settle for less than a nationwide taboo without any of the standard loopholes."

"Good guess. Your minute is up, by the way," Wyatt said, but almost kindly, now that they were moving toward forming an alliance they could both live with.

Emma excused herself, and left.

After getting higher priorities taken care of, including putting notes in her top secret calendar regarding the one-year 'treaty' with Emma Chapman, Wyatt asked Dourlein to dig up information on the Zimmermann Telegram incident.

"Oh, that's how we finally got the United States in on World War I, wasn't it?" the secretary said.

"It helped," Wyatt said, and rang off. It could be annoying, being surrounded by history buffs.

# CHAPTER 19 – HITTING THE PAVEMENT

Richard Hugh, Leandre Durand, and Emma Chapman stopped briefly at Richard's office to tidy up. Richard changed into fresh, crisp clothes out of a well-stocked personal closet. Richard's secretary was happy to contribute fresh hosiery for Emma out of what she called the office emergency supplies drawer. Mrs. Shaw could probably outfit any female in the building with personal supplies at the drop of a hat. It was not in her job description, and sometimes her rampant nurturing interfered slightly with her official duties, but there was no fighting the woman's motherly instincts. Mrs. Shaw let Durand have a side room and an ironing board to press a razor-sharp pleat into his pants, which had suffered at the hands of the teens who'd insisted on helping him through the car's window, and then carrying him around in victory afterward, including a playful detour through steam and fumes. He insisted on doing the ironing himself; it proved he was quite good at it. That, and a quick polish to his shoes, redeemed his sense of presenting a proper front to the world. He wished he'd been so properly restored before being in a meeting with the British Prime Minister but he didn't dwell on it. His conduct had been proper; that was the main point.

-

The first surveillance videos they checked had several good frames with the cab, and a couple of frames where you could just make out the driver. "But you might check down the way," the CCTV man said. "They noticed the cab drive through as nice as you please, and wondered about the new driver. I guess it was only minutes later that word came down what had happened. Go easy on 'em, would ya? They're feeling near suicidal, and it's not their fault, really. And they raised a proper hue and cry as soon as they knew, really. I'm sure they'd appreciate any chance to be of help."

Richard, Durand, and Emma promised to be sensitive, and headed where pointed. There, the pictures were better. The technician was able to zoom in on the driver's face.

Richard blinked.

"You recognize him, I think?" Durand said.

"He's familiar," Richard answered, puzzled because the man seemed awfully familiar, but somehow couldn't be put in place or attached to a name.

"That's what we thought," their host cop said. "But he's got one of those faces that's real common. Like everybody's uncle, if you know what I mean?"

"Has the cab been found yet?" Emma asked, trying to change the subject before Richard let himself be talked out of recognizing the man.

"I'll just check," the cop said, glad for an excuse to check again. He called in, soon smiled, and just as quickly frowned. He rang off with a thank you that sounded disappointed. "Good news, bad news. They've found the cab. But burnt to a crisp. What hasn't melted appears to have been wiped clean beforehand. They're working on it. Bound to be something the man left behind him."

"But this being a cab, it'll be very hard to say that stray hairs came from the killer and not from some innocent fare from yesterday or last week or something," Emma said. She saw the man's face fall. "Sorry I mentioned it," she said.

"No, ma'am. Facts are facts. Evidence from cabs can be real hard to sort out."

"Don't let it keep you from trying. Sometimes it works," she said.

"Yes, ma'am," he said. He tried to sound confident.

Richard led off a round of polite goodbyes, and herded Durand and Emma back onto the pavement.

"Now where, boss?" Emma asked.

Durand noticed the flicker in his friend's face when Emma called him boss. Richard was clearly embarrassed to have her around, after they'd listened to the recordings together. This was not to mention the superstitions about twins, about which Richard was also clearly embarrassed.

He wished there was time for Richard and Emma to go somewhere and talk. He was sure they had much to talk about. Even earlier, when he'd picked them up for the journey to British headquarters, they'd seemed full of unspoken thoughts. It would be good if things could be cleared up, he thought. For that matter, he wished he could be alone with Emma for a while, to talk to her himself. He was sure he could clear up a few things. Besides, it was a wonderful challenge to talk to her. It was surprising what she understood.

-

Richard squirmed. So far, neither of his companions had mentioned anything about the meeting in the chief's office, and he didn't want them to. Not yet. Not until he stopped feeling like something that properly ought to go crawl under a rock. In the back of his mind, he was going over every Nan and Nancy and Nanette and suchlike that he knew. It was not a pleasant task. He'd had excruciating break-ups with three of them. He'd also quietly left at least two of them in the lurch, with no explanations. He'd had no choice, given duty-related circumstances, but still it was caddish behavior, and he knew it. Worse yet, he could just imagine what Emma Chapman must think of him. Not that he didn't deserve it, but still... "Let's go talk to Rodney and Shirley, or whoever's on duty on that beat," he said. He stepped off smartly, avoiding looking anyone in the eye.

Durand and Emma, left rudely in his wake, raised their eyebrows at each other. It was obvious that Richard was trying to avoid dealing with them any more than was strictly necessary.

Durand smiled, bowed theatrically from the waist, and swept his arm in a grand gesture. "After you, m'lady," he said.

"In other words, this is not the time or the place to talk about what's eating him?" she said, her eyes merry. Clearly, she was enjoying Durand's playfulness.

"Very good, _madame_ ," Durand said, with a happy wink. It was great fun to see his longtime friend feeling distraught about a woman's opinion of him. Quite obviously that was the case. He tried to remember if he'd ever seen his friend quite so embarrassed, and couldn't recall a similar event. Even better, so far the woman seemed worthy of such consideration, if you made allowances for her American informality and lack of sophistication. "Shall we?" he asked. He lent her his arm and they headed off together to catch up to Richard. He might want to avoid them, but nothing said they had to let him get away with it. As they got close to him, they broke off walking arm on arm. One might tweak a friend for his own good, but one must not overdo such things, Durand thought, especially if the friend was a man who was distraught about a woman's opinion of him, and the woman was present, not to mention that the man was armed and dangerous.

Minutes later, Richard drew Emma to a halt and stepped in front of her. "There's our cab driver, or someone very like, standing still, just past the yellow storefront," he said. From his height he could see the man clearly. He could just as clearly see that the man had spotted him, and seemed to recognize him. He tried again to place the fellow. No luck.

"I do not see him," Durand said.

"Red jacket, black wig, orange plaid scarf," Richard announced.

"Naturally," Durand said, not liking that the man was set up to be able to shed showy covering. It could mean that the man planned public trouble, with hopes that witnesses would remember red, black, and clashing plaid, instead of his face.

"He's looking awfully cocky," Emma said, catching a glimpse of the man through the crowd.

The man grinned at Richard. He looked at the people around him, and grinned some more. Durand finally got a good look at the suspect, and did not like what he saw. "Not here, if we can help it," he said, taking in the whole street scene with a worried sweep of his eyes. "Not when he is sorting the people with such wicked glee." He began to back off.

Richard signaled for the suspect to follow him. The man shook his head. He motioned for Richard to come to him.

Richard started forward. Durand caught his arm. "Tell me, my friend, exactly what you think you are doing."

"I'm afraid he's going to take a hostage. I intend to keep him focused on me instead."

"A brave plan, but foolish. You spend too much time with bankers. That man does not intend to take hostages. He intends to kill."

"All the more reason, then," Richard said as he shook loose.

The suspect spun, pulled a gun, and aimed at a nearby police officer.

"Shirley! Gunman behind you!" Richard yelled.

It gave her time to spin and dodge. But not enough time to dodge enough. There was a crack of gunfire. Her left leg snapped into unnatural angles, and she went down.

# CHAPTER 20 – FROM BAD TO WORSE

Up and down the street people froze or jumped wildly. The murderer laughed, and aimed carefully at Shirley, who was writhing helplessly on the ground.

Durand shouted and raced toward them, catching a bullet to his ribs for his trouble.

The murderer shot some bystanders, put in a fresh ammo clip, and turned maliciously back to Shirley.

Having gathered his wits enough to consign unnecessary firearms regulations to Dante's ninth circle of hell, Richard dashed forward into the street to arrange a blank wall behind his target, and fired. The hit was across the lower left arm and into the torso. The red jacket ripped, but there was a tale-tell sway and rebound; the murderer was not so mad as to not be wearing body armor. He laughed, made a rude gesture at Richard, and emptied ammo into the crowd as he retreated.

Richard, confounded by traffic, parked cars, signposts, lampposts, freaked out pet dogs, and scores of hysterical people, couldn't get another clear shot, so didn't fire again. He ran after the criminal, but lost him in the crowd. Along the way, he noticed a black wig, and then an orange plaid scarf.

Emma searched the ground where the gunman had been standing. Finding blood, she yelled for Durand. He staggered over. Even with his police vest to protect him, the bullet had slugged hard enough to break a rib. The pain was daunting, not to mention the emotional shock. His nerves were screaming at him. His blood felt cold and he was covered in sweat.

"Are you okay?" Emma asked.

He nodded.

Emma pointed out the blood on the sidewalk, just a few drops. "Can you keep people off this until we can secure the area?" He nodded, but she wasn't sure that he understood. "Durand, it's important. I want to do first aid on people, but I'll stay if you can't do this."

Durand looked around. There was, sadly, much first aid to be done. His blood warmed, as anger replaced shock. He nodded again, this time with assurance.

"Thank you," Emma said. She flew to Shirley, wedging her way through people who were staring in fascinated horror at the blood coming out of her leg. "Here then, let's get started on you," Emma said as she wadded her raincoat and stuck it under the officer's uninjured leg to elevate it. "Ambulances are en route, but there's no reason to let them do everything," she said with a smile and a wink.

Shirley managed a weak smile back.

Emma found the pressure point she wanted and leaned on the femoral artery for all she was worth. The bleeding slowed. Emma prayed it would be enough until the ambulances got there. She looked up at the crowd. In her opinion the last thing a critically injured person needed was people standing around sending horrified and fascinated looks at them. "Here, you, each of you, see if you can find some way to help, will you? Do first aid on someone, or hold their hand at least," she said. "Do something."

Most of the crowd cleared out, grateful for having been told to do something. Several women, having been duly authorized, swooped away to adopt whoever was most handy who would consent, or even half consent, to be adopted. Almost everyone else got swept up in a general project to keep the way clear for emergency vehicles. Emma assessed the people who'd stayed to gawk. "The rest of you, get lost," she said. It was said in a calm and quiet voice, with a deadly sort of edge to it. People edged away.

Shirley's partner shoved his way through them.

"H'lo, Rodney," Shirley said. "I dodged the wrong way." She tried to toss it off as a joke, but her voice had a weakness to it that ruined the effect.

Rodney's face quivered.

Emma spoke sharply. "Rodney, I need you to guard the evidence that's going to get her assailant convicted. Over there. That man's a French police officer and he's guarding the blood the maniac dripped after he got shot. It's the only DNA evidence I know we have. The French officer's name is Durand. He's hurt. I'm not sure how long he can hold that post. Go relieve him and secure the evidence."

Rodney tore his eyes away from the blood-soaked hip and leg of his partner and looked at her face.

She said, "Go." It was an order.

He hesitated.

"Go," she repeated.

This time he obeyed. When he got to Durand, at first he couldn't see what it was that he was supposed to be guarding.

"Just there," Durand said, pointing. "I am afraid that he perhaps was not wounded so very badly. We may not have the good luck that he might need to visit a doctor, I am afraid."

Rodney nodded. It was bad luck if they couldn't get help from medical facilities, but they'd just have to do as well as they could with what they had. He planted his feet firmly, ready to physically block people from walking on the evidence, if need be. His sense of duty pulled him in several directions at once, but he stayed put as if his partner's very life was at stake, his mind too numb to move past what he'd decided to do for the woman who watched his back day in and day out, and sometimes took his children to the zoo. His knees wobbled. His mind tried to go fuzzy, to dull the edges of his distress. He clinched his jaw and concentrated on staying sharp. This was no time to be as human and vulnerable as the non-cops in the vicinity.

Emma called out, "Durand. Take care of Henry. I'll meet you there."

Durand nodded. He understood. Certainly 'Henry' should be taken care of. He should be hauled away, before the murderer came back and gave another show for his benefit. Clearly, the show had been primarily for Richard Hugh's benefit. Durand wasn't sure he'd tell his friend that. He would decide that later. First things first. Richard/Henry was not to hand and must be found, one way or another. After some painful walking about (was there no way a man could walk or breathe that did not involve the ribs?), he found Richard giving CPR to the headwaiter from The Stuffed Pelican. "You know persons should not give such types of first aid right after they themselves have had a heart attack!" he cried, in a show of shocked worry. He reached toward Richard as if to haul him to his feet. To Durand's relief, the ploy worked. Two men stepped forward and pulled Richard to his feet.

"I'll help Mr. Collins, sir. You look to yourself. We've enough trouble already without asking for second heart attacks. That's a good man," a man said to Richard. He settled on his knees and took over.

"You look to yourself, that's a good man," another man echoed. He patted Richard fraternally on the back and eyed his sleep-deprived and grief-stricken face with genuine concern.

Durand, to his chagrin, began to weep with pity.

"Here! You're hurt!" a woman yelped. She grabbed Durand's arm as she gasped at the fresh rip over his ribs.

Durand wasn't offended, exactly, but the woman's lack of appreciation for his toughness struck a nerve. He drew himself up as far as the pain allowed. "Thank you, but I am a police officer and was wearing the protective vest. I shall have a bad bruise, I think, but I am fine. I must go and help track down the man who did this." He turned to Richard, who was staring in shock at the bullet damage.

"I thought you flinched and stopped because he shot at you. I didn't realize..." Richard stammered. "You actually got hit? You actually got–"

"Come along, please. I think you can give a good description of the man to the proper authorities, yes?" Durand said, as officially as he could manage. Personally, he would rather try to forget about bullet holes in shirts in general, much less a bullet hole in his own clothing. It was difficult to maintain the proper attitude, if one did not ignore such things.

He led his friend away. They hadn't gone thirty steps when Richard dug in his heels and looked wildly around. Durand leaned in close so he could talk quietly. "Emma is unharmed. She will join us at headquarters. She has decided that she must stay until everything is secure. And I have decided that you must go with me so that things may remain secure." He pulled gently on Richard's arm, and added, "Please do not fight me, my friend. My ribs hurt like the devil." Richard relented, reluctantly, but only because he thought Durand needed help. They walked off, each man feeling (perhaps correctly) that he was providing needed protection for the other.

-

"Isn't the sound of sirens a beautiful noise at a time like this?" Emma said to Shirley, who was gamely trying to not writhe too much. Emma strained to stay on the pressure point. "Try not to get away from me until they get here," she added with what she hoped was a reassuring smile.

Little feet came close, and stopped. Emma looked up. A boy was staring at Shirley.

"Hello," Emma said, gently. "Don't you worry about the nice police lady. She's going to be all right."

Shirley looked to see who was there. The little boy looked her in the eye. "Mummy won't wake up," he told her. He stood there, expectantly, waiting for the police officer to go over and help his mother wake up.

Shirley gulped back tears. She tried to sit up. Emma, both hands busy keeping her from bleeding to death, unleashed a curt order to lie back down. Shirley had no choice. Her body wouldn't consent to sit up. In a strange way, it felt like it was becoming too difficult to even manage to lie flat. She was beginning to feel that her body was both too heavy and too light, all at the same time. She had to admit to herself that she might die from this.

She forced herself to take deep, slow breaths. She'd hold off going into shock as long as she could. She would not die if she didn't have to. And she sure wasn't going to die in front of a kid, if she could help it. Her strength faltered. She switched to praying that she wouldn't die in front of the kid.

"Where is your mum?" Emma asked the little boy, thinking she might send someone over to help.

The boy pointed. The young woman lay still, in front of a store three doors down. Her head was messy. A man in clerical garb was beside her, making the sign of the cross over her. Great sobs convulsed his frame. Another man was kneeling beside her. He shook his head sorrowfully, before heading off to do first aid on someone who could benefit from it.

Emma turned her attention back to the little boy. "The ambulance people are coming. Hear the sirens?" she asked.

He nodded.

"I need for you to help me until somebody from an ambulance shows up to take over. I need someone to hold this policewoman's hand. I need you to do that. Take her hand; that will be a big help."

Shirley slid a hand closer to the boy. He sat next to her and took hold of it, her hand dwarfing his.

"There. That will help us a lot," Emma said.

"It's shaking," the little boy said.

"That's why she needs you to hold it," Emma said.

The little boy looked thoughtful. "Should I sing to her?" he asked. "When I fell out of a tree and didn't feel good, Daddy sang to me to make me feel better until an ambulance came to take me to hospital," he explained.

Emma choked up.

Shirley now felt she had a job to do, and that was to make sure this little boy walked away from this nightmare feeling he'd done everything he could possibly do. "I'd like you to sing to me," she said, "If you can do it real quiet."

The little boy sang to her. He made up a song as he went. It was full of lions and bears and tigers and other things beloved of little boys: big things, strong things, sometimes-fierce things that knew how to look out for themselves and were really good to have as friends if you ever ran into evil men or other trouble.

Two paramedics jogged up. Emma told them, "A bullet seems to have done damage to an artery and probably a bone here."

The man of the team got professionally chipper. "That sounds straightforward enough. Let us get our gear lined up and let us check for whatever else might prove bothersome if ignored, then I'll take over. Hold on there until I say, will you?" He got eye contact with Shirley. "You'll be all right, luv. My name's Melvil, by the way, and that's Angela. We'll be your medics this run. Horrible name, Melvil, but it's what my Mmm..." He cut off his patter mid-word, startled by the reaction of the patient and the lady rendering first aid. Emma connected the dots with her eyes, going from the now-sheet-covered figure on the ground, to the little boy. Melvil swore under his breath. It definitely wasn't a time to be joking about Mums, not if the little boy had just lost his.

"You shouldn't say bad words," the boy told him. "Mummy doesn't like it." The boy flinched. He'd forgotten his mummy while he'd been busy with his grown-up job of holding the policewoman's hand and singing to her. He turned to look for her.

Angela passed a drip bag to Melvil, picked the boy up, and turned him away from his dead mother. "Let me just take a look at you," she said.

"I'm supposed to be holding the police lady's hand!" the boy screamed. "I'm helping!"

"That's right," Emma said. "But I said I needed you to do that until the ambulance people got here. Now that they're here, we need to do what they tell us. You've been a big help. But now we need to listen to the ambulance lady." Emma wasn't happy with that idea, though. The ambulance people had more than enough to contend with, without helping ride herd on a little boy. In a group of horrified onlookers, she noticed a familiar face. "Hey, Tabby? Are you hurt?" she called out.

Tabby, the receptionist from the salon that specialized in weird looks for young women, managed to shake her head.

"I need you to come here," Emma said.

Tabby came, reluctantly, with jerky steps and tears streaming down her face.

"Can I put you in charge of this boy until the authorities can get hold of his relatives?" Emma asked.

Angela thought it a good plan up to a point, but she wasn't too sure about the choice of caretakers.

Emma saw the paramedic's hesitation. "Tabby's a little ragged on the outside, but I'll vouch for her being quite capable and kind," she said.

That was enough under the circumstances. Angela marched over and whispered in Tabby's ear. Tabby gave a frightened look at the sheet-covered form down the sidewalk, looked at the child, and melted. She swept the boy into a hug, lifted him gently, and headed down the street, being careful to keep his face close to her chest and his eyes shielded until they were away from carnage. Her friends swarmed along with her.

Melvil took stock of the patient's pulse and blood pressure, and decided the saline drip and meds and other attention had the patient steady enough to risk some new maneuvers. "We're nearly ready," he said to Emma. "I'll bet your arms are screaming by now, eh?"

"Almost as much as my back and knees," Emma said, agreeably.

"And you will go somewhere right off and get cleaned up, won't you?" Melvil added, quietly, so the patient wouldn't hear. "Blood's not usually as big a problem as some people like to think, but it pays to not have any more contact than you have to with other people's fluids, eh?"

Emma nodded.

"Promise?" Melvil said.

"Scout's honor," Emma said.

"That's the spirit," Melvil said.

He turned his attention to Shirley. "All right, luv. You might feel a little funny when the lady lets up, but we're going to take care of that. You're going to be fine," Melvil said, hoping it wasn't a bald-faced lie. He sent up a silent prayer, and signaled to Emma.

She moved aside and stood up stiffly. She wearily pushed hair out of her face, before realizing how bloody her hands were. She tried to wipe her hands on her already bloodstained dress, without full success. She picked up her bloodied coat, which had been pushed to one side when the paramedics set up. The policewoman's chances probably weren't good, but she'd done what she could. The paramedics had matters in hand. It was time to move on. She headed down the street like she was in charge of something and had the situation under control. As she hoped, most people were so struck by her assurance that they automatically let her pass. Some of the more observant were left shaking their head in confusion; her unconcerned air made them think they must be mistaken in what they saw. Others, dulled by the sensory overload of city life, and used to shunning most strangers for sanity's sake, simply didn't notice her enough to notice the blood on her.

A man jerked her into an alley. Emma felt the knife in her back before she had a chance to recover her balance.

"Don't worry, luv. I'm not planning on killing you. Not yet, anyhow. But I have a score to settle with that handsome, well-dressed fellow who seems so bloody fond of you," the mugger said. He blinked, transfixed with the blood on her, blood he'd just noticed, blood that couldn't be accounted for from what he'd done to her already.

Emma unleashed as best she could given how tired and injured she was.

She'd been trained to not yell for help if she thought she was being used as bait. The mugger had said he was using her to get to Richard Hugh. Her training forbade her to yell.

They were fighting only a few feet from an area in plain view of the sidewalk. But she'd been trained to fight in shadows, when shadows were available.

So the deadly fight was done in relative quiet, in relative darkness. No one saw anything until a lone figure emerged onto the sidewalk, wrapped in a blood-splotched raincoat.

Emma walked down the street, like she was in charge of something and had the situation under control, only now she pressed hard against her side, and limped slightly. She adjusted her course to go back to where Durand's car had been smashed. The accident had only been that morning (a lifetime ago, it felt like, but just that morning all the same), and the towing companies were probably still in at least partial lock-down while the towing-fraud scandal got sorted. Perhaps the car was still there.

It was something familiar.

It belonged to someone who could help.

Besides, her clothes were there. Clean clothes would be useful. One step at a time. Clean clothes first, then a place to change into them. One step at a time. She would go for clean clothes.

It was a plan. It was good to have a plan.

A smile coursed on her lips. She imagined asking local teenagers to pry open the trunk for her so she could get to her clean clothes in the suitcase. She thought they would like that assignment.

She remembered that she should call it a boot instead of a trunk. The regionally correct word bounced around in her head: boot, boot, boot. Like a tune that stubbornly repeats itself when you don't want it to, it kept coming back – boot, boot, boot – breaking in on her fractured, scattered thoughts.

The car wasn't there, of course. It had been too long. Boot, boot, boot.

It was getting harder to think. She was puzzled as to why she'd thought the car would be useful in the first place. She thought perhaps she'd been mainly using the car as a landmark. She had a swirling notion that there should be something else there. A hotel?

Now she remembered. After the crash, she'd noticed a hotel two blocks away, a cheap one that probably rented rooms by the hour more than any other way. Under the circumstances, that might not be bad. People at places like that were in the habit of not asking too many questions.

She needed to get out of sight.

She was sure of that.

She could get out of sight at the hotel.

Go to ground, some people called it.

She was in trouble. She was overseas. She should go to ground.

She could go to ground at the hotel that she'd seen earlier, just down the road. It was a plan. It was good to have a plan.

If she went to a hotel she could get washed up, like she'd promised Melvil the paramedic. Scout's honor. Boot, boot, boot.

She reset her course, happy to have a destination, glad for the river of pedestrians that pulled her in its drift. She tried to look busy and under control, but it was getting harder. Crossing the street scared her; the cars facing her were distractions, full of impatient, unfriendly eyes. She misjudged the curb; the jarring made her feel her bones, and shot fresh pain through her injuries. She winced, but forced herself back into the going-somewhere walk. She lost the rhythm of it, so she slowed down, but kept walking.

An old marching song tried to establish itself in her mind, but she wasn't sure about the words: "There once was a man in starving condition, right, right, right, left, right, right in the middle of the kitchen floor, without a scrap of anything left, left, left, right, left." Something like that. But that wasn't quite right, was it? – and, besides, it had been a joking marching song, requiring everyone to hop to a different foot now and then. That would never do under the circumstances. Her mind stumbled over itself, tangled up with various old marching songs that wouldn't come clearly into memory, but perversely wouldn't go away. Boot, boot, boot.

"Hey, lady, do you need some help?" a young man asked. He hadn't wanted to ask. But he'd felt obligated. The woman looked like she was half shocked, not to mention streaked and spattered with blood.

Emma smiled what was meant to be a smile of reassurance. The young man presented an obstacle to going to ground, but he could be dealt with, she thought. She heard herself saying, "I'll be all right. I was just helping at that shooting, down the way. I was hoping to duck into a hotel and get cleaned up before I call my husband. No sense letting him see me like this and giving him nightmares."

"Very considerate of you. I know I'd faint if I saw my wife looking like that. This hotel's not terribly respectable, though, if that's where you're steering."

"All I need is a room, a sink, and a lock on the door. Henry can get me rescued as soon as I'm scrubbed."

"You're sure you're all right?"

"Sick at heart, mostly. It was pretty dreadful. I could stand to be alone for a bit."

The young man insisted on helping her in, and on paying for the room, and on escorting her to the grimy elevator and on up. For a few confused moments, she was afraid he thought he was paying for the room for the usual hourly-rate reason. But he was just being kind.

-

After checking the room, and making sure the lock was adequate for a lady's protection, the young man excused himself and left, confident that although she might be badly shaken, what she needed, really, was time to herself to get her wits together after having been at a disaster scene.

He walked away down the street feeling like he'd had a small adventure. He'd never paid for a hotel room by the hour before, or escorted a strange woman up to a room, much less a foreign woman, much less a foreign woman decorated with blood and nearly past knowing what she was doing. It felt like a deliciously faux-wicked thing to have done in the name of a good cause. He stuck his hands in his pockets, whistled a tune, and eased into a swagger, determined to savor every last bit of the audacious nature of the little incident.

He laughed at himself. He wasn't sure whether what he'd just done was more like being a movie star, or a Special Forces soldier, or something else again, but he found he was sorely tempted to check out lessons in sword fighting. A taste of rescuing gave a man a yearning for swashbuckling, it did.

-

Back in the hotel room, Emma had gone to her knees. She'd gone to ground. Now what was she supposed to do?

Now she remembered. She should call for help.

Or was it call for help and then go to ground? Maybe she was doing things backwards? She tried to decide. Until recently, a person didn't have a phone that could be carried around, so that had settled that, back then. But these days?

"It depends on the circumstances," a long-dead trainer's voice said in her head. "Sort it out later. You've gone to ground. Call for help now."

She'd liked that trainer. He'd had sense. Some trainers didn't. A lot of them, actually.

"Call for help," the trainer with sense said, pulling her back on track.

Instinctively, she didn't want to use the hotel's phone. She hadn't had time to check it for bugs. Checking for bugs suddenly seemed important. Bad guys loved it when good guys made phone calls when they were hurt and confused. She was pretty sure someone had told her that once. She tried to think who'd told her, but realized she was off track again. She forced herself to concentrate on finding her phone.

Her phone was in her pocket. It was horribly reassuring that the phone hadn't gone missing.

It had no numbers stored in it, though. It was new, for one thing. More to the point, it was off the shelf, not the sort of phone one put classified information into. At least it wouldn't melt if she dropped it, most likely.

Or would it? There were new features all the time, in mobile phones.

_Call for help_ , a voice in her head insisted.

Having most recently called 999 for help, she started to call that, but remembered she mustn't risk winding up in a regular medical facility. For someone else, she could call 999, but not for herself. She was too full of secrets, also too likely to unwittingly kill doctors or nurses who didn't know the tricks of the caring-for-damaged-and-disoriented-spies trade.

Rattled that she'd nearly called a forbidden number, she felt she should call the dispatch center for MI5½, but couldn't remember the number. She wasted several seconds wondering about the number.

The trained part of her mind, not liking the turn things were taking, said: _Call someone else_.

Who?

Who did she know the number for in Britain? Or France? She seemed to have dealt with a number of French police officers lately. Something to do with roadblocks and ferries?

_England_ , her mind said, emphatically, apparently from somewhere in back of her. It was funny how her mind could move around like that.

Who did she know in England?

She knew Percy and Regina Terwilliger maybe? Their names seemed familiar, and Percy, particularly, seemed very British.

Oh, and they knew Zanna Wyatt. Friends of a friend, and the friend was in the business. Maybe that's why she'd thought of them? They also seemed to know Richard Hugh, and Leandre Durand. They all played bridge together, she thought, when Percy wasn't on a tiger hunt.

The Terwilligers' phone number didn't seem to be anywhere in the files, though.

_Next idea_ , her mind urged.

None came.

Nothing obviously useful anyway. Nothing coherent.

She wanted to be somewhere safe, with someone to take care of her.

_The safe house_.

She'd noted the number for that, and it was in the new arrivals box on her desk, wasn't it? That seemed right. Or at least reasonable.

She looked around the hotel room for the new arrivals box. To her surprise, she couldn't even see a desk. That was confusing. She began to puzzle over where the desk might be.

_You have the safe house number memorized_ , her mind said, this time apparently from the ceiling.

She didn't believe her mind entirely – and was annoyed that it seemed to be flying around the room – but she punched in the numbers that came to her anyway, more a matter of appeasing the pesky voice than of believing it would do any good.

"Birmingham residence, James speaking," a cheerful, competent male voice boomed into her ear.

'James' heard only raspy breathing. He signaled to his partner, and set the phone on speaker.

"Where are you?!" he barked. Badly injured or seriously ill people shouldn't be expected to think, and location was the first thing needed. He flipped a switch on the phone base, to read the GPS on the incoming phone.

"Hotel," Emma said.

"Which hotel? James said, toggling the switch, hoping a reset would help. It didn't. He assumed that meant it was a phone without a GPS, possibly a landline.

Emma couldn't think which hotel. In silence, she tried to remember.

"Where?" James said, trying a different tack.

"London, I think."

"Name of hotel!"

She still couldn't think which hotel.

James didn't let the pause lengthen. No sense giving someone a chance to panic. "Not important," he said. "What are you near? Landmarks!"

"Durand's car," she said, forgetting that it was no longer there.

"Emma, is that you?" James said.

Emma hesitated. She couldn't remember whether she was Emma Chapman or Deborah Rochester at the moment. She couldn't think if it mattered. If it mattered, she shouldn't say anything.

"Blast it, wrong approach," James muttered to himself. "Chapman, Emma," he barked into the phone, as if doing roll call at boot camp.

"Here, sir."

"Are you alone?"

"I think he left..." She remembered a man walking around the room. She thought she'd seen him leave and heard him say goodbye. But she wasn't sure. "But, I don't know."

"He's gone for now!" James said. Whoever 'he' was, he hadn't grabbed the phone away from Chapman, and that made him a side issue. They'd send enough people to handle extraneous thugs. That would take care of that.

"He said goodbye," Emma said, suddenly sure enough to say so. It was a relief to remember something so clearly.

"That's good," James said, trying to be reassuring. The woman's voice was faint, and the inflections no longer made sense. Time was running out. "Emma, why did you call?"

"I need help."

That was painfully obvious. "Why do you need help?"

"I'm hurt worse than I thought. I got beat up, and stabbed. But I can't reach..." The horror of her situation sank in. There was no way she could do the first aid on herself that probably needed to be done. She tried to go on with her explanation, but couldn't. She could think words, but her body wouldn't relay them, even when she thought the words in shouts, like a long-ago instructor had told her to try in dire situations. For that matter, breathing itself wasn't going so well. The world shrank, terrifyingly, to a desperate need to breathe.

James was talking to her, but he sounded too far away to hear.

"Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep," she mouthed. Her breathing got some air in, finally.

It seemed the wrong prayer, somehow. The idea that she'd lost even the ability to pray scared her worse than she might have imagined. It seemed dangerous to leave the job half done. She quickly finished the prayer, before she lost it altogether. "And if I die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take."

There was no air again. This confused her. That particular prayer had always been comforting, as, surely, it ought to be, if you wanted your soul to wind up in God's eternal care.

She'd never felt detached from her own soul before. Even back in California, back in the redwoods, back on the worst day of her life, back when she'd been betrayed and left for dead, she'd felt it was her body she was in danger of losing, not her soul. She'd learned to be very confident in her soul but, just now, that confidence had fled. It felt as if the wrong part of her was leaving, the wrong part staying behind.

There were footsteps and raucous laughter in the hotel hallway. Emma's failing nerves misfired. She flinched. Her phone flung loose and away.

The phone became as important as breathing. She had a notion that without it she was dead.

She'd never moved from standing on her knees. Her knees hurt fiercely. She decided to lie down and reach for the phone from the ground.

The phone was out of reach. She decided to rest a while.

She felt the life ebbing out of her. Sure that she'd die if she just laid there, she tried to stand up. It seemed the right thing to do, as far as her oxygen-deprived mind could figure.

James heard her collapse. He yelled her name twice, three times, four, but got no response.

He looked at his partner, who was trying to light a fire under the people who could attempt a phone trace. His partner was tearing at his hair.

Leaving the safe house landline connected to Emma's phone, James called Chief Wyatt on his mobile. They had the presence of mind to immediately send out what is sometimes called, with macabre humor, a B-GLiB (from 'Best Guess with what Little we've got Bulletin'): short middle-aged white woman, average weight, American, with well-cut, chin-length honey blonde hair, last seen wearing a teal shirtwaister, buttons neck to hem; possibly wearing some sort of long raincoat, tan or brown most likely; currently believed to be in the process of bleeding to death, most probably in a hotel in this, that, or the other section of London.

Rodney, sticking like glue to the crime scene while details were tied up, had no doubt that it was the woman who'd saved his partner's life and helped secure the scene. He'd seen her walk away. He took off at a run that direction, shouting questions at people. He found many ready helpers. People hadn't wanted to bother her, the way she was walking (so purpose-like, you know), but enough people had noticed her, especially shopkeepers who'd been hanging about at the front of their shops eyeing passersby for hints of someone who might be in a buying mood, or anyone with word of what the ruckus down the way had been about.

He was followed by two officers who'd stuck around to hear the whole report, including what they considered an important postscript; that there might be still be an assailant around. They didn't know if Rodney would need backup, but they were going to give it to him. They were on his heels as he dove into a tawdry hotel.

Rodney would have been happy if he'd been allowed to bash a door in. Bashing something seemed quite appropriate, under the circumstances. But the hotel clerk was only too happy to take the officers up to the room and let them in. There'd been altogether too much blood on the poor woman customer, and the clerk had been unhappily weighing the respective merits of calling for an ambulance or keeping her job. She was quite sure she'd be fired if she called for help – this being the sort of hotel that prided itself on never calling any authorities – but since help came to her, loudly demanding cooperation, well, that was quite different, wasn't it?

Emma wasn't moving. One of the backup officers knelt next to her and tried for a pulse. "No pulse," he said. He got back to his feet.

"Well, then, we'll just make one!" Rodney roared. The pent-up rage and frustration of having to deal with a mass shooting on his beat broke loose, and he set to doing first aid on Emma like a man possessed.

# CHAPTER 21 – NEW DIRECTIONS

At the salon just down the street from the site of the shootings, most of the salon's clientele had, in the days since, convinced themselves that they'd been in the very thick of things, with bullets whizzing through their carefully unkempt hair or clinking off their now-considered-lucky jewelry. Since the death toll had only been two, and both of them people not from the neighborhood, the girls felt justified in their giddy relief, and their classification of the disaster as a spicy near miss.

They were, in a morbid way, celebrities to friends and family, just by virtue of having connections to the neighborhood where the shootings happened. There was something like importance to all the attention, or at least as near to importance as the girls understood. They were also the recipients of often-exaggerated sympathy, much of it dished out in the hopes of hearing something exciting. The girls responded by embellishing their stories, and affecting what they considered to be a sophisticated devil-may-care attitude. They got much approval for this, sadly enough.

Just about the only people who didn't join in the crude joking and wild tale telling were Tabby the receptionist, and the hairdresser Pat and her younger sister Lanie. They'd all gone more thoughtful.

-

After the paramedic Angela and that nice Mrs. Rochester had put her in temporary charge of the little boy, Tabby had felt something shift inside her heart. It had been a profound trust, for one thing, and she felt like she'd been invited into a new world, unfamiliar, but richer and deeper than the life she knew.

The words Mrs. Rochester had spoken about her had seared themselves into her memory: _"Tabby's a little ragged on the outside, but I'll vouch for her being quite capable and kind."_ It had been a sincerely said recommendation, and a painfully true assessment. Tabby appreciated the American woman's trust, but her heart ached that such a recommendation had been needed before the paramedic had agreed to let her help. It hurt doubly because she knew that she had, in fact, asked for people to be afraid to trust her. How she dressed, how she acted (except toward friends and clients), had all been calculated to set herself off from others. She was tired of shocking people. It had seemed a fun game, but it felt now like it had been a foolish one.

She had taken the child to Uncle Birdie Wordies to talk to the parrots until his father could get there. She'd managed without much trouble to get the pet store's owner to kick customers out and close the store while they waited.

She'd arranged for the rendezvous to take place toward the back of the store where no one could see from the windows, and she was glad she'd done so. Once he had his son in his arms, the young man had come a bit undone.

Tabby and The Parrot Man (as the pet store owner was universally called) had helped the father call everyone he'd needed to call, and otherwise helped him every way they could see to help, which sometimes meant letting him have some time to just sit and blink in confusion, without undue fuss. They had fed the boy and let him feed and hold the rabbits, until his mother's parents, the only relatives living in London, had shown up to tearfully and tenderly carry away their grandson and son-in-law. By then the street was crawling with reporters and kooky theorists (not to mention reporters who were also kooky theorists) who wanted to corner survivors of the attack. The Parrot Man had called friends and arranged a diversion so that the area in front of his store was clear while the dead woman's family went out to their car. The young widower had held desperately to his son on the way, shutting out the rest of the world as he walked.

Tabby couldn't get out of her mind the looks of the young man when he'd shown up, and then the looks of the parents of his just-dead wife, when each of them had first laid eyes on her. Their eyes had barely hid their panic. "What has been in charge of our little boy?" they seemed to say. At first glance, she might as well have been one of the more toothy animals in the pet store, somehow got out of its cage.

The dead woman's parents had been back since, 'to properly thank her' as they put it, and had apologized for not thanking her adequately at the time for the care and consideration that she'd given their family. She'd been embarrassed when they came, in part because they'd come to the salon. She'd taken off most of her jewelry by then and toned down her hair, and gone to softer make-up. She'd taken down the most offensive of the posters. And yet she'd still wanted to crawl under a rock when the dead woman's parents showed up. They'd been very kind, and quite sincere, but they hadn't stayed any longer than decency demanded, and she didn't blame them one bit.

Tabby had come to a few conclusions since then.

She had decided she was going to find herself a man who would love her as much as that poor young man had loved his wife.

She was not going to scare him off with her looks.

She was going to insist on being married. No more of the cheap stuff. She'd seen real love for the first time in her life and had been staggered by its power and depth. The survivors of the slain woman had so obviously cared, especially the husband. It was startling to a girl who'd been taught that nothing mattered all that much – and who'd been steeped in the foolishness that all men were shallow, self-centered creatures.

She was going to have children, even if she had to adopt them. She would love them with as much heart as she could find, but she would be smart about it. It was foolish, she thought, to be a smothery sort of mother. Children had to be taught to be brave, and to be willing to move on no matter what the circumstances.

And, in the meantime, she was going to get a job with the ambulance.

-

Despite her best efforts, and despite the dedicated help of Lanie and Tabby, Pat hadn't been able to find where Mrs. Rochester was, or how she was. The Rochesters, apparently, were quite private people when there was trouble. Some people were, of course, and quite right, too.

Pat had seen Mr. Rochester one time since. He'd come down to the neighborhood, surrounded by friends, to ask after Mr. Collins, the headwaiter at The Stuffed Pelican. Then he'd gone to the hotel where his wife had gone, to thank the desk clerk for so promptly helping the police when they showed up.

Pat had wanted to have a word with Mr. Rochester while he was there, but his friends had wordlessly discouraged her from approaching him. They seemed like bodyguards, some of them. When she put that together with the fact that several people had identified Mr. Rochester as the man who'd shot the murderous cab thief, it placed doubts in Pat's head about what Mr. Rochester really did for a living. She'd wondered about asking about that, but wasn't sure it was a good idea under the circumstances.

She had lingered near the hotel, wondering whether to express her condolences to his friends to pass along. Then she'd heard the crying, a man's crying, through the hotel's cracked window, from up where she thought the room was where Mrs. Rochester had bled all over the place. She wasn't sure it was the right room, or if it was Mr. Rochester sobbing, but still, it had been too much to bear. She had walked away, broken hearted.

-

It had nearly killed Lanie when she'd heard that Mrs. Rochester was the woman who got stabbed and beaten, down the street from the shootings. Mrs. Rochester had treated her like an equal. No one else ever did that, not even Pat.

Lanie fought back the only way she knew how. She got another job.

No one had ever hired her fulltime, even when she successfully misled them about her age, because no one had thought she looked quite up to it. (It may be said that Lanie's only consequential vice was that she allowed herself, from time to time, to pretend that she was 19 already. For a simple-minded girl struggling to get by without parents, it was a useful fantasy.) Unable to get fulltime work, she'd acquired two part-time jobs. Now, to fight her emptiness, she went out and got a third job, this one at the pet shop, where she could shower the animals with love until someone took them away from her.

Going to work was very important to Lanie, not so much because of the money (which she needed, of course), and not because it gave her something to do (which was nice), but because it gave her a place she belonged.

Her parents had told her she was different and stupid and would never fit in anywhere, not without them having a hand in. It was no wonder that she craved frequent proofs that they were wrong.

Her parents pretended God didn't exist, and Lanie's vague come-and-go notions that there was some kind of God were not enough to show her the way to redemption. But The Parrot Man had a way not only with animals, but with spiritual strays – and he wasn't one to confuse or conflate different types of emptiness, or different ways of making one's life as full as it should be.

Lanie began to bloom.

# CHAPTER 22 – CASUALTIES

Leandre Durand took a playing card and flicked it neatly through the air. It hit the jar, but not cleanly enough to go in. Richard Hugh, sitting on the other side of the bureaucratic-looking hallway, took a card off the top of his deck, and also tried tossing it into the jar. His got off badly, and wobbled on its way, but ricocheted in.

"You win," said Durand.

"Whoopee," said Richard.

Durand began to say something, but gave it up. Richard had been difficult to talk to since the day of the Cabbie Massacre, as the press had enthusiastically but erroneously dubbed it, and Durand didn't much feel like having his head chewed off, much less by one of his oldest and best friends.

A nurse stepped into the hall and looked at them. In a sad and sorry way, they unintentionally made good guards for this wing of the hospital, she thought. No one would want to mess with them, not if they looked into their eyes. These were men who'd be glad if someone volunteered to be their enemy, especially if the enemy would then consent to a fistfight, she thought.

"You can see her now," she announced.

Both men involuntarily glanced down the hall, to see if the policeman Rodney was on the horizon. The plan was that the three of them would go in together, but Rodney was late.

The nurse hid a smile. These men may be in hopes of a good fight with tough men, but they were clearly nervous about this very basic hospital visit to a woman who was, she knew, looking forward to seeing them. The nurse was used to this. In her experience, tough men very often were nervous wrecks in hospitals, whether as patients or as visitors. She responded in her accustomed way. "Come along, now. Your friend will be along shortly, but the lady is looking forward to seeing you. It's all right. She's doing fine," she chattered as she escorted them to the door. "Nothing to worry about at all," she said, as she more or less pushed them into the patient's room.

Satisfied that she had the silly brutes properly delivered, she dusted her hands in a show of having completed a job well done. She clipped off down the hall to take care of other patients, pausing only long enough to neatly rearrange the decks of playing cards and the jar which the two men had abstractedly put on an end table after being summoned. She nodded politely at the guard at the end of the hall as she walked past. He nodded back. The hallway went back to emptiness and silence, its hollowness made bitter by the smells of disinfectant.

Inside the hospital room, the bed was adjusted so the patient was sitting up. There were tubes in her arms, and electrodes pasted here and there, but she gave the impression of being in charge of the apparatus, instead of the other way around. "Hello. I don't think we've been properly introduced, have we?" she said.

"No, ma'am. My real name is Richard Hugh. I'm with the secret services. This is my friend and colleague from France, Leandre Durand."

"Oh, good. He's using the same name he used at the car smash. That should make it easier to remember. I'm Shirley Norman. Pleased to meet you."

Richard looked rather uncomfortable. His eyes drifted to the floor.

Durand sprang to the rescue. " _Mademoiselle_ , it is so good to see you looking so well. You had us very worried for a few days."

"Is he all right?" Shirley asked, not to be deflected so easily.

Durand looked at his friend, to give him a chance to answer, but the best that Richard could manage was to shift his gaze to a vase of flowers.

"Perhaps we should not have come?" Durand said to him.

The hint of worry in Durand's voice annoyed Richard. He didn't want the man's pity, whatever had happened. He forced himself to face the injured woman. "I don't know what they've told you about what happened," he said.

"I thought they said that you were the man who shot the man who shot me," Shirley said, eyeing him suspiciously.

Richard nodded. "But did they tell you that probably none of this would have happened if I hadn't been there?"

"Grab a chair and sit," Shirley ordered.

Both men sat.

"Use plain English and short sentences. They've got me flying on painkillers here," Shirley said.

Richard, despite himself, glanced over his shoulder to make sure he knew exactly where the door was.

"I'm not on that much painkiller, buster," Shirley said. "Don't even think about bolting. The world's not big enough to run away in."

Durand felt much better. His friend needed to be treated like this. People had been coddling him. Coddling, now that he thought about it, was extremely bad for men like Richard Hugh. He smiled. "If I may venture an opinion?"

"No," said Richard.

"I think this woman is strong enough for the truth," Durand said.

Richard shot him a dirty look.

Durand smiled and settled more comfortably into his chair. "You cannot pull rank on me. I am French," he said. He beamed at Shirley, and waved his hand to indicate that she may have the floor if she was so inclined.

She was so inclined. "Start somewhere toward the beginning, if it's not too much trouble," she said. This time it didn't come out like an order. Now that she and Durand had forged an unofficial alliance, she thought she'd try being encouraging instead of the voice of authority.

Richard opened his mouth, but shut it when no words came out.

Shirley turned to Durand. "You tell me."

Durand shook his head. "No. With regrets, no. I am afraid I have to live with him afterward. I may tease my friend, but I will not do his dirty work and then suffer his curses for it later. He would hate me, you understand."

"Would you two stop talking about me as if I'm not here?" Richard said.

"Easy solution," Shirley said. "Jump into the conversation whenever you're ready."

"Would you prefer for me to leave?" Durand offered. "Perhaps it would be easier?" He began, tentatively, to stand up.

People had been walking on eggshells around him for days and days. Richard couldn't take it anymore. He jerked Durand back into the chair. Durand winced. Richard murmured something that might have been an apology, if it hadn't included a reference to Durand asking for it.

Shirley eyed Durand. "You're the French officer who got shot?"

"I had the fortune to catch my bullet in the protective vest. I suffered the bruises, and one cracked rib, all of which is healing nicely. The nightmares I would rather not talk about, nor the times I have jumped six inches sideways when someone has merely said hello," he said, trying to make light of it, but also trying to make her feel better, in case she was also suffering nervous aftereffects.

Shirley looked at Richard. "Nursie will be back in a few minutes to tell you to get lost and come back another time. Maybe we could get back to your guilt trip? Please?"

Durand was strongly tempted to say something smart-alecky like 'she said please,' but decided to not press his luck.

"From what we can tell, that fellow was apparently after me," Richard said. "Not to kill me. To horrify me. This is off the record, but that awful bit of business seems to have been to hoist me up and twist me in the wind, as it were."

Shirley shook her head. "Is that all? Oh, mister. Listen. I'm sure it's horrible for you and it ought to be, but you're talking to a street cop here. We used to have gang problems on my beat. If we start swapping stories on what crooks do to get even with the cops or to intimidate people, I'm going to talk you right under the table."

The nurse walked in. "Time's up," she announced. She got both men to their feet and herded them out the door. She looked back at her patient. "I hope you had a nice visit?"

"It was interesting, thank you," Shirley said.

Durand walked with Richard partway down the hall, then exclaimed, "I forgot something. I will be right back." He went back and danced around the nurse. He kissed Shirley's cheeks, and, then, not satisfied that he'd done enough, he smooched her loudly on the forehead, and blessed her in French, in the name of the Beloved Virgin Mother. He skipped gracefully back to the nurse (it pays to be graceful with a cracked rib), and chastely gave her a peck on each cheek. "You must take great care of this woman. She is a veritable gift to mankind," he told her, just loud enough for Shirley to overhear.

"Well, I never!" the nurse exclaimed. She tried to sound disapproving, but there was a sparkle in her eyes that hadn't been there before Durand's gentlemanly assault. Durand pressed his advantage by raising one of her hands and kissing it. Then he strode cheerfully down the hall to rejoin his friend.

As they fell back into step, Richard asked, "What did you forget?"

"I could not resist but to kiss the ladies. I have practiced your unspeakable British reserve to the best of my ability, but sometimes it is too much to ask of me."

"I'll try to remember that," Richard said. He chanced a glance over his shoulder to see if the nurse was watching their backs. She was, with a charmed smile.

Richard and Durand sensed the footsteps as much as heard them. The footsteps rounded the corner at the end of the hall and revealed themselves as belonging to Shirley's partner, Rodney.

"Hullo, I'm late, aren't I," he said. "Sorry. My kids wanted to make pictures for Shirley and after I said I'd wait for them to finish, the blessed little yoblings turned into Michelangelos and drew up nearly everything but the ceiling." He grinned, embarrassed but proud. He was carrying a stack of a dozen drawings. He fanned them for dramatic effect.

"But how wonderful!" Durand cried. "Those I can see from here look drawn, and not printed off the computer."

Rodney nearly burst with pride. "Oh, yeah. Me and the missus encourage them to learn to do things on their own, like that don't need electricity and software and printers and all."

"But how wonderful!" Durand said again. "I am sure that your Shirley will be delighted."

"You wanna see?" Rodney said.

"But of course," Durand said. He duly stepped up and inspected. He cooed. He overflowed with approving words. He had a grand time. He liked children's art. Such spirit. Such innocence.

They came to one drawing and stopped. It showed a tall black woman in a uniform, on the ground with blood spurting about 20 feet into the air from her leg. "Oh, dear Lord have mercy on us," Rodney said. "I never saw that. They slipped that one in on me." He looked uncertainly at the picture.

Durand gently put a hand on the other man's arm, and spoke softly. "I am just beginning to get to know your Shirley, but, at a guess, I would say to show her this picture along with the others. She is a strong woman who likes the truth. And she will want to know what she should talk about when she visits next with your wonderful children, yes?"

Rodney stared, stricken, at the picture. His mind cruelly provided the real images to replace the crayon guesswork. "I feel sick," he said. He shoved the pictures into Durand's hands and hurried to the nearest lavatory. A few minutes later he was back, his face freshly scrubbed and sheepish. "Sorry about that," he mumbled, as he retook possession of the pictures.

"Not at all," Durand said, "We, too, are suffering the agony of having a partner in hospital. I, myself, have not felt well on many occasions lately."

Rodney's face went ashen. "I was almost afraid to ask. How's she doing?"

"Still in and out of consciousness, regrettably."

"I'm sorry," Rodney said.

"No, my friend, you must not be sorry," Durand said. He took Rodney by the shoulders. "It is you who gave her a chance to live. There is not a day that has gone by that I have not gone down on my knees and thanked God that Emma may yet come fully back to us. I understand that it is out of my hands. But I can see that she is making the best of the chance you gave her. That is all we can ask for, given the evil that was done to her."

"I maybe ought not to tell you this," Rodney said, "but I went to that bastard's grave yesterday. That mugger's, you know. Him and his knives! And I spat on it. I've never done anything like that in my life. And don't you go telling anyone! My mum ever finds out, she'll skin me, she will, if she doesn't make me change my last name or somethin'. God forgive me for spitting on a grave. And it didn't even make me feel better. If anything, it made me feel worse."

"That is only to be expected," Durand said, as if to an intelligent grown son of good character who, simply because he is a fallen creature like everyone else, has had to relearn something he already knew.

"Visiting hours will be over soon," the nurse announced from down the hall.

Durand let go of Rodney's shoulders and stepped back. He took meticulous care in lowering his arms so that he wouldn't wince in front of the other men. Raising both arms to shoulder level had not been the most intelligent thing he'd done all day, considering his cracked rib.

Rodney turned to Richard. "You've been awful quiet. You okay? How'd it go with Shirley?"

Durand smiled. He waited for Richard to speak, if he wanted. When Richard waited too long, Durand jumped in with "Your colleague is a remarkable woman. My friend went to see her prepared to feel sorry for himself, and she refused to give him any ground on which to stand."

Rodney grinned proudly. "That sounds like my gal," he said. He sobered. He asked, "Any luck on your end? Are you finding anything on that cab thief who shot up Shirley and everybody, I mean?"

"We've got some new leads," Richard said, gazing more down the hall than at the other men.

"I hope they're better than what we're getting," Rodney said. "The press has played this up in such a way they've inspired every kook and his Uncle Harry and Auntie Jane to call us with hot tips straight from their desperately lonely imaginations. You don't dare not follow up on the most of them, but most of them are a waste of time. It's like being forced to wade in mud to please spectators, or something, while the horse runs away."

Durand smiled sympathetically. "Alas, we too, in France, have our share of people who have nothing better to do than to imagine they can be helpful by telling us their fantasies, or turning in their spiteful neighbor for something they wish he did."

Rodney shifted his gaze, avoiding Durand's eyes. "I hope the crook's dead before I see him. It'll save me having to decide what to do if I ever get my hands on him." He gathered his drawings into a neat stack, with the horrible picture halfway down so that Shirley would have fun stuff before, and fun stuff after. He squared his shoulders and headed down the hall before the nurse decided to put up any sort of invisible barricades.

"New leads?" Durand asked. "Such as what?"

Footsteps sounded around the corner, heading their direction. Richard thought they seemed familiar, but out of place somehow.

Durand, sensing his confusion, stepped between Richard and the end of the hall.

Richard, peeved, stepped sideways so they were equally vulnerable.

Durand, calculating that there wasn't time for more maneuvering, and not wishing to further distract his friend, pretended he was happy to stay where he was.

Chief Wyatt rounded the corner. "Oh good, there you are. We need to talk," she said.

# CHAPTER 23 – A DRIVE WITH THE CHIEF

Wyatt steered them outside to a waiting limo and reached for the door.

"Allow me," Richard said.

The chief stepped aside to let him hand her into the car. Richard smiled at her. It was a saddish smile, but it was the first sign of his regular self that she'd seen since the shootings. She fought back what she considered a ridiculous urge to cry.

They settled into the limo. Behind them, the driver of a luxury saloon (no longer red-brown, but back to gray – but darker, not pearly) prepared to follow at a discreet distance. Ahead of them, the driver of another car, this one to-all-appearances solidly middle class, signaled that he was ready to leave. The cars headed out. A half dozen people who had been hanging around here and there began to leave, perhaps coincidentally.

"I heard you danced with the Prime Minister last night," Durand said to the chief.

"I was one of about a dozen partners he had during the gala."

"He is fond of you, I think. And close enough a friend to call you by your very lovely Christian name of Zanna. You do not allow such familiarity with many of your friends, no? Even highly-placed ones?"

"You don't miss much, do you?"

"People interest me," Durand said.

"The Prime Minister and I tend to be on good terms, but don't read too much into it, thank you. Now, could we get on with business?"

Durand smiled graciously and waved his hand expansively, signaling that he granted her this wish. The thought crossed her mind that he might have made a tolerably good king, had he been born in the days of small kingdoms all over Europe. She didn't think it advisable to say so.

She tried to arrange her thoughts.

Richard noticed that her eyes were aimed at the far horizon but were moving back and forth, like she was searching for something. In his experience, that usually meant she was about to dump something on you that she hadn't liked hearing when it was dumped on her. Either that, or she was afraid that what she had to say was going to sound unreasonable, quite probably because it was. He started to brace himself (discreetly, of course), but stopped. He couldn't remember whether this vehicle's back doors had modifications he shouldn't touch. Chief's limos sometimes did.

The chief brought her eyes back from the far horizon. She noticed that Richard was fidgeting. "Sorry," she said, "I know you're not at your best in limos, but I didn't have any other time today to fit the two of you in."

Richard cringed inwardly. He'd thought that the boss didn't know about that particular phobia. So much for that hope.

Durand raised an eyebrow. Richard pointedly ignored him.

"Remember Chapman saying she caught grief for mentioning that this self-proclaimed Master chappie on the wiretaps reminded her of someone who died about three years ago?," the chief said. "Carterson took her comment to heart. When he didn't find a voice match on likely live people, he started in on the archives. Remember Alan Padgett? Or Pladgett, take your pick."

Richard nodded, without enthusiasm. Durand shook his head.

"But the Padgett I seem to remember–" Richard said, uncertainly.

"–died when the aeroplane he was in crashed into the sea. I know. Very convenient way to die, in hindsight, for a man who was expert at radio-controlling things," Wyatt said. "His body was never identified as contributing to the body parts found, but it was the sort of crash that sunk and scattered things before the recovery teams could get there. They hadn't expected to find as much as they did, frankly. We patted each other on the back that there was something for a few families to bury back on land, consigned the uncollected remains to the watery deep with proper ceremony, and gave it up." Wyatt turned to Durand. "In case you're wondering, Padgett was seen getting on the plane. He made a big deal of talking from the plane, via the radio, to people not on the plane. There's no doubt that he was on the plane, at least at first."

"But were there no transmissions from the pilot or anyone else, to say that anything was not as it should be?" Durand asked.

"Not a peep from the plane, but plenty from some people on a cruise ship. The plane was seen flying erratically, even doing a loop-de-loop of some sort before it disappeared over the horizon. The ship's captain thought it very strange, and rather irresponsible, so he reported it. But from the plane we got nothing. No Mayday transmission. No response to calls from air traffic controllers. Nothing."

"That would be somewhat disturbing, I would think," Durand said.

"You're getting better at understatement," Wyatt said. "The plane didn't have a cockpit recorder. Some flights, and some flight crews, you don't want to risk getting on the record, after all. So about all we had to go on, really, was the reputation of the pilot, who was a steady fellow, and the reputation of that model of plane, which was excellent. I remember the investigators were joking behind closed doors about flipping a coin and assigning blame randomly; heads it's the pilot's fault, tails the plane broke. Either that or refusing to release a report unless enough useful debris was brought up from the ocean floor that they'd have a reasonable amount of information to work with."

"So that I am clear. Our suspect was presumed dead along with all the other misfortunate people who took this regrettable roller coaster ride?" Durand asked.

"Of course. Why not? Passengers who board aeroplanes are generally assumed to not get out midair."

"But now he is around again?"

"With a vengeance, apparently."

There was a short silence, as the chief let the briefing sink in. She appreciated that Richard was taking the news quietly. Upon getting the news, she'd bolted the door, and let loose somewhat ignobly. To have someone come back after you'd buried them would be enough of a jolt, she suspected. To have someone come back from a very messy crash seemed worse, because there was a strong sense of closure with disasters, something inherently final about them. To have it be Padgett who wasn't really dead was that much worse, the miserable little twerp.

Durand rolled the information around in his brain, and decided he didn't have enough to work with. "About this Padgett, or Pladgett, I think you said also? Two names? Don't you know his name, then?"

"We do. He didn't," Wyatt said. "When the Americans demoted him to a low-level embassy assignment over here, he switched over to Padgett, on the theory that it sounded higher class."

"Does it? In English, I mean?" Durand asked.

"Not really," Wyatt said. "Especially after it got associated with Alan."

"You disliked the man."

"She had a lot of company," Richard said.

Wyatt turned to him. "Why don't you give your nutshell assessment of Alan Padgett? I'm collecting them at the moment."

"Give me another minute," Richard said. "I was happy to forget him when I thought he was dead." For a few moments, he quietly dredged around in his memories. "All right, here's what I've got. Alan Padgett, nee Pladgett: low-average height, average build, plain face, and plain aggravating. Always wanted praise. Always wanted credit for anything he got remotely near that turned out right. Never assumed responsibility for anything that went wrong, even when it was directly and demonstrably his fault. Went to prestigious schools, and crammed that fact down everyone's throat at nearly every opportunity, including at parties to which he'd invited himself. He was notorious for crashing parties of the well-to-do, enough so that in some circles he acquired the nickname Parvenu Padgett. So far as I know, the man never displayed compassion except when he thought it would impress someone he felt was worth impressing. Quite a snob, really, but never learned to keep his shirt tucked in. Do I have the right man so far?"

"Fits with what I have," Wyatt said.

"I remember there were jokes to the effect that it would serve his family right if they couldn't find all his illegal, offshore, hidden bank accounts now that their precious boy was dead. I'm not sure it was proven he had any such accounts, but I seem to recall that he'd inherited substantial sums of money from a grandfather or something. I also seem to remember that he and his father both seemed to spend more than the known assets could cover."

"Bull's-eye. Daddy committed suicide after gobs of crooked money turned up with his name on it. Positive identification on the corpse, if you're wondering. And, yes, it might have been murder instead of suicide. And, yes, he might have been framed. We're checking."

"I'm not sure about this next bit. Is Alan the fellow who had the staggering collection of books about kamikaze pilots?"

"Definitely."

"You sound rather certain."

"One of my first field assignments was to keep Alan Padgett off the streets and off the phone for something like three or four hours. I spent half of it knocking his hands off me and the other half being instructed on the less interesting aspects of Divine Wind."

Neither of the men knew the chief as anything other than the woman in professional dress who ordered a lot of specialized persons around. The idea of her fending off a pathetic suitor was a stunning new angle on the lady. Dancing and dining with the Prime Minister was one thing. She and the Prime Minister seemed all of one kind. To think of her alone with a grabby little excuse for a man was, quite frankly, embarrassing. The men fought with their faces.

"Anyway, nothing's certain yet," Wyatt said. "The voiceprint match was very good, but someone with an evil mind and too much misdirected talent might have doctored the archives. Not likely, but I'd believe anything at this point, at least in the way of a theory."

Durand fought off a sigh. The chief should not have given the obviously dubious Richard such hope of discarding a lead he found distasteful. When Richard was well, it would not have mattered, but he was not well, and a distasteful lead therefore might be seen as not worth one's wearied efforts, especially if the chief herself offered up doubts about it. "So, you think Alan Padgett is the man who signs his notes Mighty Planetary Master?" he asked Wyatt, in hopes of getting her to assert herself better.

"It looks that way at the moment," Wyatt said.

"Hardly seems to fit, somehow," Richard said.

"I know," Wyatt said. "Very much the copycat profile on this fellow, all the way up from a boy. Very full of himself, but not sure of himself, and so a show-off, but usually in ways he's seen work for others. Heaven knows how he'd get hold of any news of the spy-killing spree or the maniac behind it, but it would be just like him to try to outdo someone not worth emulating."

"I don't like the implications," Richard said.

"Join the club," Wyatt said. "But, then, we didn't guess Padgett would be up to successfully staging his own death, either. As the saying goes: fool me once, shame on you – fool me twice, shame on me. We need to take him seriously. He's pretty much proven he shoots people who don't call him by his chosen nickname, if you'll remember the tapes. And he emphatically declared himself on a hunt for a Richard, and you're in the running as being that Richard, especially with Padgett. He hated you, didn't he?"

"He hated everyone more successful than himself."

"Granted. But he especially hated men who were more successful attracting women. On the tape he mentioned a Nan?"

"Nothing comes to mind," Richard said. "Nothing useful, at any rate."

"Fair enough," Wyatt said. "By the way, some of the records on Padgett got discarded after he was declared dead-and-gone-and-good-riddance, but, thanks to some helpful inefficiency, we still had his blood profile, so for grins we checked it against the cab thief's, in the wild hope we might have got recent CCTV snaps of our Mighty Planetary Master suspect. No such luck. According to our scientists, your two tormentors might be cousins several times removed, but that's as close as it gets. Not that Padgett looked much like your cab thief," she said as she pulled old photos of him from her briefcase and handed them across, "but it's standard to assume that anyone who stages his own death is likely to go to the trouble of having plastic surgery, and he bragged on that wiretap that no one would recognize him now."

Richard studied the photos of Padgett, and handed them to Durand, who laughed. "Such a job we have!" he said. "One that requires us to study pictures of people who are thought to probably not look like that anymore."

"All in a day's work," Richard said.

"I did not say it was not," Durand said, slightly offended.

"I'd almost bet Padgett still dresses poorly," Wyatt said. "He was very proud of his misguided sense of style, you know. Not to mention nearly obsessed with his hair."

"I'll not bet against you on that," Richard said. "Bit of a failure even as a fop, really, if I remember right."

"Hang on to that idea," Wyatt said. "I'd almost bet that's how we finally catch him. By watching out for conceited chaps who don't know the difference between odd and distinctive, I mean." She sounded like she was only half joking. She checked the time. "I need to move on," she said. "You can have the car behind us. That driver can ride with me. Go have fun. Unwind. That's a suggestion, of course, but try to pretend it's an order, all right? No, on second thoughts, don't. I'd likely have to answer to some union somewhere, for giving you even mock orders when you're on leave. Briefs for your own good: acceptable. Orders: no. Sorry, I forgot myself for a moment there."

Richard smiled subtly at her, but said nothing. She smiled back. It was a good sign, she thought, that he could pick up when she was making fun (gentle, properly-respectful fun, of course) of the crazy system under which they operated.

She signaled her driver. He notified the cars front and back, and pulled over.

"All right, gentlemen. Before you leave, let's review the high points," Wyatt said.

Durand beat Richard to it: "Mighty Planetary Master, thought to be after Richard Hugh, is tentatively identified as one Alan Padgett, alias Pladgett, American, formerly government-employed. He radio-controls things and has staged his own death, callously hiding behind the deaths of other people. Fairly average appearance by nature, generally worsened by fussy attempts at fashion. Annoying person, but wants to be important, if not popular. Seems to be surprisingly successful as a spy killer, despite pathetic social ability. Hugh here used to know the man on sight. As far as I know, I have never met him. In addition, the cabbie killer is trying to make M. Hugh's life particularly miserable, but we do not know why that is so, or who he is, although, on a positive note, M. Hugh and myself know, all too well, what he looks like. Bottom line: M. Hugh has two savages on his tail and I am supposed to keep my eyes open without offending his sense of self-sufficiency. Bah. A miserable job, but what else can I do with myself, being stuck in England with no official assignments?"

"That about covers it," Wyatt said. "At least fact-wise. Attitude-wise, though, I'm staying out from between you two."

"Perhaps I owe you an apology," Durand said.

"I'll make allowances this time," Wyatt said.

"You are too kind," Durand said.

"For shame," Richard said. "You've both forgotten that gangster Frank Hoddel has a hit out on me, and has acquired a taste for explosive rockets launched from shoulder-held cannon."

"Three savages, then, one of whom likes to hire the work done. I stand corrected," Durand said.

"Oh, then there's the Bosworth organization," Richard said, polishing his fingernails on his shirt, and feigning self-importance.

"All right, and likely Russia hates you collectively, and certainly you have annoyed someone in the Middle East. All right, the world is crawling with people who wish you dead. Enough," Durand said. He shot a warning glance at Richard.

It was not, perhaps, on second thought, good to be reminding the chief that he had an enemy glut at present, Richard decided. He bit back what he'd planned to say about Renwich, Maddenly, and Fisk.

Wyatt, used to such bragging amongst agents, ignored them. She looked at the dark gray armored luxury saloon behind them, and shook her head. "Leaving aside that it saved her from a rocket, I bet Chapman was miserable in that thing," she said. She turned to Richard. "Your fear of being trapped in limos is nothing compared to her fear of anything our labs have been near. She's famous for it. Even before her infamous ride in the ejector seat. Did she tell you about that?"

Richard nodded, reluctantly.

Wyatt said, "How safe would I be if I bet that she hesitated before buckling her seat belt?"

Richard couldn't be sure. It sounded right. But how could he remember something from another lifetime?

Wyatt said, "Say hello to her for me, will you, when she comes round? Now scoot. I'm pressed for time today."

Durand got right out, beating Richard by half a second. "I am driving," he called to the driver of the gray saloon, cupping his hands in front of him, to encourage the man to toss him the keys.

"Oh, no you're not," Richard said. "You don't know where the booby traps are."

"Authorized personnel only, sir. Sorry," the driver said to Durand, as he tossed the keys to Richard.

"But Emma got to drive it, and she's not British," Durand said with a pout.

"Which Emma? Not Chapman, you mean?"

Durand hadn't particularly meant to specify which Emma, but there didn't seem any harm in it, so he nodded.

"This car? Not likely," the driver said.

"But I'm sure she did. Or one just like it."

The driver laughed. "I always miss the good bits when I go on holiday." He shook his head. "Good for her. A few years back, bless her little heart, we had to drive almost three hours in the snow to rescue her because she was afraid to turn on windscreen wipers and headlamps, or some such nonsense. Our staff kept telling her what to do and she kept saying she was sure that wasn't right, and refused to budge. So they called us out of bed. I'll never forget it. First off, I was prepared to hate her guts for the trouble she was causing. But she was so nice once we got there, that went out the window. Second – and here's the grabber – when the senior man on our squad got in the car to show her what to push, he got a broken arm and lost the sight in one eye. Just from pushing the same stuff he'd been yelling at her to go and push. He never lived it down. Oh man, I'd heard Chapman was back this side of the pond but I hadn't heard–"

"Move it, Jack. I'm leaving," the chief called.

The driver excused himself, and sprinted to her limo. This chief, he knew, didn't hesitate to leave willful stragglers.

Durand walked to the passenger side and looked glumly at the gray saloon. He fixed sad eyes upon his friend. "A broken arm and the sight of one eye?"

"Don't tempt fate by worrying about it," Richard said as he climbed into the driver's seat. He tried to look confident, but he had not-so-tiny pangs of doubt.

"I have an excellent idea," Durand announced, as he gingerly eased himself into the car, touching nothing he could avoid touching.

"And what would your excellent idea be?" Richard asked.

"Why don't we call your excellent laboratory staff and have them recite to you a small refresher course?"

-

The chief thought Richard and Durand were looking much better than they had been, but she didn't think they were quite ready to be left to run loose without a minder, at least under the circumstances. She ordered the driver of the third car to stick with Mr. Hugh, but not too obviously, please. They'd had more than one vigilant citizen (quite properly) call the cops when they thought they saw one car following another.

As she drove away, she wished she'd had time to get Richard off by himself. Something had changed in him during the hospital visit to the policewoman. His feet weren't quite back under him perhaps, but he was obviously trying to get them there, and he seemed to have his sights on something. It was a relief to see him beginning to function, but it was a worry, too, because he was so obviously not at full capacity. However, she couldn't waste time on it. Mighty Planetary Master and the murderous cab thief were only two of the monsters she needed to worry about at present, and, for now, Richard had men watching his back. She'd try to have him come in to her office tonight, if that worked out, or maybe tomorrow, if that worked out better.

She came out of her musing when she realized what the man with her was saying, and to whom he was talking on the phone. He rang off and winked at her.

"Thanks, Jack," she said.

"Seemed prudent."

"By the way, Emma Chapman's in hospital and not doing well, and she got hurt on Triple-O Five's watch."

"Me and my big mouth."

"You can't know everything. You've been on holiday, remember?"

"Like I said, me and my big mouth. I should've known. Somebody always winds up dead or in hospital when she comes ashore, right?"

"Don't get superstitious on me."

"Wait a minute. Chapman wasn't the lady at the cab thief killing spree? The one who got knifed afterward?"

"She was. This isn't public knowledge, but the mugger had seen the two of them together, and had a grudge against Triple-O Five."

"Oh, ouch."

"Now, if we might change the subject, what's this about Haverstaad?"

# CHAPTER 24 – THE REFRESHER COURSE

Richard was still sitting in the driver's seat wondering the best way to go about getting started, when the dashboard buzzed. He told it to proceed. Felicity from the lab spoke. "Jack just called. He thought it a good idea if we reviewed for you anything that might have got changed in that vehicle since you last drove it. I've got Wasters here, to give you a quick rundown."

"They change things?" Durand moaned from the passenger seat. He hadn't been at all happy since the talk had turned to ejector seats and broken arms and blinded vehicle specialists.

Richard asked for a visual link. He found himself face to face with a white-haired man who looked suspiciously over-innocent. Wasters was rather bad at deception. And knew it. Which made him worse at deception. No question about it, Richard decided, the whole loving gang had just decided to bail him out with a basic refresher course, but was trying to help him save face with Durand.

More eggshells. It was too much. "Thank everyone for me, will you? But unless you've really changed something, I think I'll just go for a nice quiet drive in the country, enjoying the rare sunshine. Besides, Durand and I have much to talk about. Now then, Wasters, I have one direct question for you. Has anything been changed since I last drove the car?"

The dear old man looked to Felicity for help on how to answer that. That in itself was a pretty clear answer.

Richard's face showed that he understood what was going on.

Felicity jumped up and down and squealed and gave Wasters a hug.

"I'm almost afraid to ask," Richard said.

"Sorry, sir," Felicity said. "It's just so good to have you well enough to catch us being sneaky. You've kind of been distracted lately, if you don't mind me saying so."

"I love you too, Felicity," Richard said, lightly. He started to sign off. She blocked him.

"You promise to call if you have any questions? Just because you're feeling better doesn't mean you'll be able to remember all 3,028 crucial features built into a car you haven't driven in a while." She was back to business. She expected an answer, and this being Felicity, it had better be the right answer.

"I promise."

"Have a lovely drive. I'm jealous." She signed off.

"Three thousand and twenty-eight?" Durand asked.

"She was exaggerating," Richard said.

Durand nodded. He understood. The English rather enjoyed exaggerating things.

Richard couldn't resist. "Last time I counted, it was only 2,999 special features, only 83 percent of which are potentially deadly." Using sleight of hand, he punched the all-around lock button. The sudden, unexpected sound in the doors made Durand jump. Richard grinned to himself, and headed for the boondocks to soak up scenery dotted with lambs and calves and colts and all the other promises of fresh life.

"We are feeling a little better, are we?" Durand asked. His voice seemed to drip.

Richard kept silent. Perhaps he had stepped at least slightly over the line with the sneaky jab at the door locks, now that he thought about it.

"Just don't take it out on me, my friend," Durand said. "I have enough trouble without my friends venting their high good humor at my expense."

"You're upset about the locks?"

"You might have warned me. Or at least not have done it by misdirection."

"You're right. Got a bit of the devil kicking in me today, I think."

"I would appreciate it if you would try to kick him back."

"Duly noted," Richard said, and saluted.

Durand sighed. Men who were coming out of suicidal depressions could be such brats.

# CHAPTER 25 – THE CONFESSION

Richard Hugh felt better than he had in days.

What had Shirley Norman, the policewoman, said? "Don't even think about bolting. The world's not big enough to run away in." The world, he considered, was no bigger for anybody else, even the worst men out there.

He knew that. How had he forgotten?

He couldn't change what had happened, or erase his grief, frustration, and confusion over apparently being the focal point of the cab thief's assault. What he could change was what he did from here on out. He was used to attacking problems. He felt ready again to do just that. It had to beat dragging around feeling leaden and helpless.

He flexed his muscles. They felt terrible. He'd been slouching around and sitting cock-eyed in chairs. His body felt misused. He rearranged himself in his seat, straightening to his normal posture. It was amazing how much that helped.

He checked the rearview mirror. The agency driver was off in the distance, but dutifully keeping watch. Richard considered outfoxing and outrunning the man, just for the joy of it. But common sense told him his chief was letting him have only-so-much leash for a reason, or at least what she considered a reason. He'd better not chew through the tether or his career might be over. If his career were ended, he probably couldn't help put any of this mess to rights.

He sighed.

Durand chuckled.

Richard cringed. He'd pretty much forgotten he wasn't alone in the car. He marveled at Durand's knack for not seeming to be there. He, himself, could usually work it so he could approach within a few feet of a colleague before being noticed. In fact he was known for that, inside certain circles. But fading out of notice inside a car? Forget it. Before he'd met Durand he'd assumed it was impossible.

"What's so funny?" he asked.

"Nothing," Durand said.

"It didn't sound like nothing."

"When fending off your labs you said that you and I had much to talk about. What was that about?"

"Nothing."

"It did not sound like nothing," Durand said. "You also said earlier, at hospital, that there were new leads."

"Nothing useful, I'm afraid."

"So, you are up against a wall and do not want to say so."

"I have the start of some ideas. But I need to think on them a while, especially after what the chief just told us."

Durand shrugged. "All right, have it your way. See if I care."

They went back to their respective thoughts. Despite his inability to match Durand on becoming part of the background, Richard could match him any day of the week on staying silent. Sometimes one or the other of them made a game of it, testing the other man, something like the childhood game of seeing who would blink first.

Richard considered trying for a world's record on friendly silence. It would be a nice switch from what he'd been subjected to since The Day Everything Went Wrong. It annoyed him that people seemed to be continually telling him they were sorry about Emma. Blast it. He hardly knew the woman. Why did people want to link them up? Hadn't anyone got the brains left to know a platonic, short-term, uninvited partnership when they saw one?

Durand read the boiling emotions that coursed across Richard's face. "You are thinking of Emma again, I think," he said.

"Go to hell."

"Ah, ah, ah. We have been friends a long time."

"Not that long."

"Perhaps it will help your temper if I tell you, in all honesty, that I am not in love with her. I have been afraid you have been misreading me."

"Well, everyone has been misreading me, as you put it. Join the ruddy club."

There was a long silence. It wasn't as friendly as the earlier quiet. But it wasn't what could be called hostile. The two men had been friends, through thick and thin, for many years. Any anger that sprang up between them had to fight its way through their trust and good memories, and usually couldn't get very far, or last very long.

Durand passed the time enjoying the scenery. They were finally clear of the city, and were starting to see some quite refreshing open spaces. When he judged that Richard should be ready for it, Durand spoke again. "My British friend, if I told you a secret that not even many of my superiors know, could you keep it?"

"So why should you tell me?"

"Because it is time, I think."

"I'm not so sure I want to know French secrets."

"You do not wish to be like Emma and the British Prime Minister, fretting over what the proper lines are between allies. Do not worry. It is nothing like that. It is not a French secret. It is my secret. I am married."

The dashboard buzzed. Richard told it to proceed. The agency driver said that perhaps he should drive down a side road, and pick them up just this side of the next town, if that was all right, to prove to potential onlookers that he wasn't following them. "Fine with me," Richard said. "Over."

"Eighteen years Tuesday next," Durand said, serenely. "In my line of work, I should not have married, probably. But then I met Perrine, and all common sense went flying at a high speed out of the window. And thank goodness. She is a wonderful woman. I would have hated to have lost her to someone else."

"Does she know what you do?"

"She thinks I work with the border service and occasionally get called to other locations for consultations. It is safe enough for her to think that I am a glorified border guard cum customs agent, you see. And at all costs I wish to keep her safe."

Richard had thought he'd known Durand pretty well. So much for that assumption. Then again, now that he thought about it, he and Durand had carefully skirted discussions about their private lives. But, still... Durand was definitely a rat for not telling him about this earlier. Like years ago.

But then, what if the tables were turned? What if he, himself, were married? Not that he intended to get married. It didn't make sense, not with his job. But how in the world did a man keep a marriage secret, anyhow?

Durand enjoyed the small fuss his announcement had caused, but decided it would be bad form, not to mention faulty technique, to laugh at a bachelor confronted with proof that a man in his line of work could responsibly marry after all. He bit back a grin, affected a sigh, and said, "Tuesday presents me with a problem, you see. I should have gone home as soon as I was shot. She would have made a delicious fuss over me, and all my bruises. The next best alternative would be to wait until the bruises are gone, so that she never knows that I was hurt. As it stands, I have arranged tentatively to go home on the Monday, and Perrine will be furious with me that I was hurt and did not fly home to her ministrations."

"But...?" Richard didn't quite know how to frame the next question.

"But what about all my flirting? Oh, you British! All the women with the least bit of sense can tell that I am unavailable for anything but slightly naughty words and sly glances."

"And kisses," Richard said, thinking of the nurse and Shirley Norman, and a few dozen other women over the years.

"Ach! Only pecks. And never on the lips. And the ladies know I am playing. Most of them. And the others I run away from as fast as the decorum allows to me."

Richard shook his head. There didn't seem to be anything to say, at least at the moment. He felt relieved, although he couldn't say why. He also felt delighted, although he couldn't have said why on that either. He laughed out loud and rolled down the window and happily raced zigging and zagging through the English countryside, the road breeze whipping through his hair.

# CHAPTER 26 – THE DETOUR

The dashboard buzzed. Richard told it to proceed.

"Hello. This is your tail car. I need to get petrol."

"Sorry. I hadn't realized we'd gone so far."

"Don't worry on my account. The chief hasn't let me get very far from London in way too long. This is my idea of a good deal."

"Let's both fill up at the next town."

"We don't want to seem to be together, remember. You fill up first, and drive ahead. I'll catch up to you."

"That'll work. Over."

They took turns at the next village's one filling station. They met up soon after, still maintaining what the tail car's driver deemed a proper distance.

Durand began to fidget. "Perhaps we can go back to London now?"

Richard announced the plan to the man behind. The man had a suggestion. "Have you seen the country just west of here? It wouldn't be an extra half hour if we scooted over and ran parallel to how we came out. Maybe not that much."

Richard said he was game. He turned off on a minor road when his escort told him to turn. The escort promised to take the next turn and latch back on to them soon. "A very meticulous tailer, I'd say," Richard joked, as he watched the tail car disappear from view.

"Maybe too meticulous," Durand said.

"What do you mean?"

"I am not sure. But I am beginning to think he is playing with us, just a little."

"Drivers get that way sometimes. Boring jobs, I guess."

"Drive slowly," Durand said.

"Why?"

"I wish to play the game back."

Richard didn't mind teaching another man a lesson in what happens when you assume another car will drive only at the accustomed speed. He slowed, intending to resume normal speed only if other traffic showed up. He laid odds with himself that he'd be going at a snail's pace for quite a while. It was a forsaken sort of landscape.

"Who is our escort, do you know?" Durand asked, after a miserable silence.

"I don't know. Why?"

"I don't know."

"There must be something."

"Call in and ask."

"I can't call in without a reason."

"Invent one."

"Durand?"

"Something has just occurred to me. Something about our cab thief. This man, it seems to me, drives very much like that man. There are also the physical similarities. He has also not let us see his face, yes? And I swear to you he perhaps is favoring his left arm, at least some of the time. I am not so sure of that, I have only just now thought to look. Where are binoculars?"

Richard thought his friend was suffering from bad nerves, but he didn't want to press the point. Someone who'd recently been shot, even if he was wearing a protective vest at the time, deserved to have bad nerves. He handed over binoculars and asked the dashboard to connect him with Wyatt's secretary. The visual link was established. "Hi, there, beautiful. How are you? I'm driving along on a beautiful road with the wind in my hair and I thought of you, and that adventure you had in Switzerland on holiday," he said by way of saying hello.

Darlene Dourlein suppressed a grin. This was the old Richard Hugh, finally come back to them. She waved at Carterson as he walked into the office, signaling that she'd be with him in a moment. She turned her attention back to Richard. "I'm glad you're feeling better. Was there anything I could do for you today?"

The tail car came out of trees as it reached an intersection just ahead of Richard and Durand. The driver stopped, and looked both ways for traffic. Richard got a semi-clear look at the driver's face. His gut screamed it was his bystander-murdering tormentor. His head screamed it was impossible. "Ahead of us!" he called to Durand.

The agency driver saw their recognition and roared toward them, his face that of a wild animal. Richard whipped his car around and gunned it, but the other driver had a surprisingly souped-up car and was closing in. Richard, still fighting disbelief, hunted for protective devices and weaponry options that could be operated from the control panel.

Their pursuer roared alongside. He raised a dart shooter.

"Roll up your window!" Durand shouted.

Instead, Richard tried to grab his gun, before remembering that he'd been disarmed 'until the psychiatry experts are happy with your recovery from recent traumas.'

Durand, likewise gunless at the pleasure of bureaucrats, tried to explain what was happening so the chief's secretary could take appropriate action. But he was tired and trapped and betrayed and helpless and it came out shouts, worse yet in a hodgepodge of languages, since he wasn't using his default language.

Darlene didn't understand Durand's fractured report. That her beloved Triple-O Five was so obviously in immediate peril didn't help any.

Carterson rushed over to help. He was just in time to see the videophone relay Richard's shock when a wild jab at the window controls sent his door exploding outward, clear off its hinges (one of the special labs' more spectacular modifications, that). They saw him reach up and pick at the side of his neck. They saw the drug from the unseen dart take effect. Richard fell forward slowly, his retractable shoulder belt reeling out and out until it was useless. There was a wild jostling as the car went off the road at high speed. Then blankness, as the video went quite dead.

Carterson sprang coolly into action. "Where are they?" he asked.

Darlene didn't know. He set her to work on a specific task, while he contacted the secret labs and set them to work on whatever they could do from there. It was their car, after all, and it was making strange beeps that made him think too much of a self-destruct system on countdown.

They were still searching for GPS readings (the automatic emergency locator system, guaranteed to work 95 percent of the time, was having one of its five percent days), when the chief walked into the room. Out of long habit, the wiretap man signaled to her instead of speaking. He signaled 'officer down' then made an O with his fingers and pumped it three times, followed by an open-handed five. The whole time, he kept working.

"He had backup," the chief said.

"But he's got to be hurt, too," Darlene said. "They've crashed."

"Both cars?"

"I'm confused," Darlene said. "I know about one car, two or more men in it."

Wyatt thanked God that she was blessed with a secretary who knew when to plead confusion. "Triple-O Five had Leandre Durand from France as a passenger. I assigned an agency driver to ride herd in a separate car, with Hugh's full knowledge and cooperation. Moffett, Moppet, Miffley, something like that, I think," she said.

Darlene acquired the necessary information and tried to call the back-up car. She got no answer. She wasn't sure she'd expected one. "I think they may have been saying that the back-up car was also under attack, and going as fast as it could the last time they saw it. I'm not sure. The report was rather garbled. In any event, I can't reach Miffitt right now. Next idea?"

"We'd best start laying groundwork. Get his file and Durand's and–"

"Here," a faint voice said. The voice sounded male and French and at least something like Leandre Durand.

"Durand!" Wyatt called.

"So it works? Remarkable. I asked the _voiture_... the car... the phone to please to reset..."

"It works," Wyatt said. "Durand! This is Chief Wyatt. Report!" she ordered.

His shock-slurred words were hard to understand, and interrupted by coughs and choking and wheezy intakes of breath: " _Voleur_... _taxi_... the taxi thief... used a... how do you say... dart... blowgun... it does not matter, forgive please... and ran... us... from... _route_... the road... he is... our... shadow... _conducteur_... the agency driver... _traitre_... an ambush... a trap... we are trapped... he is after Hugh I think..."

This was getting them nowhere, Wyatt decided. "Where are you?" she demanded.

Footsteps joined the broadcast, running ones, right up to the car. "Who ya talking to Frenchie?" a male voice growled. "No talking! This is my show! I'll cut you off. You'll see. I'm in control here," the man yelled. The sound of switches and buttons followed, to the horror of the listeners at MI5½, who knew all too well how dangerous it was for a non-specialist to mess with a booby-trapped agency car, much less mess with it fervently like that.

Carterson tossed up a firewall (or two or three), to hide the audio connection while keeping the incoming signal open. It wasn't easy to keep the signal coming in, given what was being shut off at the other end, but Carterson knew tricks a layman couldn't even imagine, and managed to employ them in time.

He tried to force cameras on the other end to operate, but couldn't get a signal through to any of them: videophone, undercarriage camera, a wee still-shot camera built into the top of the steering wheel – all deaf, all dead.

He established a better tie-in with Douthwaite from the secret labs: from here on out they could monitor some of what the other man was doing, via a window on their computer screen. Carterson performed more magic, bringing Douthwaite in on the broadcast, just in time to hear the sounds of something or someone being beaten at the crash site.

Carterson forced himself to concentrate on getting the GPS reading on the crashed car, by hook or by crook. He had no doubt that every second counted, and he assumed (correctly) that help couldn't be sent until the chief knew where to send it. Douthwaite got into the race to pin down the location; a race Carterson would happily lose to Douthwaite, and vice versa, if only one of them would succeed, and fast.

"Who ya been talking to?" the unknown man demanded again. "Ya hoping to get help, heh? Are ya? Hey? Fat lot of good that will do you way out here. Besides, I got it turned off now. You're alone, bub. Alone, alone, alone. Lost. Stranded." The man laughed. "Let's just get a look at your buddy, shall we? Come on, Richard, dig your dishy, dashing face out of the dash will you? Hah. Gotcha! Hey, lookie your face, Richard. Hey, wake up and lookie at your loverly face, you high-falutin' bastard. Hey, Frenchie, wanna see a treat? Look who's the ugly mug now."

Carterson got a GPS reading, wrote it down, and handed it to the chief. She nodded her thanks and ran into her inner office to get help rolling.

Douthwaite sent Carterson a message in the computer window: "Once the emergency is over, I'm buying you dinner if you'll show me how to do that. Is steak OK?"

Carterson sent a message back: "I can't be bought, even with beef. But mi technique es tu technique. Later, though. We're still in the emergency."

Douthwaite replied: "Never said we weren't. Glad to know you have hopes of remembering what you did. ;) Over."

The broadcast from the crashed car continued. "This gives me an idea, Frenchie. Hey, froggie, do you think your friend would rather be dead than ugly? Huh? Hey, froggie? I think he would rather be dead. Hey, froggie, tell me whether you think your friend would rather be ugly or dead."

Durand sat helpless, both arms broken, his torso and legs pinned in the wreckage. He tried to focus. It was hard to focus on anything other than being trapped, and a sensation of breathing through muddy water.

He understood at gut level that to give the wrong answer would guarantee a viciously-dealt death for his friend, but he couldn't begin to guess which answer to try. Did the man want him to agree? Or to disagree? He didn't seem to know. "God help us," he thought.

"I do not know," he heard himself saying.

"Well, that is interesting. I'm not sure, either, now that you mention it. Why don't we try this? Why don't we let him try ugly, and if I feel like it I'll come back and kill him another time. It will be a loverly experiment, won't it?" The tone of the voice changed. "Don't you go thinking that this game is over, Sir Richard Fancypants. I knew they'd figure out who I was sooner or later. I'm prepared for this. Now we just move along to part two of my master plan."

There were faint sounds of a man jogging away, the sound of a car door opening and closing, a car engine starting up, the engine sound getting fainter as the car drove away.

Carterson opened the mike, and asked if anyone was there. There was no response. In his specialty, no response was sometimes better than some of the alternatives. At least the criminal in this case seemed to have taken himself off somewhere, and wasn't contributing anything fresh and horrifying to the picture.

He tried again. There was no response.

"Here, luv. You take over, I've got to talk to the chief," he said, as he got up and guided the upset secretary back into her chair.

The chief stepped out of her office. "I've got help on the way, but the crash site is halfway to nowhere," she said. She said it softly, hoping that anyone still conscious at the other end wouldn't pick up on the last bit. "I've called the ambulance in the nearest village. They can get there sooner than we can. But our teams will take over as soon as they can."

"Help's coming, hang on," Darlene said. "Just hang on. Help will be there soon."

She took a deep breath and repeated the message. She intended to keep repeating it until backup arrived, regardless of what she heard or didn't hear from the other end.

"Help's coming. Hang on."

She felt herself going woozy as the situation sank in. She grabbed her desk to steady herself. She forced herself to sound calmer than she felt.

"Help's coming. Hang on."

The thought that she might be talking to corpses tried to form in her mind, but she shoved it to one side. She lifted a necklace from beneath her shirt and fingered the pendant. Ordinarily she kept the cross hidden next to her heart (atheist activists had such a nasty habit of making life miserable for chiefs who had Christian secretaries), but just now she felt a need to hang on to it – and the promises and power associated with it. Tears flowed, but she felt stronger now, and calmer. She leaned on the strength of her Lord, and felt her focus shift away from her own fear and grief, to the needs of the men in the car.

"Help will be there soon. Hang on," she said, with genuine reassurance. "I'm going to pray with you in the meantime. Dear Father in Heaven, have mercy..."

# CHAPTER 27 – OVERHEARD

"I've got news you don't want to hear," Carterson said, as soon as he and the chief were in her office, with the door closed.

Wyatt waved him to a chair. She sat at her desk, trying to not look as weary as she felt. "Ready when you are," she said.

"You know how you told me that Emma Chapman said that she gleaned her bits by rigging it for a data heist to trigger whenever anyone said anything that sounded like master? Well, ma'am, I did something similar with our archives of the last year or so. Out of the avalanche, I've dug some previously unspotlighted recordings, with someone who insists on being called Master, a couple of them complete with screaming and shooting sounds when he doesn't get what he wants."

"That's good news, in its way. It might mean we won't have to rely on the American gleanings, or admit we had access to their files."

"It might be good news, in its way – except for the fact that our Master chappie isn't the same person. And ours sounds British. Worse yet, our suspect seems to like that sort of device and signal that's portable and easily rerouted. More often than not, the man seemed to be in or near London, but if you know what you're doing, you could be in Singapore and look like you're in Moscow. We only have one sure hit, and it probably won't help us much. The suspect visited one of our informants here in London, where he borrowed the use of the informant's tapped phone. But there's no hope of a repeat visit; the informant got blown up in one of those terrorist attacks on public busses. The flat's since been gutted for remodel, too, worse luck."

"For now, let's use the working assumption our assassin is in or near London. Let's get a team on it."

"Just what I wanted to hear. Thanks."

# CHAPTER 28 – RESCUE OPERATIONS

The rescue squad from the nearest village got to the crash scene fairly quickly, all things considered. The rescuers were a bit confused about the carefully vague warnings of dangers to do with the car and suspected homicidal maniacs in the vicinity; but for the most part they ignored the warnings on the grounds that they were relayed from London, which had too high an estimation of itself and too tightly strung nerves, on the whole.

A fast-flying helicopter arrived while the locals were loading an unconscious Richard into the ambulance but were still conferring on how to get Durand out without leaving parts of him behind in the wreckage. Richard had been easy. The door on his side was gone, and he'd not been unduly tangled in any wreckage. Piece of cake, really. But this other man? Did you take your time and possibly save the leg, or give up on the leg so you could get the rest of him to hospital faster? It was a debatable decision, and they were debating it hotly.

Jack, the man who'd turned the gray car over to Richard, was the first man out of the chopper, followed by men wearing padded bomb suits. The bomb suits the locals found interesting, but more humorous than sobering.

Finding Richard out cold and therefore unable to accidentally spill secrets, Jack wished Richard and the local medics Godspeed and sent them on their way to the nearest hospital. Arrangements were already in place to transfer Richard to "a larger facility" once he'd been stabilized. This would seem normal, given the severity of his injuries.

Durand, meantime, had come out of his earlier shock and was none too happy. The locals, once they'd found he was French, had been talking around him like he didn't know English. Although he was a brave man, it was difficult to hear them discussing the pros and cons of cutting off his leg, almost as if discussing alternate game strategies of some sort of rugby match or other spectator sport. That the people moved back when Jack waved them back was a mercy.

"You will forgive me, I hope, that I begin to share our mutual friend Emma's uneasiness about your undoubtedly versatile vehicles," Durand wheezed to Jack. He managed to almost make it sound like he was joking.

Jack saw that Durand was watching the bomb-suited recovery team out of the corner of his eye. They were testing blowtorches. "Ah, yes, there are times it would be nice to be unconscious, aren't there?" he said, while he did a quick assessment of the situation and discreetly disarmed some of the more worrisome special features with a remote control device that cost in the six figures and was nearly worth a man's life if he misplaced it for even a few minutes. Jack shook his head in awe and near disbelief as he took in more of the situation. Someone, presumably the madman who'd been yelling at Durand after the crash, had flipped switches and moved toggles and otherwise messed with things, but somehow, miraculously, had passed over most of the most dangerous features, and had actually deactivated a couple of booby traps. That was a bit of luck he hadn't expected, to say the least.

The recovery team remained at a respectful distance as Jack worked, and the locals began to wonder if they'd been misinformed about something. It would be just like London, you know, not telling them something they needed to know.

When Jack finished disarming what he could, he conferred with his team. By this time, despite the remoteness of the crash site, the crowd was getting fairly large, and it was managing, as crowds so often will, to move closer than it ought. There were some belligerent fellows in it, and some young people who were daring each other to step up and see how much blood there was. Jack judged that it was a group more likely to move if he set it a good example than if he tried to push. As soon as he had the team at work, he hotfooted it to a distance twice as far from the car as the gawkers. "Hey, there. It's thought to have explosives on board. You'll need to step further away than that," he said.

Some people started to move back, but stopped when they realized that certain popular individuals were standing their ground. Under his breath, Jack laid appropriate curses on the fact that the strongest peer pressure almost always seems to put its faith in the most boneheaded people in the vicinity. "Move back!" he ordered.

"It's a free country izzenit?" one fellow asked, offended and ignoring the main point.

"Yes," Jack said, his voice fairly dripping with reasonableness. "If you want to be criminally stupid and only hurt yourself by it, I suppose you are well within your rights."

That threw some confusion into the crowd. But it also made the point. Soon enough, one bright wag came up with "Stay where you are, Jerrold. That missus of yours has been a-wanting to marry the plumber, after all." Having let loose this deadly wit, the wag moved back, and so did the rest of the crowd. No one wanted to look as stupid as Jerrold, who was famously dense. Jerrold himself moved back, not wishing to stand on solo display, especially after having been so cruelly singled out.

From a safer distance, the crowd contented itself with watching the rescue operations. Many of the women watched with hands touching their faces, lost in concern for the poor trapped foreigner. Most of the men hid whatever concern they had behind a veneer of chatter about things mechanical. They tried, for instance, to calculate how fast the car had been going when it hit the tree. None of them had the least idea how to calculate speed based on what they could see of the damage to the car or to the tree, but they made wild guesses, and to themselves and each other called them calculations. They discussed whether the blokes in padded suits were doing the best job possible of getting the passenger out. The consensus was that the city team was making horrendous blunders in strategy, if not in actual execution of their plan.

Durand was out cold before the worst of it. The government team could and did save both his legs, but they burned and scuffed him rather badly on one knee with the extraction equipment.

# CHAPTER 29 – FORENSIC REPORT

Wyatt hadn't been out of the office ten minutes when a sheep-faced man from the forensics lab stopped by and asked her secretary if the chief was in a good mood today.

"Not half hardly," Darlene said.

"So maybe you'll not tell her I'm here and we'll just stick this in the in-box, all right?" He waved a thinnish folder.

"She's not here. She's gone to hospital."

The man was shocked.

Darlene was at least halfway exasperated. "Will you stop jumping ahead of me? The last thing we need is you running back with silly tales that aren't true. She's gone to visit someone in hospital, all right? And what's this of which you're so ashamed?" she said, sticking out her hand.

The man hesitated. "We finally got round to fishing prints from that camera from that Triple-O Five safe house kerfuffle – and getting what else we could from it, of course." He inexplicably blushed deep red. "Anyway, the prints match those of a fellow who goes by the name of Graham Lockridge."

He paused, because Darlene had assumed a look of infinite patience. In his experience, secretaries with such looks were wishing you'd get along. "All right, you probably know that already," he said. "I know. I know. The police probably got that far. But we're confirming it for you. The job got stuck in a whirlpool somewhere while we took care of stuff stamped with a higher priority, all right? But, anyway, one of our men recognized the name, and knew about the fellow. Real name, or at least the one he started with, is Gordie Lugg. Guess he liked his initials, eh?" He tried to throw the last bit off as a joke. Darlene wasn't laughing. "All right. Here's the interesting part. This isn't in our department, but what you might want to check out is that our man thinks that this fellow is Guess Who's nephew."

"I'm not in the mood for riddles. Is it in the report?"

"Yes, ma'am. Sorry. Tell the chief we're sorry. No. On second thought, don't. Well, uh, I guess you should tell her to be sure and look at the pictures we got off the camera, before she goes around passing them out to anybody. I couldn't put that in the report, you understand. Pictures 17 through 21, especially. I'm, um, very sorry. A beastly business... I mean... Oh, just warn her, will you?"

He tossed the folder onto Darlene's desk and beat a hasty retreat.

Mystified, she opened the report. Graham Lockridge was tentatively identified as gangster Frank Hoddel's nephew. That was interesting, but hardly explained her recent visitor's distress. She turned to the pictures from the damaged camera. She got down to photo 17. "Oh, dear," she said. She hurriedly closed the folder and sandwiched it between two other reports halfway down in the chief's in-stack. After thinking about it, she scribbled a note about the forensic lab recommending a look at the pictures before distribution, and snuck it into the folder. She thought that she wouldn't volunteer to the chief that she'd peeked. Not if she could help it.

# CHAPTER 30 – AT HOSPITAL

"Hello, Zanna. I hear that this may not be a good time to talk to you," the Prime Minister said. Having got Chief Wyatt's attention, he slipped up beside her in the hospital waiting room.

"That depends on who's launched missiles in the last two minutes, I guess," she said, trying to rise to the occasion.

The Prime Minister smiled in appreciation. He considered gallows humor a fine and possibly endangered art, sorely misunderstood by most educated persons. "I've lined us up a private room," he said. "They have instructions to call if there's anything up or down that you should know. Come now, let's go talk." He led her, gently but firmly, to a small conference room and firmly latched the door behind them. "You first," he said.

"The good news is that both Triple-O Five and Durand are likely to live. The bad news is that they've both got the sort of injuries that will lay them up for a while, and might leave permanent damage."

"Anyone else hurt?"

"The backup man's gone missing, along with his vehicle, which is no longer transmitting. We're not at all sure yet what happened. Hugh's been unconscious since the crash, and Durand didn't tell us much before he passed out. We're not sure if he was telling us that this attack was done by the cabbie killer, or if he was having flashbacks, or what. He seemed to be mixing things up a bit. If it was our killer cab thief, we're after him anyway, of course, with everything we can spare. And of course Hugh's car will be gone over thoroughly for clues. The fellow roughed him up after the crash and also messed with the control panel. Whoever he is, he should've left us something to go on. Fingerprints, hair, saliva, something."

The Prime Minister nodded. He cleared his throat. "I need to tell you something. I just got a bit of bad news, that's also good news, I think, at least for us. The Americans have been hit by the Mighty Planetary Master serial killer. A fellow by the name of Richard Hemingway was found dead with the trademark note on him, over in New England. Notorious womanizer, natty dresser, sharp looker, loved stealing women from other men. Looks like it wasn't our Richard at all. Not that I ever thought–"

"Don't lie to me."

"All right. I had nagging doubts." He cleared his throat. "There's, um, something else I need to tell you. Even though this beast wasn't after our Richard, he's taken out several others of our personnel, and we also have an obligation, I think, to our allies, as well, to help catch him if we can."

"Of course we need to help catch him if we can. Why in the world are you tiptoeing along on fine china about it?"

"Because I detest the best idea that has come to mind so far."

"Which is?"

"In a nutshell, since he's our prime suspect, using one of Alan Padgett's former girlfriends as bait."

"The man had no girlfriends. No one could stand him enough to get that close."

"Technically, you're probably right. What I meant was that we might use a woman he thought was a girlfriend. Someone he was batty over."

"Not necessarily a good plan, if they aren't trained in law enforcement, and even then not if they aren't experienced in the field. This man's dangerous."

"All the more reason I detest myself right now," he said. He escorted Zanna to a chair. He pulled a chair over and sat facing her, his manner subdued. "I've been doing a bit of digging on this Padgett. People say the man was dotty over you. It's also in writing in three different reports from back when he was over here working at the embassy."

"Oh, I think I'm catching up to you now." She smiled, swallowed hard, and tried to look quite professional and willing.

The Prime Minister got up and walked away from her. He feigned interest in a painting on the wall. "If I weren't the Prime Minister I'd flatten anyone who even made the suggestion," he said.

"No, that's all right. I want this man caught. If I can help..." She stopped. The Prime Minister had turned to look at her. His face was difficult to read. His whole manner at the moment made her skin prickle.

He walked over and sat in front of her again. When he spoke, it was very gently, and a bit nervously. "I've been thinking about firing you," he said. "Not because of you. You've been good at your job. But because of me, selfish brute that I am. That stab I made not so long ago about perhaps not going after re-election was to see if you had any reaction to the idea. Because, I can't come up with any way on God's green Earth that I can ethically court you while you're working for me. I just don't work that way."

Zanna searched his eyes. The more she looked, the more she relaxed. A smile spread across her face. The timing was terrible, but the sentiment was nice. Very nice. Very welcome. Very welcome indeed. She laughed. "Oh, we are a pair, aren't we? I can't tell you how many times I've regretted that you're my superior."

"Only in terms of government hierarchy, I think," he said, with a wink. Her reaction was making him feel better. Much better. Much, much, much better. He searched her eyes, liking very much what he saw. "Augh, what have I been thinking?" he exclaimed. He struck himself on the forehead with the palm of his hand. "You don't have to go to America. All we need do is tell the FBI that they may use your name, if you'll authorize it, and send a photo over. They surely have an agent somewhere who could pass as you, at least at a distance. That's all they'd need really, if that. I don't know where my occasionally brilliant brain has been lately. No. That's a lie, my love. I know exactly where my mind has been. It's been lying awake of nights and dwelling on–"

There was a rapping at the door. An aide stuck his head in. "Ma'am, I hate to disturb you, but..."

"Hugh?"

"Durand. He's yelling to talk to someone intelligent in authority. At least we think that's what he's saying. He's speaking in an awful mix-up of French and English. You speak French, don't you?"

She nodded.

"As do I," the Prime Minister said, escorting Zanna out the door.

Durand didn't wait on formalities when they walked in. "Does not anyone around here understand a simple statement?" he yelled, mostly in English. "Time is of the importance, no?"

"Yes," said the Prime Minister, striding up to Durand and taking charge. "Of course it is. But I just got here. Tell me, slowly and carefully, what is so important."

"The. Man. Who. Ran. Us. Off. The. Road. Is. Your. Unspeakable. Driver. Who. Was. Assigned. To. Protect. Us. Is that clear enough for you?"

"It's certainly getting there," the Prime Minister said.

Zanna furrowed her brow. "So what you were saying at the crash site about the cab driver–"

"Enough! Stop! The murderous taxi thief and your agency driver are the same man. One! And! The! Very! Same! Do you understand me yet?"

"I believe I do," the Prime Minister said. "We'll get right on it. Thank you."

"You are welcome," Durand managed to say, before he passed out.

An aide stuck in his head. "Pardon me, ma'am, but Triple-O Five has come to and is demanding to report to someone. Something about agency drivers being cab drivers. We can't see why he'd be so upset if a man wanted to moonlight at something legal, if it didn't interfere with his work. But the doctors think it would help if he saw you. They thought maybe you could calm him down?"

As the Prime Minister and Zanna walked briskly down the hall, he leaned close and whispered in her ear. "Too bad it would be unethical to fudge a bit on the times. It would be nice to say that our fellow got his report in first."

She looked at him, trying to decide if he was serious.

"Oh, well," he said, very low. "It will give me points with the president of France to congratulate him on this. Right now, quite frankly, I could use an excuse to be nice to the man."

Zanna smiled. She stopped smiling as it occurred to her what sort of sacrifice someone with Triple-O Five's injuries must be making, just by talking. It must hurt horribly and cost a great deal of strength. For the umpteenth time since she'd started working with Richard Hugh, she marveled at the grit and dedication he kept so carefully hidden beneath his veneer of pleasant manners and behind his smokescreen of ready quips. She picked up her pace, determined to reassure him that she already knew what he had to say, and so he needn't bother with any more talking just now.

It hit her how much of a relief it was that the man had come around enough to talk. The relief tried to manifest itself in tears, but she resolutely shut them off.

At her side, the Prime Minister nearly flung off a joke about how, at this pace, people were soon going to be treated to the spectacle of the political leader of the best nation on Earth panting in public, which, to his mind, was likely not such a great thing. But his nimble mind came up with several good reasons his beloved may have decided to hurry. Realizing that persons with hurt faces would suffer more if they talked, for instance, or understanding that Richard might not know if Durand was safe. In any case, upon consideration he approved of her decision to up the pace. And really, he was in good enough trim he wasn't that worried about his tongue starting to loll, or anything else truly undignified.

His observant eye caught the prospect of tears. For the umpteenth time since he'd met her, he marveled that the emotional buffeting inherent in her job hadn't reduced her heart either to stone or to a mass of scar tissue.

She was on his right side, and he found himself reaching toward her. He pulled his hand back. As he did, it occurred to him that this was his weapon hand, so he switched sides with her as they walked down the hall. (A gentleman should unobtrusively place himself between his lady and prospects of danger, but the default was to the side that left your weapon hand free. Every British schoolboy knew that, or ought to. One did not inherit what remained of Camelot without feeling the need to preserve the worthier aspects of chivalry.)

Zanna was temporarily baffled by his maneuvering from one side to the other. And then she was pleased, as she figured it out. She knew her heritage well enough, thanks. Feminists could have their unrefined, harsh version of equality. She'd take a gentle but valiant knight any day, especially one who was so personally considerate of her.

# CHAPTER 31 – HELL HATH NO FURY LIKE...

Back at her office, Zanna Wyatt was having a degree of difficulty concentrating on British national security. But, being a professional, and in the midst of some nasty business with certifiably nasty adversaries, she did manage to work along at half speed or better, between refreshing peeks at pictures of her beloved.

Her secretary was strangely inhibited. Zanna tried to discount it as worry over Richard Hugh, manifesting itself in odd behavior. But she'd worked with Darlene Dourlein long enough to suspect it was something more personal than that somehow, although she couldn't guess what. She'd said nothing about her private chat with the Prime Minister and she was sure she'd flawlessly repaired her make-up after the farewell kiss. She'd been discreet. But then again, Mrs. Dourlein had almost supernatural ability to pick up on rumors, or, for that matter, anything that might bloom into a rumor.

She decided to take the bull by the horns, so popped out for a chat. "All right. I'm not used to you avoiding looking me in the eye. Is there something I need to know about?"

In answer, Darlene, avoiding eye contact, took a stack of folders from the in-box and set them on the desk. "You need to look at these."

"You'll not get rid of me quite that easily."

"No, ma'am. What you need to see is in that stack."

Zanna looked at the stack. "Which folder?" she asked.

Darlene reluctantly pulled the folder on Graham Lockridge and his camera and its contents, and handed it across.

Zanna started to open the folder.

"Please don't," Darlene said, blushing. "Not here. You'll want to be alone, I think. I'm sorry. I don't always look, you know, but the man was acting so funny about it." Darlene blanched, remembering too late that she'd intended to pretend she hadn't looked, plus hadn't meant to mention the forensic man's distress.

Perplexed, Zanna returned to her office, closed the door, and started reading.

That Hugh's midnight prowler was probably related to gangster Frank Hoddel put a new twist on things. Still, news like that would hardly knock someone like Darlene Dourlein so completely out of character. Puzzled, Zanna moved on to the pictures, rather bad shots, most of them, like you see in low tabloids. She recognized many of the people in the prints. They were the standard targets of paparazzi.

She got down to picture 17. And the pictures after that.

She burst into her outer office. "Find out where I can find the Prime Minister, and call my driver. I don't care if the PM's in a meeting with the President of the United States or having tea with royalty. Find the wretched excuse for a man for me and let me know the fastest way to get my hands on him."

"Yes, ma'am," Darlene said, much relieved. She'd assumed, of course, that the chief had posed for the man while he painted. Now that she thought about it, all she'd seen was the man at his easel, and... and... Well, it didn't serve much good to think what the man was painting, while the subject of the paintings was already out the door, en route to give him a good chewing out, if not a swift uppercut to the jaw.

Darlene pinned down the whereabouts of the Prime Minister. As soon as Wyatt's driver was properly informed, Darlene called the man who'd dropped off the report. "I forget," she said. "Who is lined up to become Prime Minister if the present one drops dead?"

"I'm afraid to ask what brings this subject up."

"Chief didn't pose for those."

"Are you sure?"

"I'll bet my house she had no idea about it."

"Ballistic, is she?"

"Nuclear."

"Smashing things in her office?"

"Bee-lining for the artist."

"I suppose we should alert his bodyguards, then?"

"I'd rather not. But you're likely right. I'll call."

"Promise?"

"I thought you didn't like this Prime Minister."

"Totally wrong party for me, but we don't usually stand by and allow assassinations to happen in this country, now do we? Even justifiable ones?"

"Oh, I guess you're right. Besides, I finally have this chief nearly broken in. If she gets herself sent to prison I'll have to start in on a new one."

"I'm ringing off now so you can call immediately. Bye."

Reluctantly, but feeling the duty of it, Darlene called the Prime Minister's head of security and warned him that – temporarily, and probably just this once – Zanna Wyatt of the intelligence services should probably be detained until it was determined that she was no longer operating out of blind feminine fury.

-

The Prime Minister was curious when he heard that his favorite widow was asking his whereabouts and intended to stop by as soon as possible. Despite being a romantic at heart, he understood that she'd hardly drop everything on a day like today just to run over for another kiss. Mind you, it's not that he didn't hope for another chance to kiss her before she got off again, whatever the reason for the visit.

"Slight change of plan, sir," his chief bodyguard announced. "Mrs. Wyatt's office called again. They're afraid the lady may be furious with you possibly to the point of attempting to cause injury. We're going to have her put in one of the conference rooms until we determine if she's got herself calmed down enough."

"No you won't," the Prime Minister said, rising to his feet.

"Yes, we will, sir," the bodyguard said. "If I have to hog-tie you and lock the door behind me."

The Prime Minister started to say "you wouldn't dare" but decided at the last moment that daring a bodyguard was probably a fool's game. "Any idea why she's so upset?" he asked.

"No, sir. Her secretary I think has a pretty good idea, but wouldn't say for the life of her. She seemed rather embarrassed."

The Prime Minister took a look around the room. Satisfied that there were just the two of them present and that the door was closed (never let it be said that the PM lacked discretion), he faced the bodyguard (never let it be said that the PM lacked courage), and said, "I'll need for you to keep this under your hat, but earlier today I told her I was in love with her. She definitely seemed pleased with the idea."

"Well, then, she's come on something about you between then and now, I'd guess."

"I can't think what. You said that the secretary had an idea what was up?"

"Just a guess."

"Get her on the phone."

-

The Prime Minister's chief bodyguard politely escorted Zanna through the building. If she hadn't been quite so mad, she might have wondered why the man didn't seem to notice her clenched jaw or her white-knuckled hands. Bodyguards generally do notice that sort of thing, especially those in charge of national leaders.

She didn't pay attention to where she was being shuttled. She didn't care. As long as she got to scream at the Prime Minister as soon as possible, she didn't care. To her surprise, she found herself ushered into the PM's hobby room, complete with easel. The bodyguard locked the door, and stood within grabbing range. He appeared willing to remain polite, but only if given reason.

The Prime Minister was standing in a corner, staring forlornly at a collection of oil paintings stacked against the wall on the floor, turned backwards so nothing showed. "I suppose we'll have to have a bonfire," he said. "Do you want to light the match, or shall I? Or would you prefer shredding? Shredding might be easier to arrange, and doesn't have the downsides of smoke and flames."

Zanna stared at him.

"Zanna, I don't know what you've been told about what I've painted. Your office was rather evasive, to say the least."

She held out the incriminating folder. The bodyguard took it and leafed through, looking for nasty powders or wires or anything else that could damage his Prime Minister. Satisfied it was only reports and pictures, he handed the file across. The Prime Minister took a look inside, and blushed furiously. "I guess we will have that bonfire," he said.

"Maybe not, sir," the bodyguard said.

"What do you mean?"

"Where did we get our hands on these photos?" the bodyguard asked.

Zanna steadied herself. The bodyguard had put the conversation on professional footing, and she felt duty bound to match him. "From a camera belonging to a prowler at one of our safe houses," she said.

"Is there any way to know if any of the photos were downloaded anywhere, or, conversely, if we're in control of the images?" the bodyguard asked.

"I don't think we can be sure," she said.

"Then Mr. Prime Minister, sir," the bodyguard said, "I'd like to make the suggestion that you suddenly develop a passion for oil painting, and paint more modesty into the pictures rather than destroy them. If they show up in some tabloid, you'll have the originals to show, to prove that the ruddy 'loid did a bit of nasty doctoring, if you get my drift."

"Have I told you lately that I'm glad that you decided to come down on the side of law and order? You're right, too, I think. Brilliant bit of thinking. If Zanna can stand to be in the same room with me, perhaps I could try to talk my way out of the doghouse while I'm at it? I can cancel that meeting with Crawford, I think. That should give me time to get a good first coat on all the strategic parts before going to bed."

"One more thing, sir. I didn't take a close look, you understand, but it seemed that the photos almost had to have been taken through that wall. Do you mind if I tear some paneling off before you two get too cozy in here?"

"I think I'd appreciate it. Perhaps, if Zanna still feels like ripping something to shreds, she'd like to help you?"

"I'd love to," Zanna said, "if only it wouldn't destroy evidence."

-

Zanna and the bodyguard helped a high-level crime scene team painstakingly dismantle portions of the wall found to have hidden peepholes. Meanwhile, the Prime Minister set up in a corner and mysteriously brushed oil paint onto one canvas after another. Occasionally he seemed to be gulping down some sort of disappointment, but he kept gamely on.

"Getting ready for an art show of some kind, is he?" one of the team asked Zanna.

"You could say that," the bodyguard said, in her stead. "If they turn out good enough before deadline," he added, deadpan.

"That explains why he's so frustrated, then. He must be having an off day," the forensics expert said.

Zanna nearly choked, but kept working. Every once in a while, she looked over at the artist. He seemed always to instantly feel her gaze, and would look up. But he'd veer off before he met her eyes, keenly aware that there were other people in the room with them.

By the time the crime scene people left, the bodyguard was convinced that the Prime Minister's lady was willing to be back in love with him, so he bowed his way out of the room, with assurances (or warnings, take your pick) that he would be just the other side of the door, keenly intent, should anyone be in need of his services.

The Prime Minister looked up sheepishly. "Well, my dear, you're no longer nearly topless, or artistically nude from the back, or dressed in gauze, as the case might be, but we've a ways to go yet. I'll need another go to bring some of the clothes up to the detail they'll need to be convincing." He blushed bright red. "I've no excuses, really."

She blushed bright red right back at him, but rallied. "You're entirely the wrong party to have got caught at this sort of thing, you know."

He looked at her, curious. Faint hope flickered in his eyes. "Yes. I know. The God and family party, aren't we? Or, are we? I haven't cared what your politics are, so I haven't checked."

"Solidly in your camp."

"I'm glad," he said. He turned back to painting. He hoped she wouldn't think too hard about him not checking her politics. He'd been afraid to check, afraid he'd find something that in the cold light of a lonely day looked like an incompatibility that couldn't be worked out. The fear had been paralyzing, maddening, and fascinating, but he hardly wanted to talk about it.

He swallowed hard. "In case you're wondering," he said, "I do know that some of these were an offense against God as well as you."

"Some?"

"I've read the Bible. God hardly expects a wife-wanting man not to notice an unattached woman. I doubt I'm in too much trouble on the ones I reverently painted when I was dreaming of some way opening up to properly court you. On the other hand, the ones I painted when I didn't care if we got married as long as... well... um... sorry..." He went to the paintings that had been put to one side after their first round of modestification. He turned them so they faced out. "Here, speaking of that, I think I'd best destroy these two after all," he said, pointing out the ones he meant. "Are there any others you'd like to add to the destruction heap?"

Zanna hesitated slightly. The PM followed her half-hidden focus. "Yes," he said. "That one, too. You amaze me, you know. Sometimes I think you know me better than I know myself."

"I wouldn't say that."

"At any rate, these three are best consigned to oblivion, I think, once they're dry enough to use shears on." He moved the offending pictures aside to dry facing the wall, found a box cutter and slashed them from the back to make sure he wouldn't change his mind, and went back to his easel. "I think I'd have been all right, you know, if I'd never given in to the first temptation. Once I got going, though, well... I am sorry. I do realize it was trespass, regardless of my motives. And I plead guilty."

"For what it's worth, I'm ashamed of myself for storming over ready to lob heavy objects."

"Perhaps after I leave office we should start a Backsliders Anonymous organization of some sort."

"My pastor sometimes calls our church that."

"I yield to my betters. My minister is of the 'God is mindless love' variety. Wouldn't recognize backsliding if it bit him on the rump. No use at all, really. If I'd dared go to him with my painting obsession, he'd likely have told me that as long as I was being true to my own heart it was all right. Which is tommyrot, of course."

"I'm glad you know that."

"Ditto. And... regarding you storming over here... I remember you from ten or twenty years ago. You've improved with age. You didn't used to need extreme provocation to put the claws out. That's part of what amazes me about you, you know, how in every way – looks, poise, courage, patience, trustworthiness, savvy, the works – you've improved with age. So many people don't, you know." He broke into laughter.

"Now what?"

"Never mind."

"Spill."

"I was just remembering the first time I met you. You were swearing like the proverbial sailor, and it wasn't even a heated discussion."

"I was trying to look tough."

"Didn't work."

"How well I remember."

"Here, now, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to shift the focus onto your past faults. I don't like playing that game, except in diplomatic circles, of course, and then only when the occasion calls for it."

"It used to be something of a trademark of yours, you know. Bringing up the mistakes and weaknesses of others, to make yourself look good by comparison."

"I like to think I've outgrown that. Kick me in the shin if I fall back into it, will you?"

"Discreetly, of course?"

"Privately, please. Then be as frank as you like."

They lapsed into a nearly comfortable silence, which they both considered a good feat under the circumstances. Also a good portent; it was generally a good sign, of course, to find someone who could sit quietly with you, if you were in the market for a friend or a spouse.

Zanna laughed. The PM stopped painting and looked at her.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I had no idea that I was such a sex symbol."

"You are to me."

"Your pictures are too flattering. The real me doesn't measure up."

"How much would you care to bet?" he said, and resumed painting.

Before long, they were both smiling.

"I wish you'd talked to me earlier," she said.

"Could have saved myself a lot of agony, I think," he said. "These were just to console myself while I got my nerve up to talk to you."

"I didn't know I was so unapproachable."

"You aren't, bless you. But with my job being what it is, and your job being– What's up?"

"Speaking of jobs. I just remembered. What with everything that was going on earlier, I'm not sure I told you the latest bad news on our Mighty Planetary Master case. We've turned up a different fellow who insists on being called Master and who also shoots people when they don't comply."

"A different fellow? Well, of course, Alan Padgett hardly struck any of us as... well..." The Prime Minister had meant to be agreeable, as per his habit, but realized that he'd talked ahead of his knowledge, so he closed his mouth before he made it worse.

"We have people checking on possible links," Zanna said. "Maybe it's a new cult with regional leaders, or a craze based on some comic book or video game or website we haven't heard of yet."

"Can't help you there. I'm rather frightfully out of touch with modern comic books and haven't done the gaming thing."

Comic books and gaming might be off the table, but the man had that sort of boyishness that tied in with buying toy trains 'for visiting young relatives' but only reluctantly letting anyone else actually run the things, Zanna thought, with deepening affection.

"Or," she said, dragging herself back to business, "perhaps we're sitting on a simple case of landing ourselves a copycat. Someone with a grudge against the intelligence community heard how someone else with a grudge against the intelligence community was getting his own back, something like that. That makes the most sense, unfortunately, since so far all the known victims are agents."

"Unless you count the tongue-tied shot-silenced flunkies of the wiretaps, of course."

"Point taken."

"Do I sense a hesitation to tell me some final detail?"

"Yes, sir."

"Out with it. Present evidence to the contrary" – he swept his hand to encompass the embarrassing paintings – "I'm a big boy now."

He looked at his hand. It had somehow acquired smears. "Oh, rot," he said. "I never have been able to keep clean while doing any sort of arts and crafts."

She hopped over to give him a hug and a peck on his cheek, carefully avoiding the paintbrush and smears. "I hope these paintings don't blow up in our faces, but I guess I'll forgive you regardless," she said.

"Thank you. It's more than I deserve, but I'll take it. Now, what's the bad news?"

"First part of two: the second Planetary Master fellow has turned up on tapes made in the UK."

"Ouch."

"And two: he sounds British."

"Double ouch. Have our allies been informed?"

"The honest answer is I don't know. The recordings are being studied from the technical and the psychological angles. I've given team leaders authority to go outside if they think it's advisable. I got the news while we were in the middle of trying to get help to Triple-O Five, so I'm still finding my feet on it."

"No luck yet, I take it. Or you'd give me a name?"

"Absolutely. Even if it were your best friend."

"I hate to say it..."

"But I'd best get back to work. I know. I'll try to keep you posted."

They looked at each other for a long while, glanced nervously at the door, arranged themselves so they wouldn't transfer paint, and kissed.

"I hadn't realized it before," the Prime Minister groused, "but I really don't like it when I can't use my hands during a kiss. Let me get washed up, and we'll do it right."

"Wish I had the time," Zanna said, mischievously backing away. "But do hold that thought." As she left, the incriminating folder now tucked lightly under her arm, she saw a butler in custody, sitting just outside the door.

"He thought he'd like to confess, and throw himself on our mercy," the bodyguard said.

"Wise move," Zanna said.

# CHAPTER 32 – A SPECIAL VISITOR

" _Bonjour_ ," Leandre Durand said, sitting up in his hospital bed and trying to preserve the dignity of France while wearing the ridiculous clothes that are sometimes put on invalids in hospitals. He tried to hide his pain and stiffness, and chafed that he couldn't seat the incoming woman with a grand wave of his hand.

Zanna Wyatt smiled. "I know. I know. If both your arms weren't broken you'd sweep me grandly to a chair with the wave of a hand."

"You are some sort of mind reader, I think."

"I wish." There was a tinge of sadness in her voice.

"Even though I cannot invite you properly, I invite you to sit."

"No, thank you. I won't stay long. Just long enough to give you some quick updates before I send someone else in to talk to you. First, Mr. Hugh is doing surprisingly well, physically. The knockout drug had him so relaxed it kept him relatively free of injuries, except for his face, of course, which took a bad hit both in the crash and in the beating afterward, but the reconstructive surgeons have already made good progress on that front. But, since our... our..."

Her resolve to discuss this case as dispassionately as any other didn't hold together. She ground to a halt.

Durand smiled gently. "It seems you had a clever and diabolical man in your employ as a driver. It is a misfortune you did not see so sooner. But it is natural to not suspect a person we see on a regular basis, if he does not behave too badly, no? How else could we live otherwise, or slip into sleep at night?"

Zanna forged ahead, this time doggedly in control of herself. "Since our traitorous driver seemed intent on having Hugh either dead or inconsolably ugly, we will not at present tell anyone that he's doing as well as he is, please."

"No, of course not. Besides, I understand that he is desolate."

She started to say that he wasn't perhaps quite that bad, but stopped when Durand winked at her, to show he wasn't entirely serious.

"For the next update, Emma Chapman's doing better. She's insisting on walking, or at least walking after a fashion. There's some concern about how much permanent crippling there might be, but she seems to be out of danger."

"That is good news," Durand said.

"You don't seem surprised."

He shrugged, a very small shrug, to keep the pain to a minimum. "I get much information from the nurses."

"You would." She made a mental note to have the hospital remind its staff about security and confidentiality expectations, especially around foreign agents. "But we must not keep your visitor waiting," she said.

To Durand's dismay, Zanna adjusted his hospital gown, tidied his hair, and smoothed his blankets.

"Oh, no, not the Prime Minister again?" he said, in something approaching a whimper. "I am informed by the hospital staff that I screamed at the Prime Minister."

"Oh, much more important than the Prime Minister under the circumstances," Zanna said. "At least from your perspective."

He thought he perceived twinkling in Zanna's eyes even though she was keeping her face suitable for meetings with heads of state. He felt a small wave of panic. He was not in any way prepared to meet, say, the President of France, the only person who sprang to mind (more important than the British Prime Minister) who might want to be personally briefed by his humble self.

Zanna patted his shoulder. "Relax. You'll worry her if you look nervous or upset."

Her? Perhaps Emma Chapman had been wheeled over for a visit? That would be a pleasant break from the monotony of talking to nurses and doctors, who, after all, were not there to visit you, but to prod and poke and do other sometimes-unpleasant things to your body. It would be good to see for himself how she was recovering. He hadn't seen her since shortly after she'd been mugged. He'd meant to visit her more often, but Richard Hugh had presented a problem. Richard, the poor wretch, had tried visiting her, but had crawled off like a wounded rabbit and given up. Richard had provided a pretext, of course. He'd said it would be better for Mrs. Chapman to be left alone until she was stronger. The more likely explanation, in Durand's considered opinion, was that Richard was too unsettled at the sight of her. Sadly, Richard had been unsettled much of the time since the shootings and Emma's subsequent stabbing. It was not like him to look so hunted, so haunted.

Forced to choose between visiting Emma and relentlessly keeping an eye on his old friend, Durand had quite naturally chosen to keep an eye on the old friend. In a more perfect world, he would have found time to visit Emma as well, but, of course, it was a fallen world and he was only one man, he reminded himself. And, of course, sadly, for now, visitors must come to him in his hospital room.

The nurses had said Emma was looking forward to a visit with him as soon as the doctors would let her venture out. So at last the time had come? Good. Why Mrs. Wyatt thought it would be more important to him than a visit from the Prime Minister he could only wonder at. But then the British in general were odd, particularly so when it came to what they thought of Frenchmen.

An unpleasant thought struck him. Surely Mrs. Wyatt or Emma wouldn't think he was in love with Emma? That would be awkward. He could handle the situation, of course. It wouldn't be the first time he'd had to let a woman down gently, after she'd decided she must have him. Still, he wouldn't like to do such a thing to such a sensible woman as Emma seemed to be. It was much harder when the woman was otherwise sensible.

He tried to look unconcerned, which wasn't easy, since what he wanted most was reassurance that he wasn't about to be embarrassed through no fault of his own.

Zanna's eyes gleamed with humor and satisfaction as she opened the door and invited someone in. A dark-haired woman with a glowing presence entered the room, her face and manner betraying that she wanted to believe the reassurances she'd been given, but had found it hard to do so. Her intelligent and loving eyes hungrily searched for contact with the eyes of the man in the hospital bed.

"Perrine?" Durand whispered, unable to believe his senses. He turned, stunned, to Zanna.

"We told her that you were with a highly placed British official in a car that was run off the road, and we thought it best to treat you here until you're well enough to comfortably transfer to France."

"Yes, of course. Thank you," he said.

After that, Zanna may as well have become invisible. The husband and the wife in the room no longer saw anyone but each other.

Zanna, her good deed accomplished to her satisfaction, slipped quietly out.

# CHAPTER 33 – AT THE PELICAN

Angela and Melvil hesitated before heading into The Stuffed Pelican. They'd never been asked to act as advisors before. The prospect was strangely daunting.

"I will if you will, luv," Melvil joked. He escorted her inside. They were met by an obnoxiously officious waiter who was making the most of Mr. Collins' convalescence to shape things up the way he thought they should be shaped up.

"We're here to meet Tabby," Melvil said.

The waiter led them across the room, using a walk he'd modeled on that of his favorite television character. They could barely keep from laughing at him. It didn't help that most people in the room were snickering behind their sleeves.

Tabby had been so nervous that she'd been watching every arriving party since she sat down, a full twenty minutes before she'd said she'd be there. That is, between hasty runs to the nearby bathroom she'd been watching every arriving party. She'd been confident enough when she'd set up this appointment over the phone, but now she was in an agony of uncertainty. She stood up to greet them. She wasn't sure she was supposed to stand up to greet them, but her nerves wouldn't let her sit.

Melvil looked curiously at her as he got closer. "Hey, now? Do we know this girl?" he asked.

"You look better without the baubles," Angela said.

"Yes, well, I'm still obviously in transition," Tabby said, waving a swatch of hair at her. The hair was brittle, like hair on someone who'd been sick. The efforts to make it normal colored and curly hadn't quite gone off as hoped. The subsequent straightening had only made things worse.

"You're good enough for us," Melvil said, as he stepped up to hold her chair. After she was properly situated, he seated Angela, then himself.

"Let me get this straight," he said. "You're the woman who called about learning about ambulance work after that ruddy bit of business down the street? You've talked to the official sorts, but want a bit of street-level input?"

She nodded.

"Right, then," Melvil said. "Let's order first and talk later. Angela and I are off duty but still on disaster standby. That's one of the first things to learn about ambulance work. Always order first and talk later when you go to a restaurant."

He winked at Tabby, and she relaxed.

"And the first thing you need to learn about me is that I treat by Rochester rules," she said. "Don't go ordering the most expensive stuff or I'll be pinching money for a week. But don't order the cheapest either. I've had a steady job for a long time and I have money enough to do this."

"Oh, good," Angela said. "Someone who doesn't make us guess." She'd never heard of Rochester rules, but they sounded plain enough.

The Terwilligers were being seated at the next table. Tabby signaled to the waiter. "You may not want to sit them right there," she said. "I'm inquiring about getting ambulance work over here, and what we talk about might not be nice for people at lunch."

"Nonsense!" Percy said. "Used to drive ambulance myself, during battle. I could tell you youngsters a thing or two."

"Well, sir, if you was alone I'd invite you over. But since you have your wife along and she'll not be wanting to listen to us, you'll be sitting at another table won't you," Tabby said. She said it in her best receptionist's voice. It left no room for negotiation.

Percy harrumphed loudly, but escorted his wife to another table.

Tabby started to apologize to her guests, now that she finally was calmed down enough to consider them her guests instead of her interrogators.

Melvil cut her off. "You'll do," he said. He smiled warmly at her.

# CHAPTER 34 – MADMEN, FAR AND NEAR

Alan Padgett couldn't believe his good luck.

He kept going back and back and back to the ad. He'd seen it online and printed it. He'd wanted to send for a copy of the print version of the newspaper – a hundred copies! – but there were reasons not to use mailing addresses.

Of course it was to him. Dearest Alan. That would be right. She would say that, just that way. A background of a rising sun, Japanese style. How sweet. How appropriate. The plane flying in front of the sun was the same make as the one in which he'd last been seen. The ad was "in remembrance." He could take care of that. He could prove to her that he wasn't dead. His Zanna: such an unusual name, such an uncommon woman. And she'd moved to America. She wasn't close. But Chicago was accessible.

She was heartsick that she'd not been able to give him a chance. He could read that between the lines. He remembered how her supervisors and co-workers had shut him out, had sealed her off. Now he had proof that she was sorry for what they had done. Of course it hadn't been her fault. She'd been too young. She had been too weak to fight the entire British intelligence community. Who wouldn't be, with the exception of himself? Of course, back then she'd not yet understood what they were doing to her, or that it was so wrong. They'd brainwashed her, obviously. But now she'd broken free from the people who'd poisoned her against him, and was in America, grieving for what might have been.

How surprised she would be.

It hadn't been easy, but he'd been clever enough to find out where she worked. He was sure he could get her schedule, and soon.

After all, he was now practically the most powerful man on the planet. He'd pulled off one of the most successful and clever disappearing acts in history. The only tricky part, really, had been making sure that when he parachuted he'd landed on the island he'd set up with provisions and a yacht ahead of time, not to mention all the electronics he wanted. Hijacking the autopilot to do wild stunts had been right up his alley. So was sabotaging all communications devices. Convincing the stupid pilot to detour had been easy enough, once the pilot had a gun to his head. Convincing the other passengers to let him jump out with a parachute had been a piece of cake; they had always disliked him, they were only too glad to see him proposing to live out his life on a remote island. The saps. They hadn't even considered tossing him overboard into the ocean when they had a chance; 'let the poor man have a chance, find him his island' they'd said, one and all. The weaklings.

Now, in his own way, he was changing history, one stinking former ally at a time. They should not have overlooked him.

There was so much to tell her. He had proof now that he was better than the others. Zanna was the sort of woman to understand and appreciate proof.

And she worked at the airport. He wouldn't even have to fight traffic to go see her. He could get off his plane and walk along to where she worked. That she worked at an airport was a gift. Perhaps it was further proof that their reunion was fated.

But he must not be impatient. No, he must not be impatient. To be impatient was bad luck, at least with women like Zanna.

He assessed himself in a mirror. He went out and bought more exercise equipment. He must be at his very best when he saw her. His very, very best.

Of course, it was his brilliance that mattered most. But he couldn't wait to see her expression when she saw how handsome he was these days. He had gone to much trouble. The plastic surgery. The exercise. The personalized diet that he, himself, had devised. He was in quite good shape already. Just a week or two or three should add the proper polish. And then he would fly to Chicago.

He decided he wouldn't contact her first, in any way whatsoever. He wished to see her face when she got the good news that he was alive.

He looked in a mirror and fussed with his beard. He was very proud of his beard, and pampered it. It was very long and a bit thin. He thought it made him look like some sort of oriental sage but – natural evidence to the contrary – mostly it made him look effeminate. He was rather fond of braiding it, or taking little portions of it and putting them into rubber bands for a patterned look. From a practical standpoint, it was an effective ploy. Witnesses tended to remember the beard instead of any permanent identifying feature. But he liked to think that it didn't matter that it was good disguise. He liked to think it improved his appearance.

He wondered whether Zanna might prefer a shorter, more tailored beard. He picked up his beard and wound it up until it was short, to get some idea of how it would look.

-

In London, Carterson had been working overtime. When he finally got a voice match for the British Master wannabe, it felt less like a victory and more like some kind of defeat. He asked several colleagues to run their own tests. Unfortunately, they all agreed with him. Upon getting the consensus, he manfully refrained from breaking anything, on the grounds that a fool gives vent to his anger, but a wise man controls himself. This isn't to say that it was easy, given the circumstances.

Rather than bother with making an appointment (which ran the risk of prolonging the situation), he walked straight over to see Chief Wyatt.

"You look like you're slated for a full tooth extraction," Darlene quipped.

"I think I'd rather," he said.

"It could be a few minutes. Chief's got the PM in conference."

"Anyone else in there?"

"No."

"Drop the chief the info that I've identified our 'Call Me Master Or Bang You're Dead' chappie, will you?"

"You don't look happy about it."

"It's one of ours."

"We knew that."

"No, we didn't. We were pretty sure he was British. I mean to say it's someone in our agency."

Darlene blinked in confusion and horror. She paged Wyatt. But she couldn't figure out what to say. Rather than have security guards appear from nowhere on the assumption that someone had captured the office, Carterson spoke in her stead. "Carterson here. Chief, when you have a minute, Tommy Miffitt, your Hugh-hating agency driver and murderous cab thief, has been up to more mischief."

"I'll page you in a minute. Don't leave," the chief said, and cut off the com.

"Under our noses?" Darlene groaned.

"In our facilities, surrounded by some of our best," Carterson confirmed. "In our cars. On our courier missions. Under our protection. Bets are that he's been killing our own agents, as well as those of our friends and neighbors, with our own weaponry, duly issued. He's probably been writing the insulting notes on agency paper, with agency ink – or at least using agency money to buy what he needed or wanted."

"Oh Merciful God, preserve us."

The chief paged. Carterson went into her office.

"Don't mind if I sit in, do you?" the Prime Minister said, as he stepped up to shake hands. "Carterson, is it?"

"Yes, sir. C.B. Carterson, at your service. As to your sitting in, I guess we might as well all be humiliated together. For the bottom line, I finally thought to run the voiceprint we got from the Triple-O Five crash. On who taunted him and Durand, you know?"

"Yes. Tommy Miffitt, our driver. But we know who he is," Wyatt said.

"To a point," Carterson said. "We know he's the brute who killed a cabbie and used the stolen cab to track Triple-O Five, probably using signals given off by Triple-O Five's malfunctioning phone, using tracking equipment provided by our very own enthusiastic scientists in our very own special labs, who were just absolutely delighted that Miffitt would volunteer to help them on his time off. We know he's the overgrown yob who shot up a London neighborhood, just for sport or to tweak Triple-O Five's nose, take your pick. And we know what he did to Triple-O Five and Durand after being assigned to them as backup. But we didn't know he's our British chap demanding to be called Master and shooting lackeys not paying proper homage, did we? Not to mention maybe being the real bastard who's been leaving rotten notes on undercover agent corpses. It's early days yet, but while my labmates were confirming the voice match, I cross-referenced a few of his courier missions with some of the agent hits. So far, they all match."

The Prime Minister frowned. "Courier missions? I thought this Miffitt fellow was a driver?"

"Yes, sir," Carterson said. "But lots of our drivers also do courier work. It's more efficient to have them available for multiple tasks, for one thing. Saves loads of money, so I'm told. Keeps 'em from going stir crazy, for another thing, or that's the theory, so I'm told."

"Keep on it," Wyatt said. It sounded like a dismissal.

"One more thing," Carterson said. "Now that he stops to think about it, a man down at the labs thinks Alan Padgett and this Tommy Miffitt fellow used to know each other, back when Padgett was in England. He's not sure, but he's fairly sure. Thought they were pals, off and on at least. Used to hang about at the Not So Royal Flush, trying to act like big shots. Gave everybody a good giggle, my man says. He's not sure. He remembers a couple of losers, thinks it may have been them."

"I'll have it checked. Thank you," Wyatt said.

"Good job," the Prime Minister said, as he handed Carterson out the door, in large part so he and Zanna could be alone again as soon as possible.

"I'm sorry, darling," Zanna said, when she got her courage together. "I can't resign now. Not yet. This happened on my watch. I have to clean it up before I walk away. And then–"

"And then, my love, even if this blows sky high, we'll work it out. I promise. Besides, it happened on my watch, too. If worst comes to worst, we can go into exile together, I guess."

She smiled. His humor was growing on her.

"You seem inclined to think our Miffitt is the real Mighty Planetary Whozits, and this Padgett fellow is a copycat, or something?" the Prime Minister said.

"I think they're both murderers and need to be taken out of circulation. The rest we can sort out later."

"Go get 'em, girl," the Prime Minister said. He bounced around the desk and planted a kiss on the top of her head. "And let me know if there's anything I can do to speed things up. Both for love of country, and other reasons. I hope you know the other reasons." He let his eyes linger on her face. Getting no go away signals, he planted a kiss on her forehead. Then her nose. After a nervous glance at her eyes, he kissed her on the lips before leaving her alone to confront her assigned portion of the evils of the world. He threw his soul into the kiss. It was only with agonized effort that he pulled away.

Zanna could see how hard it was for him to pull himself together before he opened the door. It tugged at her heart, to see what she did to him. She was generally good at concealing her feelings, but she locked the door behind him so no one could walk in on her before she was ready.

For the Prime Minister's part, he found himself hard pressed to look unruffled as he walked away. The farther away he walked, the harder it was to fight off the urge to run ignobly back to her.

# CHAPTER 35 – GOING TO AMERICA

Chief Wyatt told Leandre Durand's chief that Durand's presence was requested in the United States, to help Richard Hugh with the Mighty Planetary Masters case. The idea of a half-invalided Frenchman solving the Mighty Planetary Masters case whilst on American soil was too rich to pass up, and so permission was granted for him to go.

What Wyatt told Richard and Durand was that they were being shuffled to the United States while they finished healing. There would be debriefings en route, and perhaps from time to time, but for the most part they were to consider themselves on leave, and concentrate on getting well and enjoying themselves. They had, she said, both been guilty of overwork, and were to take a real holiday, albeit in a location chosen by the agency, in cooperation with the FBI and United States Marshals.

Durand's chief, upon learning of these instructions, assumed this was a grand ruse to confound the two known Mighty Planetary Masters, both of whom were now thought to have ways of getting inside information from the British and American intelligence communities. Accordingly, he gave Durand strict orders to the effect that he was on medical leave, and must not hinder his recovery by attempting to work before his medical staff gave him permission. These orders were then put on file with the British, in the hope that one Mighty Planetary Master or another might take the bait.

The location chosen was Savannah, Georgia.

Richard hadn't been there. He'd never had any urge to go there. On the other hand, he didn't much care where they wound up, as long as he could hole up for a while.

Durand had likewise never been there, but was delighted. Perrine was also going (Chief Wyatt having decided to do what she could to further the long-but-always-deepening romance of the Durands). Perrine's presence would have made a desert bloom, as far as Durand was concerned. That Savannah was said to be exotic and charming was icing on the cake.

The United States refusing to say just yet what it intended to do with Emma Chapman, the best Wyatt could do was to tell Richard and Durand that, as far as she understood, Emma Chapman would be traveling with them, at least part of the way.

Not knowing how long he and Emma would be together made things awkward, but Richard would almost rather die than admit that. He therefore shied away from asking questions related to Emma's plans, while Durand privately vowed to give him no help on that score (that qualifying as coddling, in his view).

They landed at New York, where they were shuttled to a plane to Atlanta. Even Emma. They were met at Atlanta by agents of the FBI, who wished to talk to everyone but Perrine. With Durand's consent, Perrine was sent off to see the sights with, as tour guide, a bright and charming young woman who spoke French after the manner of Quebec. It jarred Durand's ears to hear his beloved native language delivered so, but he politely didn't say so. Two hours later, Perrine was returned safe and sound, delighted with her tour of Atlanta. If she'd figured out that her tour guide was primarily a bodyguard (provided at the insistence of Chief Zanna Wyatt of the UK), she showed no signs of it.

In the meantime, Richard, Emma and Durand had been grilled rather intensively, the whole two hours. After their interviews, they felt better than they had in quite a while. Finally, someone wanted major input from them on the Mighty Planetary Masters. This was a step up from people popping in, dancing around nurses and doctors, asking one question here and another there, before popping out again so the patient could get some rest. As if being kept out of the loop was restful?! As if being overprotected was relaxing?!

On the other hand, as much as they appreciated not being treated like invalids, all three collapsed into sleep soon after being loaded onto the small plane that took them and Perrine across Georgia.

-

Their assigned driver was proud of Savannah, and made sure to drive the prettiest route possible to the hotel. He dawdled on his way, talking about history and gardens and tourist attractions and good restaurants and generally dispensing advice and information. Durand had rarely heard a thick southern accent, and could only understand about half of what the driver said. That his friend Richard Hugh had seen his dilemma and had discreetly started offering translation was both a relief and a major irritation.

-

Now that it was abundantly clear that Emma was going to be in the same town with them at least for a while, Richard squirmed. He'd steeled himself to say goodbye. He'd planned to keep the farewells as brief as possible, long goodbyes being so awkward. Postponed goodbyes, he decided, were even worse than long ones.

# CHAPTER 36 – ON LEAVE

Richard didn't go out much if he could help it. The plastic surgeons had done their best and the follow-up care had been excellent, but it didn't seem entirely his face, and it was disquieting when children stared at him. More than likely, they were keying in on his discomfort, but he was sure they were uncomfortable about his face.

He didn't entirely avoid Emma, but he managed to keep their rare conversations brief and away from anything personal. He considered that he was doing them both a favor. Surely she didn't really want to spend time with an idiot who hadn't enough wit to discover a rogue within his own agency, or a good enough memory to recognize said rogue when confronted with him on a CCTV tape or, worse, in person? Surely she was just being kind? Or hospitable? They were in her country now, and perhaps she felt some sort of hostess responsibility? At any rate, he wouldn't take advantage of her good nature. Besides, he couldn't look at her and not think about the mugger, the one he'd handed to the police in good enough shape to nearly murder her after the courts had told him to go be a good boy until trial and sent him right back onto the streets.

Richard spent much time searching his memory for anything he could recall from his encounters with, or even rumors he'd heard, concerning Tommy Miffitt or Alan Padgett. He had hopes he might come up with something useful on one or the other of them. Better late than never, he told himself, sarcastically.

Emma spent much time deep in thought, when she wasn't taking much needed naps. There were hints her agency was thinking of forcing her into early retirement.

Durand was enjoying himself immensely. His Perrine found Savannah enchanting, and he outdid himself to escort her around. Although skeptical about ghosts, he found the after-dark guided tours of supposedly haunted houses great fun. Even more fun, he found, was 'comforting' his 'frightened' wife when they got back to their room. Perrine, he guessed, was playing at being nervous about ghosts. No matter. It was a great game. It took some ingenuity to comfort her properly, what with his injuries. No matter. It was a great game and he was an ingenious man.

# CHAPTER 37 – FLUSHING THE QUARRY

Alan Padgett went to O'Hare via first class under an assumed name, Julius C. Masters. He thought it had a nice ring to it. He wore a suit that nearly fit him, which he mistakenly thought was snappy. He'd gone for a very expensive haircut but had ignored the advice of the stylist and insisted on a short, pointed beard, despite the fact that it clashed with his face. He thought it made him look distinguished and intellectual, real high class.

After landing, he spent considerable time primping in the men's room, getting every hair aligned just so and checking his collar to make sure it rode exactly where he wanted on his neck. He wanted cologne – both to add to his allure and because it could be useful to have people remember you by one scent while you changed to another – but cologne was one of those things that made airport security screeners nervous. He laughed to himself. The fools, worrying about cologne. He could teach them a thing or two about the business of destroying airplanes in flight. But he wouldn't, of course. It was his secret, to be shared with only whomever he chose. He might share it with Zanna, at the proper time, in the proper place. But it was his secret. His strength. One of his strengths. It made him giddy, thinking how powerful he was these days, compared to when he worked at the embassy.

He worked his way toward the restaurant where his prize was one of the managers. How like Zanna; he'd always known she'd manage something.

She was going by her maiden name, of course. That husband of hers had to have been a consolation prize when she hadn't got him, and then the sorry excuse of a substitute had the ill grace to die slowly of cancer. Men shouldn't do that to women like Zanna. Of course she'd gone back to her maiden name. It was much prettier anyway, and not so much like some Wild West lawman. He wished he'd thought of that earlier, years ago. She would've been easy to trace if he'd only known the proper name. And the right country. He'd assumed she was still Mrs. Wyatt, and still in Britain, and still believing lies about him.

Such a waste of time. Such a waste, period.

Once he'd teased the clues from the ad, he'd found her nearly at once, he reminded himself. Of course he had. He was clever at finding people. Among other things.

He didn't dwell on the fact that she'd been married. Since she hadn't been married to him, it had just been a mistake. The result of brainwashing, of course. Zanna loved him. All this time later she was grieving that his plane had gone into the ocean. She said so. In the ad. He fingered the copy of the ad he carried in a pocket, enjoying that he owned it, enjoying that he would possess the author of it soon.

When he came to the restaurant he paused, savoring the anticipation of how happy she'd be to see him. Then he walked in, prepared to offer himself as a beautifully unanticipated gift.

He saw her at once. She was just as beautiful as the day she came to his home. And not a day older.

He looked around the room in confusion. Ah, there she was, the right age, and she'd aged nicely.

The two Zannas glanced uncomfortably at each other, before pretending to ignore one another.

The younger one looked slightly confused and possibly angry, before setting her face in more agreeable lines, looking at him, and blinking. "Alan? Is that you?" she said. It wasn't Zanna's voice, although the young woman tried gamely to sound British.

He bolted.

O'Hare clamped down to the degree that could be justified under the circumstances, but Padgett couldn't be found.

Back at the restaurant, the two FBI agents politely resigned their cover positions, and made themselves scarce.

"I can't believe you talked to him," the older one said, through gritted teeth, as they walked out of the airport.

"The boss was yelling in my earpiece, telling me to. What was I supposed to do? I knew I didn't have the right voice. But it was a direct order. What else could I do?"

"I'm sorry. We both knew that this was the stupidest idea ever hatched. I can't believe, though, that the idiot we work for found some way to make it even more stupid."

"Tell me about it. I'm the one who has to come across as the mindless wonder who tipped the suspect off before we could lure him into the back room."

At the rendezvous site, most of the team had already assembled, and were huddled in abject embarrassment. However, two men had called in to say they were sick and going home. Another had called in to say he was taking early retirement. The people who hadn't thought up excuses or retirements looked at each other and wondered if it was too late to conveniently catch the flu, or declare a family emergency. Or volunteer to go out for Chinese food, and just happen to have a time-consuming flat tire on the way. Making a run for Canada was strangely appealing, too, although intrinsically impractical. Canada's reputation as a haven for dodgers of various sorts couldn't be expected to extend to federal law enforcement officers who went absent without leave. That's if you could convince them that you weren't a spy. Canada had been known to accommodate terrorists in the name of tolerance and diversity, but (in their considered opinion) it tended to be distressingly paranoid about American good guys.

"I thought you two were supposed to be good at this sort of thing!" the boss yelled at the Zanna doubles when they showed up.

"Well, I'm sorry. I have absolutely no experience in being part of a team of doubled-up doubles, deployed to the same place at the same time," the younger one said. She sounded just a tad sarcastic (which was considerably more civilized than she felt).

"Well, you should have asked for help from me, then," the boss said, like he was talking to a particularly dense five-year-old child. "It's very simple, really. We know the guy is nuts. We didn't know if he would be looking for his girlfriend the age she used to be, or the age she is. So we covered ourselves, didn't we?"

"No, we didn't," the older double said. "If we'd kept a younger Zanna hidden nearby, in reserve, in case he didn't buy my act, that might be covering ourselves. Having both of us hanging off the same hook wouldn't have fooled a fish, and this guy might be crazy, but he's not brainless."

"Like someone we know," someone muttered.

"I can have you fired," the boss yelled at the older double.

"No need," she said, calmly.

"Oh, so now you're going to quit, I suppose?"

"No, sir. I'm going to get myself transferred."

People throughout the room perked up. Transferred? They'd forgotten transfers.

"I can block that," the boss sneered.

People sank back into dejection. He probably could – and what other office would want someone tied to this fiasco anyway?

"Your uncle owes my daddy a big favor," the older double said, a bit over sweetly, to the boss. This was language the boss understood, because having a powerful relative calling in favors was how he got his job. This almost never happened in the FBI, of course. But this man had somehow slipped through during an administrative shake-up, and had been a poster child for the evils of nepotism ever since.

The agents who knew that the Zanna double's father had died when she was twelve fought back grins and sent signals to the others to quietly play along. Wordlessly, without moving, the agents closed ranks. As it dawned on them that the woman had set a neat trap, one by one they quietly turned on recording devices, hoping to catch their boss showing he could be bought. Even nepotism probably couldn't help a supervisor who proved he could be bought. One could hope so, anyway.

The over-promoted man was dense, but even he could sense that he was on the edge of serious trouble. "Oh, forget it," he said. "This case wasn't even our bailiwick, was it? Let's all get back to work on the stuff from our own region. Okay? Everybody get to work on the Maglioni case or something. Chop. Chop." He gathered his gear and left. It wasn't quite fleeing the scene, but it was close.

"Chop chop?" someone asked. "Does anyone still say that?"

"Are we working on a Maglioni case?" someone else asked.

"I suspect he means Magill."

"I have a bigger question. I want to get this right. Did he say 'on the Maglioni case _or something_ '?"

People around the room looked at one another. Smiles began to grow as a collective thought took shape.

"Exactly what is the process for getting transferred?" one man asked, putting voice to the collective thought. "That sounds like an awfully nice _or something_ to me."

"If that doesn't work, maybe we could draw straws to see who gets to shoot him," someone joked.

Not a single person in the room would have gone along with an actual mutinous plan of killing the boss, by bullet or otherwise, but playing with the idea met with no expressed objections, and seemed to improve morale considerably.

-

In London, the disappointment was acute. By now it was obvious that Alan Padgett and Tommy Miffitt had some sort of connection. If you could get your hands on one, it might lead you to the other. That was the theory, anyhow. Even without any of that, and strictly regarding Alan Padgett, it would've been bloody nice to have nabbed the wretched man after you got him all the way to exactly the place you'd picked out to nab him in, right when you had a team in place.

It was almost worse that the early part of the American operation had been done with such finesse. The wording and layout of the ad had been well calculated. The placing of the ad and other hints to Padgett on various internet sites, meant to lure him into tracking Zanna Esolen, had been masterful. Everything had been done so well. Everything had gone perfectly. Everything except the actual capture, or lack thereof. To a man and to a woman, the agents had been too embarrassed about the double doubles to do their job properly. And who could blame them, really?

The worldwide intelligence community now had updated pictures of Padgett, but that was about it, as far as the upsides went.

To console themselves, numerous members of the British intelligence community put up posters of the senior Senator who'd pulled strings to get his substandard nephew into a position of responsibility within the FBI – and threw darts. They especially liked throwing darts at the Senator's big, expensively clad rump. Someone found a particularly unflattering rear shot. In record time it showed up in back offices around the UK, where it was soon darted into gauze.

As a gesture of goodwill, some of the Brits sent a copy of the picture to carefully selected American colleagues, along with a package of tournament-quality darts. The package was sent by special courier, under diplomatic cover, to avoid inspections. The Americans thanked their British friends for having such a delightful sense of humor about the whole mess, and assured them that the darts would be put to appropriate use.

Using heavily-secured lines, the Americans reciprocated by transmitting pictures of the over-promoted man who'd come up with the idea of using two doubles at one time. The Brits didn't have quite as much fun poking holes in the nephew. The nephew could be got rid of in real life, if they put their minds to it. They were sure of that. The Senator, alas, was bloody well politically armor-plated, at least for now.

A few of the more furious agents put the Senator's name in a tickler file, one that would remind them every six months (or whatever) to check if he'd slipped up enough yet to be vulnerable. In the meantime, they daydreamed about what they might do to the unspeakable chap, if opportunity ever unexpectedly presented itself.

A few Christian agents obeyed the "pray for your enemies" orders from celestial headquarters, but, as usual, they were distinctly in the minority.

Rather more of the Christian agents (quite a few, actually) tried to imagine Jesus maliciously throwing darts at someone's picture, and found the prospect hopeless. This at least got them to stop wasting their time lobbing sharp things at photos.

# CHAPTER 38 – NEW WORRIES

"What do you mean they've disappeared?" Frank Hoddel screamed. He was alone with the man he liked to call his chief executive officer. They went way back together. Hoddel knew he could say whatever he wanted, however he wanted, and Larry wouldn't pass any of it along.

"I mean that not only are we having trouble finding them, I mean I'm not going to be surprised if we never find them. Either one of them."

Hoddel put his head in his hands. His four missing thugs had turned up – or at least were at known locations. The one who'd kidnapped the financial advisor had been caught trying to evade inspectors at Heathrow, which didn't used to be such a big deal, but was currently a crime of the week, so to speak, and definitely something to be avoided if you wished to have a successful criminal career. The other three were in jail in France, on a list of charges almost too long to memorize. You used to be able to get good help, he thought miserably.

The only good news out of the whole debacle was that, so far at least, it looked like all four of these idiots had the proper sort of amnesia about who it was they'd been working for and what they'd been told to do.

But the two people he wanted more than anything else right now – that lousy financial advisor and his wife – weren't anywhere to be found.

A sense of dread started to work its way into the gangster's brain. He looked at Larry, who was patiently waiting for him to resume their conversation. This kind of patience was not good news, and Hoddel knew it. This kind of patience meant that Larry was waiting for him to admit to himself that something might be going very wrong.

"I don't suppose I'd be so lucky as to have you working up to the theory that somebody else killed them?" Hoddel said.

"We can hope."

"All right. You've been leading up to something. I'm ready to listen now. Why are these people maybe never going to be found, although I think I may know what you're going to say."

Larry was used to the posturing, and wisely ignored it. "I'm not saying I know anything yet. I'm just getting a funny feeling, is all. Stuff isn't adding up. This fella comes out of nowhere, gets seventeen millions, and dissolves into nothing again? No star turns at casinos in Monaco? No running out to buy a yacht? How come somebody this clever we never heard about? A crook that works this size stings should be making waves, some way or another."

"Yeah, you're right."

"That's not saying it isn't possible. Some people are good about not doing anything showy. Some people can be very patient. And a lot of fellas who live on the edge have nice little women tucked away somewhere relatively safe and sometimes they're even married to them. But I'm starting to have a real funny feeling about this one."

"Like maybe he's with law enforcement, or something?"

"Yeah, maybe."

"But the cops don't do stuff like swindling a man out of seventeen million euros, do they?"

"Not regular cops, maybe."

"Not any sort of cops in England!" Hoddel blurted, defensively. In his own odd way, Frank Hoddel was proud of his country and half-blindly patriotic. (This is not to mention that, in his more thoughtful moments, he was grateful to be able to operate in a country where the cops had lots of limits and usually followed the rules. A man could plan ahead, in a country like that. Besides, his overseas operations just bled money out of bribery funds.)

"Who says they have to be English?" Larry said.

Hoddel blinked. "We haven't made any international terrorist lists or anything, have we?"

"Not the main organizations," Larry said, handing over a sheet of paper. "But two of our splinter groups got listed this morning by the Americans, and the financial assets have therefore been frozen, or will be before we can really do anything about it. And if we panic and try to shift assets somewhere safer, it would only make things worse, most likely, if what's happened to other organizations is any guide."

Hoddel felt the floor falling from beneath him.

"I'm not saying there's a connection," Larry said. "All I've ever heard about in cases like these were assets being frozen, not being swiped. But who knows? And, technically, this twit lost our money in insane business transactions. We can't even prove that he wound up with any of it. Maybe he's actually the world's worst money launderer."

Hoddel snorted.

"Or maybe he's incredibly slick," Larry admitted.

Hoddel grunted. He didn't like either explanation. And either way, at the end of the day he'd lost a lot of money.

Larry spread his hands, trying to sooth his boss back into relative calm. "All I'm saying is two things. One: that financial adviser seemed too good to be true and now he's starting to feel dangerous. I'm not sure anymore that we really want to find him. Two: we've got bigger and more immediate worries. We can be linked to these two splinter groups."

"You think I should maybe call off the kidnapping of the blighter's wife?" Hoddel asked.

"I'm not sure it matters. I doubt he ever had a wife. If these people are the sort of people I'm starting to be afraid they are, they're back to being somebody else already, and they could be anywhere."

"We can be linked to these groups?" Hoddel said, staring at the dreadful document in his hand and finally getting to the main point as far as Larry was concerned.

"Probably within 48 hours, if they get lucky," Larry said.

Hoddel rubbed his face with his hands, paying particular attention to the deep lines that were trying to form along his brow. He looked Larry straight in the eye. "Tell me what we gotta do," he said.

# CHAPTER 39 – SAVANNAH, STILL

Despite Savannah's charms and the much-appreciated chance to have time alone with his wife, by now even Durand was starting to come out of his skin. He was feeling well enough to work. He had good use of his fingers, and could bend his right arm at the elbow and lift it above his head. For his present purposes that was more than enough, he thought. It didn't help that Perrine was spending more and more time every day communicating with her faraway children instead of devoting herself to doting on him. Although he understood that this was only natural, it was still distressing to see her homesick, and not know what he should do about it. This was not to mention that having his children staying with relatives was nerve wracking. Sophie might be delighted to have children to influence to her way of thinking, but one did not want one's children so influenced for so very long.

Richard tended to be restless and standoffish.

Emma seemed to have developed an obsession with getting herself field-worthy, and was prone to longish walks, and treks up and down staircases.

If they'd had the same captain, there might have been danger of at least a small mutiny. As it was, the little group was fracturing.

Durand felt it his duty, as a civilized man, to try to do something about it.

He met Richard at a small park for early morning coffee and antebellum rice bread. The "rice bread" was reportedly a holdover from plantation days, a concoction of eggs and cornmeal and rice and generally some spice they hadn't yet identified (red pepper seemed most likely) and who knew what else? It reminded Richard of a sort of 'quiche' one of his grandmothers had experimented with now and then in a bid to rid the fridge of leftovers and the pantry of odds and ends. Neither man was inclined to acquire a recipe so he could have it at home, but it seemed, somehow, to go with the setting, and it wasn't bad, and so they tended to order it, to some degree for the novelty of it, novelty being one of the few things with which they could semi-successfully entertain themselves during their forced idleness.

Durand had made a game of buying it from as many different places as he could, so they could compare the versions made by different cooks. "Today's looks like an odd foodstuff my Aunt Leonie used to make every time she was pregnant," he announced.

"I think I've lost my appetite," Richard replied.

"But it smells entirely different," Durand amended.

"Leonie sounds like it might have the same root as Leandre. Are you named after her?"

"Perish the thought," Durand said, in a way that told his old friend that the subject was closed.

They sat on an out of the way bench nestled in shadows, eating and drinking, and musing on the pros and cons of pioneer life as practiced in the American South. They concluded that any system that encouraged grown men to let other people do the hard work of the world was not only doomed to a well-deserved failure, but that it would invariably harm the neighbors. From there, they moved on to speculating how long it would be until they could get back to work. They'd each been told 'soon,' which wasn't very useful, they decided, if a man was trying to reorganize his life after suffering serious injuries.

"But, come, it is Sunday and I think we should get dressed more properly if we are going to church," Durand said briskly.

"Are 'we' going to church?"

"I think I will go with Emma. I smell something in the air."

Richard had acquired a profound respect for his friend's hunches. "Like what do you smell?" he asked, casually – too casually for his body language.

"Oh, my friend. I apologize. I did not mean to frighten you. I am not so much afraid for Emma herself when she goes to church. Rather, I sense trouble for the church, perhaps, from Emma. I do not know her well, but I think perhaps she has plans for this church."

"Specifically?"

"I am mystified. So I am going. Also, it will be good to take the chance to show off my lovely Perrine to these southerners in yet another setting. Here, they appreciate her beauty as it ought to be admired, and the town itself provides such wonderful backdrops. I have been having the most wonderful time, really. Perrine and myself, we have been joking that perhaps when I retire, God willing we both live that long, we should move to Savannah. She has become something of the – what do the Americans say? – the belle of the boulevard?"

"The belle of the ball, I believe is the more usual saying."

"It is inaccurate. We do not attend large, ridiculous dances."

"The belle of the boulevard works for me."

Durand excused himself and walked away. His limp was barely noticeable. He'd taken it as a matter of pride to eliminate it.

Richard debated with himself while he finished his coffee. He'd slipped into a habit of not going to places where people weren't used to him, unless, like this part of this park, it was a location where the atmosphere discouraged people from getting too close. On the other hand, the scars had healed surprisingly well – and what sort of church would call itself a church and not welcome a visitor who was far away from home recuperating from a car smash and severe-ish beating, anyway?

He fought back an urge to laugh. Durand had made it impossible for him to not go, and Durand probably knew it, the old troublemaker. As hard as it was to face people, it would be impossible to stay behind and wonder what, if anything, was going on without him at the church. Richard went to change clothes.

-

As the collection plates were being passed, a church elder noticed an odd note on the floor. After reading it, he discreetly rushed it to the preacher, to whom it was addressed. The preacher, after reading the note, asked that the collection plate from one side of the church be brought to him.

People sat up and took notice. The last time a minister had done anything like this was when they'd done a mission collection and he'd counted the bounty in front of everyone so they'd have the satisfaction of feeling mutually generous. But there wasn't any mission drive on at the moment. Besides, that had been the previous pastor. The current pastor was more of a 'don't let your left hand know what your right hand is doing when it comes to charity' person (and quite right, too, as long as there were safeguards in place to discourage embezzlement). On top of that, he was asking for just part of the collection. And he had such an odd look on his face, too.

The preacher checked the bills in the plate. He looked sad.

"Brothers and sisters, I have a note here from someone who says that they are testing the honesty of our congregation today. They say they placed seven $100 bills in the collection plate on the north side, to see how many of the bills would come all the way through," he said.

Almost everyone shifted in his seat.

"Of course, I have no way of knowing if this is a hoax," the preacher added. "But I do not believe it to be a hoax, and there are only four $100 bills here." He laughed. "I can't believe I heard myself say that. Only four hundred dollars? Can you imagine what this church can do with such a generous offering? Our mysterious donor makes clear that the money is ours to keep, that this is not some sort of experiment after which the cruel sociologist will collect the props and go home. No, brothers and sisters, this is a test, and so far we might not have done very well. The donor says that he or she is a law enforcement official on vacation, and offers to find out for us, for free, who's stolen the church's money out from underneath our very noses – but he also admits that someone may have made an honest mistake in taking out a wrong bill in change. You know that we've gotten into a habit of that here; of bringing a ten, and taking out a five, or putting in a five, and taking out some ones, etc. I have suggested, you will remember, that we try to have our offerings ready to go, so that the offertory is not so fussy and doesn't take so long, and I hope we will learn to do that. But, that is a minor point, and beside the point just now. So, anyway, our examiner asks that we all check our wallets, and see if we've made a mistake, before they begin their crusade to root out the miscreants."

The preacher planted his feet and bore his eyes into the congregation. "The law will not be all that you need fear if you have stolen from a House of God. The Almighty Will Have What Is His. And I, as one of His representatives, am going to be stubborn about it as well, I tell you."

His face softened. "Now, an honest mistake is an honest mistake. Let us all check our wallets to see if perhaps we accidentally have a hundred dollar bill that we can't explain. For that matter, it is part of our fallen human nature to occasionally fall to temptation. But remember that God not only calls us to bury the Old Adam, He gives us what we need to do it. We may not have done so well in this first round, but we can remedy the situation, brothers and sisters – we can mend the breach we put between us and God every time we sin. With the help of the Holy Spirit, we can turn and be saved. Check your wallets, check your pockets, check anywhere you generally store paper money, and that means you, too, Miss Zoe."

The congregation chuckled.

"And where does Miss Zoe generally store her paper money, I wonder?" Richard mused, to an amused Durand.

A boy in front of them turned around, but his mouth was covered by his mother's hand before he could speak.

"Underthings," the mother whispered.

"But naturally," said Durand, presuming the lady meant that Miss Zoe used her bra as something of a purse. Some inconsiderate women did, unfortunately. He leaned over to whisper a translation in Perrine's ear. She was learning English, with a southern twist, but he hardly expected her to know such a euphemism. For that matter, few of the English-speaking people he knew ever used their language in such a delicate way. He found it charming, encountering such sensitivity of expression, such care to use the 'proper' word. Indeed, there were many ladies of decorum here in Savannah. It made him nostalgic for his youth. These days, sad to say, even much of France was suffering from an inexcusable epidemic of crassness trying to pass itself off as chic. It was unspeakable.

Perrine looked around in hopes of seeing someone ridiculously fishing money from beneath clothing, but then remembered that she was in church. She crossed herself and asked for forgiveness from the unseen ear of Someone who understood French. While she was at it she asked for forgiveness, for the fourth or fifth time, for being in a Protestant church. Leandre had assured her it was all right if they didn't take communion, and he was rarely wrong, but still, it wouldn't hurt to apologize, surely? Just in case they'd been led astray? She set her jaw firmly. In France, there was much pressure to be 'secular' instead of religious. She had suffered much at the hands of people who found her Catholicism an affront, if not a danger, to the so-called spirit of _laïcisme_. She'd learned to avoid that hatred and intolerance when she could, and she dealt with it when she had to. But the thought that she might be in for serious, perhaps justified, disapproval from her Catholic friends – indeed, the Lord Himself – generated a fear she'd never felt before. She shivered.

Leandre's hand slipped over and enveloped hers. He started to draw designs on her hand with his thumb, but stopped guiltily as he recalled that he was in a church, and perhaps should not be enticing his wife instead of paying strict attention to the preacher.

Perrine bit her lip to keep from breaking out in a broad grin. Poor Leandre. He always found it so hard to contain himself.

It was endearing that he found it so hard to contain himself. Perrine felt warmth flood her heart. She sent up a heartfelt prayer of thanks for his love.

That was much better. She was on solid ground with prayers of thanksgiving for a husband of such quality. It was ever so much better than sending up a nervous string of prayers admitting that you weren't sure about being at a non-Catholic church and hoped it was all right. Perrine happily sent up a few more prayers of thanks for various blessings, including the precious gift of the Sacrament of Reconciliation, and the Catholic church just down the street that could provide it, and settled back in to watch the proceedings.

-

First one man, and then another, "discovered" that he had indeed made a "mistake" and sheepishly took his ill-gotten gains to the front of the room. The preacher thanked them.

Some of their less charitable, 'culturally Christian' friends and relatives, on the other hand, sat with twisted faces and began dreaming up proper torments to heap upon them (that being a favorite sport of a certain strain of unbelievers who aim at goodness, preferably starting with the other guy).

Emma seemed to be making mental calculations of some sort.

"Now we are only one $100 bill short..." the preacher said, beseeching a sinner to come clean.

An old man stood up and stepped into the aisle. He looked at some money in his hand, and then forgot what he was doing. He looked at the preacher. "Were you asking about money?"

"It's all right Tim. We lost a few $100 bills for a spell. But I'm sure you don't have any."

"But I've got one. I don't remember having it. Maybe it's yours." The old man tottered toward the pulpit. He stubbornly refused offers of help. He may be old, and he may be forgetful, and he might have large bills popping into his wallet without his knowing it, but he had his pride. People were embarrassed.

Emma whispered to Durand. He stood and addressed the preacher. "Excuse me, please. I am not your mysterious donor. Alas, I cannot afford to be so generous. But I have spent many years in law enforcement in my own country, and I have among your own police agencies many friends. What I mean to say, is that I cannot believe that a law enforcement officer would conduct such an experiment without providing you with the serial numbers of the bills in question?"

"Yes. Thank you. I do have a list of serial numbers, along with instructions not to say so until everyone has had a chance to come clean. Well, they've had their chance, haven't they?" He hopped down and met the old man. He checked the bill against the serial numbers provided on his mysterious note. "No, this isn't one of the missing bills. Thank you anyway, Tim," he said, as he gently steered the fragile old man back to his seat and handed him over to friends. He went back and checked each hundred in turn. "All of these match serial numbers on the list. So now we know about that part of it. For whatever it's worth, I'll read to you the serial number of the seventh bill we're supposed to have in the collection plate."

There was a mighty rustling, as people grabbed for something to jot down the number. After waiting for the rustling to die down, the preacher said, "Then I'll post it on the bulletin board for future reference. I think our mystery donor can leave this problem to us to solve among ourselves, if he or she would, please. Now, here is the serial number." To his sorrow (bordering on horror), the preacher realized that he'd never had a roomful of people so intent upon what he was about to say. "No, on second thought, let's not," he said. "We will let it go. The loss of a hundred dollars is small change compared to the damage an unrepentant thief does to his own soul. Brothers and sisters, you cannot expect to dance in heaven if you will not face the music here on Earth. Whoever has done this needs to come clean, but he can do it quietly, if he'd rather. Our next hymn, as it happens, addresses this quite nicely, I think. Turn your hymnals to..."

-

"I don't suppose you're going to tell us what that was about?" Richard said, after they'd walked far enough away to be free of the church crowd after the service.

"It can be useful to know who will steal from collection plates," Emma said, quietly so Perrine couldn't hear.

Durand asked his wife to excuse him a little minute while he discussed something confidential. He moved closer to Emma, and said, "Are you feeling in immediate need of such knowledge or such people? Or are we merely so bored we cannot stand ourselves?"

"I wish I had a reason, besides imagining I saw thievery last week as people put bills in and took bills out as the plate got to them." She shrugged. "But, you're right. As much as I hate to admit it, boredom probably entered in. There were better, quieter, ways of handling this. Sorry."

"This is not the sort of boredom that Perrine and I could curtail with an invitation to join us for dinner, is it?"

"I hate being sidelined. That's all."

"Then I will not invite you to dinner, I think, if you will excuse me. I am having too wonderful a time pretending that we are on a honeymoon."

"I can take a hint," Emma said. She grabbed a startled Richard by the hand and dragged him off.

Richard glanced over his shoulder, and caught sight of a glowing Leandre Durand planting a big smooch on his wife's lips.

As soon as they were out of sight of the Durands, Emma dropped Richard's hand. "Sorry about that, but I think they'll be off to France in a day or two and I don't think they usually get much time together, just the two of them," she said. "Couples sometimes do like to be alone, you know."

"I hope that's a hint," Richard said playfully.

He half panicked. He considered trying to pretend that he'd hoped it was a hint they'd all get to go home in a day or two – instead of hoping that she was hinting that she'd like to be alone with him, which is what he had meant, maybe accidentally (a man could consider it accidental if he blurted something before properly thinking it through, couldn't he?).

But then, if he pretended he was only talking about work or home, he couldn't very well try to hold her hand again. He'd rather liked holding her hand. It was a startling hand, child-size but not the least childlike.

And then, too, although he didn't know if he'd like to actually say out loud that he didn't want to be separated, he certainly didn't want to imply the opposite. Not now. Not after he'd come to believe she wasn't just being nice to him because he was in her country, or because he was a colleague. Not after he'd come to believe she liked him, respected him, despite his failings. Not after she seemed willing to trust him, without expecting him to be perfect. Not after he'd realized he rather liked her, despite her quirks, and despite the fact that (quite without meaning to, and quite unlike other women) she so often made him feel inadequate.

Emma smiled at him, and said she'd love to go somewhere and have a cup of tea.

Richard bravely invited her to lunch. It was lunchtime, after all.

-

They settled in to enjoy a nice quiet lunch in their hotel's very good restaurant.

"I guess I haven't been very good company lately," they managed to say at the same time. They both blushed.

Emma just as quickly blanched. She shifted her gaze to her plate, and studiously didn't look past Richard's shoulder.

Richard checked behind himself in the reflections of his glasses. He was fascinated by how much information a man could get by paying attention to the reflections in his glasses (especially if he wore special agency-issue glasses). But he was new at it, and found it too confusing to be really useful.

"Should I look?" he asked.

"I'm not sure yet. It's not someone I'm afraid will cause us trouble. But I'm not sure we should recognize them. If it's who I thought it was at first glance." She risked a discreet peek. "Correction. There is someone there who might possibly cause us trouble," she said.

"Who?"

"You'll never believe me."

"Try me."

"Pat. My London make-over artist."

"You must be joking."

"Or hallucinating. They still have me on an astonishing array of medications."

That sounded more likely than a funky young hairdresser from London, England, eating in this particular classy restaurant in the American version of Georgia, Richard thought.

"It gets worse," Emma said.

"How?"

"I think your chief is with her."

-

Patricia Gurdon looked up and saw the woman she'd met as Deborah Rochester. She broke into an unmistakable grin of recognition. "That's them, isn't it?" she asked her tablemate, in a voice that inadvertently carried to nearby tables. For good measure, she pointed at Richard and Emma.

Zanna Wyatt thought of a few things she might say about the virtues of not pointing out covert agents without a really, really good excuse, but decided to wait until they had some privacy. She turned, with a pleasant look pasted on her face, in time to see Richard stand up and walk toward them, taking charge of the situation, just as he ought. The man she'd shipped off half-silly with painkillers and three-quarters suicidal from unreasonable guilt was obviously a thing of the past. This man, carefully groomed and walking with measured, manly grace across the room, was the familiar Richard Hugh, despite the somewhat different face and the new eyeglasses.

"Hello, ladies. What a pleasant surprise," Richard said. He paused, to give his chief a chance to clue him in on names and anything else that might be important.

She spoke in a voice designed to fall just short of eavesdroppers. "Mr. Hugh, how good to see you. We were hoping to see you and Mrs. Chapman here. I don't suppose you'd like to join us after you eat? Or join us now?"

Richard hesitated. Eating with the boss was never his idea of a good time, plus he wasn't sure he wanted to help keep Pat steered off matters better left buried and, besides, drat it all, he wanted Emma to himself. "After would suit better, I think," he said, but in a tone of voice that assured her that he'd do what she asked.

Zanna had seen him measuring Pat's probable discretion, and thought perhaps he was right to wait. "I agree," she said.

"We'll check back, then," he said, and returned to his table.

Zanna decided she liked what she'd seen. His manners had been good, without being remarkable. His face, which before the crash had been a generic sort of handsome (moderately head-turning at the time, but many witnesses couldn't pin it down afterward), was still a generic sort of handsome, or at least pleasant, although it now came across as more weather-beaten.

He'd still been swollen and crisscrossed with red marks when she'd last seen him, and she'd been worried that he might have become too distinctive to be useful for some of the sorts of jobs at which he excelled.

-

"I nearly didn't believe it was Pat, I'll tell you that," Richard told Emma. "She's rather a stunning young woman when you get the metal decorations and war paint off."

"And give her a normal hairdo."

"Almost normal. Up close you can still make out remains of patchwork."

"Are we meeting them later?"

"Yes, ma'am. Orders, I think," Richard said. He was feeling much better. He'd seen his chief's look of relief when she saw him. He was willing to bet that she'd reinstate him soon. Perhaps immediately. What she was doing in America was anybody's guess, though. And who would have thought that she would have chosen Pat as a personal assistant? He'd dropped hints in appropriate quarters that the gal might have promise, but this was too high too soon, surely.

"I'd guess she's been called in for another run at our American version of our self-proclaimed planetary types," Emma said.

Richard stared.

"Mrs. Wyatt, I mean," Emma said. "Alan had a huge crush on her. Our guys decided to try and snare him with a look-alike, but he smelled trouble and left. The rest I think should wait for closed doors and thick walls, perhaps."

"Absolutely," he agreed.

He tried briefly to re-establish the sort of eye contact with Emma that he'd had just before she'd noticed the chief. It was no use.

"I don't see bodyguards for Wyatt," Emma said.

"Nor do I," he said, reluctantly.

They settled into restaurant surveillance mode. They chatted, more or less comfortably, about all sorts of things. A person would have been hard pressed to prove that they were more than just casually aware of the diners and staff around them.

Richard noted, with some interest, that Emma's eye color had changed. He'd been noticing that phenomenon lately, and was, in Emma's case, fascinated by it. That her eyes changed from light hazel to nearly all green, to bluish, to hazel predominated by brown spots, was indisputable. What he was trying to figure out was whether the color changes were tied to mood changes. He thought it likely. Light colored eyes often betrayed things their owners wished kept secret.

He was thus happily employed, trying to decode her eye color, when the eyes in question snapped more brown than usual, and Emma got upon her face a look that Richard had learned to translate as 'Emma deciding the best way to go about doing something she is determined to do.' He came to attention, upset with himself that he'd gotten so lost in analyzing her eyes that he'd lost track of his surroundings.

"Excuse me a minute. I need to check out a couple of guys acting fishy," Emma said, as she grabbed her cane, and headed to a table only two away from the chief's.

Richard toyed with the idea of pretending to ignore her (while discreetly watching her back, of course, coiled for action). Then he regained his wits. He was having a cozy lunch with the lady. Of course he was allowed to watch her wherever she went. In fact, he ought to watch her walking across the room. He mustn't let the way she walked distract him, that was all. She had a surprisingly alluring walk, he thought, for someone who used a cane.

He clenched his jaw and forced his mind back to business.

He looked over at the chief's table to see if she'd caught Emma in motion. She had. He turned back to Emma. He was just in time to see the two men she was approaching pull their hands from underneath the tablecloth and stuff who-knew-what into their pockets.

A glance out of the corner of his eye was enough to tell him that the chief had also picked up on the strange maneuverings, and was watching him out of the corner of her eye so they could coordinate action if needed.

"Hello, it's been a long time..." Emma called out with a voice that started out friendly and confident, but trailed off as the man she was addressing looked up at her. "Oh, I'm sorry," she said. "I thought you were someone else."

"Who?" He had sharp suspicion in his voice.

"Don't be upset with me, please. It was a fellow from Cleveland everybody called Steamboat. Worked at a Harley shop."

The man didn't like the explanation. He also didn't like that nearly half the people in the restaurant seemed to have picked up on it and were looking his direction.

His tablemate said, "Stephen?"

"You know him?" Emma said, feigning delight at this unexpected and potentially hazardous turn of events.

"Yeah, Stephen Fuller."

"Yes– No. Wait. Like that. But somehow related to steamboats. Not Twain. The inventor, wasn't it? Ful-something, I think."

"Fulton?" a man from a nearby table volunteered.

"That's it. Thank you." Emma said.

"Yeah. Stephen Fulton, that's right. I forgot. Everybody just called him Steamboat," the mutual friend said.

The mutual friend's companion wasn't happy. He looked Emma up and down. "You don't look like a Harley motorcycle person."

"Oh, goodness no. Advertising and public relations. I'd just meant to ask, if you were him, how becoming famous had worked out."

The mutual friend laughed. "Oh, man. Lady, he got so sick of it, he gave everything he couldn't pack on his hog to the Salvation Army and hit the road. I don't think anyone's seen or heard from him in three years at least. He's probably still living in a little hut somewhere in Mexico. And, hey, you're right. This guy does look something like him, now that you mention it."

The Steamboatish man said, "If we see him, who shall we say was asking after him?"

"Oh, no thanks. If the man's ticked off about having been made famous, I hardly think I'd like to get back on his radar screen. Sorry to have bothered you." She headed back to her own table.

People all over the room turned their heads to hide their grins. Everyone could identify with mistaking someone for someone else. And this little incident had the added spice of a man eating in a better-than-average restaurant having been mistaken for a once-famous biker by a tiny, somewhat prim, advertising executive. It was too funny for words.

Richard stood up and did chair honors for his lady. After they were both seated, he leaned over and asked, quietly, "Any problem?"

"Depends on the definition."

"Give me this one."

"Little plastic packets. Big wads of cash."

Richard was still trying to decide the best response to a drug deal in progress (how awkward to be a British agent who was off duty, overseas, and supposed to be lying low), when Emma started sneezing. She excused herself and headed for the ladies' room.

A man from a nearby table headed to the men's room. Richard automatically made note of that fact, but didn't worry about it. It seemed honestly coincidental.

A few minutes later, Emma came back, and Richard once again went through the ceremony of seating her and then himself. He was beginning to think he rather liked seating her, more than other women somehow.

She leaned way over so she could whisper to him. "Well, that was a wasted effort," she said. Her eyes were twinkling.

He picked up her hand and, rather impulsively, took a quick nibble on one knuckle. Leaning close and looking with impish eyes into her eyes, he said, "Why was what a wasted effort?"

"There are at least three tables of undercover cops already onto those two men, and they aren't happy that I made the one guy feel nervous and conspicuous."

Richard glanced around and thought he could pick out the undercover men. He imagined he could feel something unfriendly coming his direction from them. He whispered, "Do these cops know you?"

"The one who intercepted me at the bathrooms does."

"That's all right then," he said, as convincingly as he could manage.

She shook her head. "I'm a fed. They're not. They're afraid I'm trying to horn in."

"Should we finish up and leave?"

"Yes, please. It would be polite."

But the suspects decided they were done. Two undercover cops followed them out, followed by three more, followed by two more, in a carefully staggered performance.

Richard looked at Emma and grinned. He felt foolishly happy at no longer needing to hurry things along.

She squeezed his hand. He hadn't exactly forgotten that he was still holding her hand, but he suddenly felt conspicuous. He squeezed her hand, then let go and pulled back.

They chatted pleasantly on safe topics through much of the rest of dinner, as if they couldn't decide whether to have their guards up or down.

It was awkward, having Richard's boss in the room, presumably watching them; not to mention feeling obligated to keep lookout. It was also awkward that their friendship had shifted somehow to something new – something more satisfying, more promising, but uncharted. So they hid themselves behind chat about things that didn't matter much.

After dessert was served, Emma looked like she was struggling with whether to say something more serious.

"I give up. What's the topic that's too hot to mention?" Richard quipped, managing to convey that he was curious but wouldn't press matters if she didn't want to talk about it.

"I was just wondering if you'd heard about Mrs. Wyatt's new beau?"

He shook his head.

"It's all rather secret, at this point," Emma said.

"I can keep a secret."

"I know that. But I'm not sure that I should be the one to tell you. After all, I'm supposed to be able to keep a secret, too."

"Am I likely to stick my foot in something? Is that what you're saying?"

She nodded. "Also that I don't want you kicking me in the shin if I ask your boss personal questions. I'm not sure I will, depending on whether Pat is around. I don't know what her knowledge level is, do you?"

"Not a clue."

"Did they call you by name?"

"Yes."

"Which?"

"Mr. Hugh."

"So I guess we know that she knows that much."

"Smart aleck."

"Nah. I just hate hearing you call yourself clueless. You rarely are, you know," Emma said.

-

After lunch, they went to Zanna's hotel room.

"Can you take Pat under your wing for a couple hours?" she asked Emma.

Emma read the tone and responded accordingly. "I'd love to. What do I need to know?"

"She knows you're an undercover agent. She's been instructed to call you Emma Chapman while in Savannah. Is that right?"

"It's what folks know me as, down here. Mrs. Chapman, in some settings."

"Pat's still under a provisional security clearance, and hasn't had any field training to speak of. If you're up to showing her some points on getting around in strange cities, I'd appreciate it. But I don't want you overdoing it, if you're still recuperating."

"Savannah's not that strange, but I'll see what I can do. I'm still recuperating, but I've probably got a couple hours of sightseeing in me, especially with occasional stops in coffee shops and sit-downs on buses. If not, I'll haul her to my room for a while. Not likely, but an option. What name does she call you, by the way?"

"Mrs. Wyatt."

"Unless you tell us otherwise, Mrs. Wyatt, we will check back in two hours very nearly on the dot."

Emma paused long enough to establish that there were no more instructions, then shepherded Pat out the door.

Zanna made a show of counting to ten, then listening intently, as if she half expected Emma to come back for a parting shot of some sort. She whistled under her breath. "That woman's as much of a hurricane as you can be, Triple-O Five."

"Me?"

"Don't act innocent, Mr. Hugh. When you're in full cry, the office gets in shambles trying to keep up with you. Not that I'm complaining. And it is good to see you looking so much better."

"I'm feeling fine. Except for an incipient decay in my good humor from being out of the action too long, I'm doing well."

"Hint taken. Stop fretting. I'm hoping you can help on a mission we're doing jointly with the Americans."

"Going after Alan Padgett. Using you as rat bait. Which will be doubly dicey because a recent attempt scared him and he's likely to be even less rational than before the botched snare. At a guess."

"Right on all scores. But where–?"

"Emma dropped a hint at dinner. Wouldn't do details out in the open, of course. But it's not too hard to fill in the blanks."

"It might be harder than you think. Some Senator's nephew got put in charge, and sent out two doubles, one the age I was when Alan was fantasizing up close and personal, and one appropriate to my current age. And, tah dah, sent them out together. The agents knew it was stupid, and that didn't help matters, because they, quite naturally, were trying to keep tabs on each other, which may have been what tipped him off."

"You're right. I'd have never thought of sending out two doubles at the same time."

"They're rather embarrassed about it."

"They ought to be."

"Speaking of embarrassments...." Zanna hesitated, groping for the right approach.

"I know I made some boners on–"

"What I'm trying to get up enough nerve to say is that my private life might be blowing up in all our faces soon, if the press gets wind of the fact that I'm dating the Prime Minister on the sly."

"I'd say that got to the point."

"I appreciate you being matter of fact about it, but really we're not to the worst of it."

"Perhaps I don't need to know the worst of it."

"Yes, you do. Nearly the entire agency has got wind of one thing or another, and there's no sense you either being in the swim or being fed rumors. Your safe house Peeping Tom's camera turned out to have snaps of portraits the PM was painting of me without my knowledge. Somewhat spicy pictures, with not quite enough clothes. He's since modified them to make them modest."

Richard started to say something, but thought better of it.

"Anyway, we let the Americans try a double first. He didn't want me to come over," Zanna said.

"Can't blame him there."

"Thank you, but it's something that it looks like I need to do. So here I am. It's doubly hard for me, because it's likely my last case."

"Why? If I may ask?"

"Because unless I quit, we can't run about openly, can we? Not decently, not by our lights. And that's not counting the potential political fallout."

"It's pretty serious, then?"

"Right down to a wedding date. I'm not sure I should add this last bit, but my fiancé said he'd sack me regardless of other considerations unless I promised to have you on this case. It's a bit awkward, I know."

"Not a problem," Richard said, and let it go at that. He sank into thought.

The look on his face was familiar to his chief. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a fresh idea was working its way forward. His fresh ideas could be very useful. She got up to pour them both coffee, then sat and didn't say anything, while he thought.

She wondered, briefly, how close Richard Hugh and her fiancé had been as boys, and how they'd managed to conquer the non-related twins nonsense. The Prime Minister had dropped hints that both he and Richard had grown up in homes with Christian facades but largely pagan interiors, and so had been drawn repeatedly to spiritual counterfeits: superstitions, Ouija boards, séances, horoscopes, belief in reincarnation, hope in friendly space aliens showing up to save the world; in short, pretty much whatever was fashionable at the time. She wouldn't be surprised if they'd done some sort of blood brother ceremony, not realizing at the time that it was unchristian to do blood pacts, even make-believe ones. The hints seemed to be heading that direction. "You wouldn't believe what I used to believe," led off many a conversation the two of them had. She had her share of such stories to tell. Some days, life seemed to be one lesson after another in recognizing past error, especially if you were a Christian. How easy it was to get tangled in the lies of the world, and not know it.

She let her mind wander to wide and varied thoughts of her beloved, dwelling deeply on his merits. She tried to keep her emotions out of her face as she daydreamed. After all, there was no sense having one of her top men come out of his reflections and see his supervisor looking moony. It could be bad for his morale and confidence, she thought. Not to mention her own sense of dignity. But, oh, how she loved the man she planned to marry. How wonderful it was to just sit and think of nothing else but the look in his eyes when he looked at her. And how tender were his kisses.

She sternly brought her mind back to the business at hand.

And then drifted back into daydreams.

-

Emma brought Pat back exactly on time. Pat was bubbly. Emma was subdued. Bucking proper protocol, Emma looked first at Richard, who was, as luck would have it, deep in conversation on the telephone.

Zanna thought she saw something snap shut behind Emma's eyes when she saw that Richard was working. She'd half-expected that. Emma Chapman was famous for putting duty first. It was part of her damnable brainwashing as a teenager, probably. Zanna looked closely to make sure there wasn't any hostility, and seeing none, dismissed her.

When Richard got off the phone, the chief noticed that his eyes were also showing signs of some inner transformation. He had what her mentor called 'cloaked-soul eyes.' It was what you saw, he said, when the part of a person that could understand about getting hurt got wrapped up in something dark and thick, and only the dutiful, disciplined part of the person stuck its head out and watched what was going on. You needed people who could do that, he'd told her, in the military and in law enforcement, but especially you needed them in the secret services. People who could wrap up the sensitive parts of their being and tuck those parts away were invaluable, he'd said. But they'll break your heart to watch them, and they will give you nightmares, he'd promised. As far as Zanna was concerned, her mentor was right on all counts. She had, she felt, the best agents on the planet, and they routinely ripped her heart out. Not that she'd ever tell them so, or even admit to it. Except to her fiancé, of course. The Prime Minister, of all people, would understand.

# CHAPTER 40 – CALIFORNIA

There had been reliable sightings of Alan Padgett in a suburb of Los Angeles. He'd found himself what amounted to a fortress. Probably it could be successfully smashed into and swarmed in a usual Los Angeles way, but nobody much wanted to run the risk of a failure that would put them into poor-them comparisons with the poor saps in on the O'Hare fumble.

Richard put on his best diplomatic manners and convinced the right people that he was just the man to draw Padgett into the open (not to mention one of the few people on the planet willing to take the fall if things went wrong).

With a wee bit of help from a grateful Prime Minister, he talked his chief into staying behind. Not that Richard was worried that she'd behave foolishly if she went; it was just so hard for a man to work with his boss hanging about supervising, he said.

He spent much of the trip to California trying to not think what it must have been like for the people on the plane that Alan Padgett had sent by remote control into the ocean. It was a despicable way to kill people. Not that there was an honorable way to kill decent colleagues, of course. But there it was. It was the sort of crime that screamed for justice to be done. It was the sort of need for justice that screamed to be taken care of personally.

His plan was simple, really. So he didn't tell it to anyone until he met the head of operations. The man obviously understood at once that Richard could have left the matter to them, that he'd only kept his mouth shut because he wanted to be there. Rather than getting angry, the man bit back a smile; perhaps in part because it was, as Richard knew all too well, the sort of plan that might possibly look brilliant if it worked, but would almost certainly look uncommonly idiotic if it didn't. Law enforcement so often worked that way, unfortunately.

Richard was put up in a fairly nice hotel; not fancy, not expensive, but nice. He wasn't sure which government was paying for it. He decided not to ask. It was bad enough to know he was draining unspecified public coffers for his own satisfaction.

No one asked him to dinner. They had other cases to attend to, and families to go home to. He got some takeout (takeaway, he called it), and ate holed up in his hotel room.

He thought about calling Emma while he ate. He caught himself. What sort of manners would that be, ringing up a woman and talking to her with your mouth full, or else forcing her to think of something to say while you chewed? Or having her sit on the other end of the line and listen to you chew? It didn't seem the sort of thing to do.

Later that evening, he lay on the bed and thought again about calling her. But he hadn't the least idea what he thought he could talk about. Something about calling a colleague when there was no substantial news, something about it struck him as, well, needy, for lack of a better word. He didn't want to come across as needy. Besides, he told himself, there were such things as time zones, and it was later in Savannah, and she'd probably gone to bed. Gone to bed and gone to sleep. He didn't want to be rude and wake her up. Well, yes he did, but there he was, being needy again.

-

With able and happy assistance from the local team, some of whom snickered at him behind his back, purposefully within earshot, Richard bought the flashiest top-of-the-line remote control model racecar he could get his hands on. He went to the street that ran alongside Alan Padgett's suspected hideout. He proceeded to drive the thing ineptly.

As he had suspected, to see a rich man's radio-controlled toy handled in a bumbling manner was too much for the remote control expert. Padgett came swaggering out of his stronghold – or was it him? Richard was surprised at the change in the man since he'd seen him last, if this was the man. Amongst other things, he'd had a stiff, sissified, uncomfortable-looking strut when he was in England. From the way he moved, this suspect had obviously been working out, whoever he was.

The suspect grabbed the controls away. "Here. I'll show you," he said, down his nose. He proceeded to do a skillful job of making the car go where he wanted.

The snide, patronizing voice was all Alan Padgett, as was the finesse with the control switches. It was nice to finally be sure they had the right fellow.

"Very nice," Richard said. "But of course, you prefer aeroplanes – full-size aeroplanes – don't you? Complete with live people."

Padgett turned to look at him and found himself jaw-to-knuckles with Richard's catapulted hand.

To Richard's surprise, it took three hits to down the man, and even then Padgett managed to crawl, whimpering, back onto his hands and knees. Under most circumstances, when a fight got to this point, Richard would back off, considering the battle won. But he'd come all this way to flatten the fellow, and he intended to flatten him. The people who'd suffered the horrifying over-ocean mad ride before being callously flown to their deaths deserved at least that much. Alan had hidden behind their deaths. Now he could answer for them – as well as the deaths of however many spies he'd killed since, and tagged with nasty notes with ridiculous signatures. This is not to mention that his boyhood chum and current Prime Minister had, off the record, quite clearly told Richard what he thought of the twittering git's obsession with his intended. This is not to mention what Richard thought about Padgett's obsession with his chief. This is also not to mention that Richard was angry that Padgett had made it too easy at the end. Richard would have been quite happy to storm barricades, and here he was driving a toy car along a public street. It may have been effective, but it was demeaning. He hauled Padgett to his feet, and knocked him cold.

The leader of the rather formidable United States arrest contingent walked up to Richard and told him that in America it generally wasn't considered proper to bash a suspect if you weren't being shot at or something like that.

"Sorry," Richard said. "No one explained that to me ahead of time." He managed to say it without a blush, almost as if he were innocent.

He didn't mention that he'd noticed no one had rushed forward to stop him. He suspected that might have been because they'd lost their own men to Mighty Planetary Master.

He thought about pointing out that in the UK, slugging a suspect, especially a whimpering one, wasn't generally allowed, either.

In the end he decided to leave bad enough alone.

-

At the airport, Richard found he had an escort while he waited. Not that he blamed the Americans. He hadn't, really, behaved properly while in California.

"I could maybe set you up as an honorary air marshal, just for this one flight," one of the two men assigned to him said, quietly so that no citizens would hear.

"Oh, good. Would I get to carry a gun, finally?"

The man laughed.

"Thought I'd ask," Richard said politely.

"Don't mind him," the second man said. "Last time he went to Britain, they stripped him, and he's just been looking for a chance to get even."

Richard wondered if the man meant that his colleague had been stripped of his handgun, or strip-searched. He decided it might be better to change the subject. "By the way, how are relations between you and Canada these days? I hear such conflicting reports."

"Ah, Canada," the first man said. "I miss working in Canada. When I used to work Canada, they used to officially take our weapons at the border, and then hand them back to us under the table later. Sometimes, anyway."

"Stash it," the second man said.

"Now, Mexico. There's a country. I could tell you a few things about Mexico," the first man said.

"Stash it. That's an order," the second man hissed. "Not one more word about weapons or foreign relations. This is an airport, if you hadn't noticed."

"I know, I know," the first man said. "Don't tell me. Ears from all over, heading to all over. Loose lips sink ships. All that jazz." He pulled out a book, and settled in to read.

Richard wondered if it was a good sign or a bad sign that the man was reading _The Last of the Mohicans_. He decided it probably depended on which characters the man admired most, and for what reasons. It was the sort of book that left a man a fair amount of interpretive room, if he remembered right. But then, it had been decades since he'd read it. It didn't seem it could be that long, but there it was. He was getting old.

He picked up a newspaper, and settled in to read. The second escort seemed to be eyeing the sports section, so Richard handed it across. The sports lover slid down slightly in his seat, and read.

A would-be pickpocket or other miscreant would have discovered his error had he foolishly misbehaved in their vicinity. Richard bit back a grin. He could feel the other men competing with him on who had the best covert surveillance technique.

Shortly before time for boarding, the first man, the one with a grievance against Britain and a taste for historical fiction, stood up. "Parting is such sweet sorrow. Too bad we're stuck with each other a while yet," he sniped at Richard, as he walked past him to go show his credentials to the ticket agent so he could get on the plane early, to conduct a quick inspection and so he could identify himself to the crew before the passengers boarded.

"I suppose that means you're coming also?" Richard said to the second man.

"As a matter of fact, no. I work here. I stay here. Try not to kill each other en route, will you?"

"Yes, sir."

"If you salute me, obnoxiously or otherwise, I'll consider it obnoxious and maybe grounds for breaking your jaw."

Richard smoothly redirected his hand forward into a handshake.

"Aw, shoot. I was hoping you'd give me an excuse to slug you," the man drawled, his eyes twinkling, as he shook hands.

"Oh, you heard about that, did you?"

"The troops were jealous. They never get to hit anybody. Not in the jaw. Not with their bare hands."

"Ought we to be talking like this in an airport?"

"Get out of here, will you?"

-

It was a sparse flight. Richard had empty seats around him, except for a stout woman who looked like a poster child for one of the openly vicious feminist groups. She kept eyeing him malevolently, through ill-cut bangs. He tried to strike up a conversation with her.

"I hate men," she said, cutting him off.

"Sorry to hear it," he said, and went back to silence. Usually, he took such comments as a challenge, and turned on the charm. It was astonishing, the reactions you could sometimes get from self-proclaimed man-haters if you were nice to them anyway.

Somehow this woman didn't seem worth the trouble.

She was in such stark contrast to Emma, he thought. This woman had no reason to be upset with him, but was radiating distress and hostility. Emma had every reason in the world to not like him, and yet seemed to like him a lot. Emma dealt with horrendous things, and yet kept cheerful, against all the odds. This woman saw only the surface of a person. Emma saw through carefully constructed façades almost as if they weren't there. Emma–

He caught himself. It would never work. It couldn't. Besides, Emma Chapman was probably nice to all her colleagues. That's what they were, wasn't it? Colleagues. What made him think he was so special, anyway?

He noticed movement. The hostile woman was moving to a seat farther away. He hated to think what he'd let show in his face while he was wrestling with his emotions. The woman looked frightened. "Sorry," he said. "I was lost in thought, I guess."

"I hate men," she said.

Richard's escort-cum-air-marshal strolled down the aisle, up to Richard. The marshal eyed the woman, and judged her to be the only person within earshot. "Excuse me, ma'am, but you might want to move. We're morticians, and I have to ask him something professional," he said.

"I hate morticians worse than men," she said, as she moved out of eavesdropping range.

"What was that about?" the air marshal asked, as he sat next to Richard.

"She hates men, she tells me."

"So I gathered. If she keeps it up, the feeling might easily become mutual. Say, I want to ask you something."

"I know nothing about current embalming techniques. Nada. Zip."

"Huh? Oh, that. Don't be a smart aleck. Oh, man, I should've stayed with the border patrol. I'm suited for the border patrol. I thought I was getting real tired of slogging through ditches and running through the stickerbrush, but at least there a guy could stand up and look around like a man. This job, they expect you to play the invisible sissy unless someone miraculously gets past all the screening. Day after day after day of trying to be invisible, and watching people without looking like you're watching. It's the pits."

"A person gets used to it."

"What do you know? Oops. Sorry. You would know about that."

"I am not generally cooped up on aeroplanes. And I'm usually sent into situations where I can reasonably expect to see some action."

"There. You see what I'm up against? It's not natural, or something."

"What did you want to ask me?"

"Whether you'd seen anybody or anything suspicious?"

"I'm afraid not."

"Remind me that that's a good thing."

"It's a very good thing."

"I know. But I'm bored loco."

"Anyone tell you to keep an eye out for Tommy Miffitt?"

"The British version of that Mighty Planetary Creep business?"

"That's the fellow."

"Yeah? You think he's in America?"

"No reason to think so. But he does get around."

"Yeah. And, say, that's another thing. Aren't you the guy he targeted and then ran off the road?"

"One of them."

"Oh, yeah. I heard there was some other guy in the car. Foreign, wasn't he? Italian or Spanish, or something? No, wait, I got it. German."

"French."

"I heard he maybe died or something."

"No. Broke both arms and–"

"No kidding? I broke both arms once. Worst thing ever happened to me. Right after my wife walked out on me, too. So I didn't even have anybody to help me out until I got out of the casts, at least with the bathroom stuff, if you know what I mean? Lots of people offered to cook. Some even washed dishes. My best friends couldn't wait to drive me to our favorite watering hole, and set me up as a sideshow, you know? A few women thought they'd like to clean my house. And, I don't know if you know this, but there's a type of woman who just lives to be seen at a Laundromat with a man's clothing in her laundry basket. I had tons of help for all that sort of stuff. But that other stuff? Nobody was offering and I didn't want them to. So I had to move back in with my mother. Can you imagine? A grown man, having to have his mommy wipe his bottom. Worst thing ever happened to me."

"So you said."

"I took care of it, though. So I wouldn't be in that position again, you see. I got a new woman. Actually, I got a new wife. Found this nurse I liked a lot, but she was the sort wouldn't even bring a change of clothes over until she had a wedding ring on her hand, if you know what I mean. I wasn't too keen on getting married again, but she wouldn't take maybe for an answer, if you know what I mean. Which has turned out better than I thought it would, by the way. My first two wives, it was kinda easy come, easy go. This gal, Georgene, she's got this idea that marriage is important – and more a matter of commitment than of feelings. It's kinda nice, once you get used to it. A marriage like that, you can count on each other, and you can talk to each other without fear of accidentally giving the other person an excuse to bolt. I hadn't realized that about people who believe in divorce. They're not safe to talk to, because they're always comparing you against some dream they've got of a perfect marriage partner. It's crazy. Marriages like that shouldn't even be called marriages, in my book. Georgene and me, we've got something good, and it keeps getting better. You married?"

"No."

"You oughta try it. Only, get yourself a tough woman. I tried the pretty, fluffy kind. Oh man, I wish I hadn't. No help at all when the chips are down. You know what I mean? Well, I gotta get back up to my seat. According to my current supervisor, I'm supposed to move around a little, but I'm also supposed to stay put some. Hell of a job."

"I'm glad someone's doing it."

"You're not joking, are you?"

"The chatter's up again. Who knows when they're blowing air, and when they're not?"

"I keep telling myself that."

"Buck up, old man. _Invisus_ , _inauditus_ , _impavidus_ , and all that."

The air marshal smiled at the recitation of the air marshal's motto. He shrugged. "'Invisible' I can handle. 'Unheard' I can handle. 'Unafraid' is in my nature since terrorists forgot that a simple skyjacking isn't as evil as mass murder. It's the monotony that's killing me."

"Glad to hear it," Richard said.

The air marshal rolled his eyes, but took his leave looking much cheered.

After some thought, Richard turned to the male basher. Raising his voice just enough to reach her, he said, "I know several people in law enforcement, ma'am. If you're having some sort of trouble, perhaps I can help you find some help."

"I tried that."

"Perhaps we should try again."

"Like, why should you care?"

"Oh, a person doesn't generally go into my line of work, unless he cares about strangers as well as friends. Goes with the territory," he said. He figured the statement held for morticians as well as for undercover agents.

The woman moved to within one seat of him. She stared at him warily for an uncomfortably long time, before launching into a tangled tale about her troubles.

Richard decided that the woman seemed to need competent help, but her troubles, such as she'd deign to specify, didn't seem to be of the sort for which you'd go to law enforcement. Back home, he'd have called a friend in the Salvation Army for advice, this friend having an uncommon knack for dispensing worthwhile advice. He told the woman this, and found that she had a strange notion that the Salvation Army was part of the Red Cross and that the Red Cross was a branch of world government. She also seemed to be one of those liberals who cannot easily conceive of help coming from anywhere other than government so, for the moment, he gave up trying to set her straight.

At Atlanta, he escorted her off the plane and called the local Salvation Army. He found that her tortured logic seemed to have rubbed off some, because he found himself tripping over his tongue as he tried to explain that his acquaintance hated men as a matter of policy, so he needed a woman to come to their aid, but, for sanity's sake (and decency's sake), not a feminist one (if, by chance, they had any such in their ranks, which didn't seem likely).

The man to whom he was talking seemed to understand, and said he had a competent woman already at the airport, on call for travelers in distress.

Richard, afraid his charge would bolt if left to her own devices, sat with her while she waited for help to arrive. For fun, and perhaps a bit out of compassion, he exuded his best manners, and also made sure that people could see that they were together. As he had bet himself, the longer she got envious glances, and the more she felt that someone was looking out for her, the happier and calmer she got. But she still seemed haunted.

"What are you looking at?" she asked.

"Sorry," Richard said. "You were reminding me of my Aunt Peony. A few years after her abortion, she got to where she stared at any child about the age hers would have been. The way you've been watching every child of about twelve, it... Well, never mind. I shouldn't have brought it up, but, really, you looked just like her."

The lady from the Salvation Army showed up just then. Richard's first thought was that he'd been 'saved by the belle,' this being an exceptionally pleasant and tidy old lady of great charm. He didn't have time for a second thought. His angry acquaintance jumped up and pointed at him, while sputtering to the airport chaplain, "He can tell I had an abortion, just by looking at me."

"That's not what I said," Richard said. "You were just watching kids of a certain age, and it reminded me of my aunt."

"Stash it, mister. You've ruined everything. Now she's going to hate me. See that cross she has on. She's going to hate me." She turned to the chaplain. "Go ahead. Hate me. See if I care."

The chaplain shook her head. "Child, you've got Christianity upside down, backwards, and inside out. I don't hate you."

"You ought to. I killed my own kid. God hates me. It's called mortal sin. You do it, God hates you for it. That's it. You're doomed."

"Child, you've been fed a pack of lies. Mortal sin is only a ticket to hell if you don't apologize to God for it. He allows second chances. The only catch is, you have to bend your neck and bend your knee and sincerely ask for that forgiveness, that second chance."

Richard mumbled something about having to go catch a plane, and left the women to their discussion.

# CHAPTER 41 – SPEAKING OF EMMA CHAPMAN

Richard's chief intercepted him as he approached Emma's hotel room in Savannah. "Welcome back. Probably you haven't heard yet. Chapman's just left. New assignment," Zanna said.

Richard excused himself and stepped down the hall. "Here, darling, these are for you. Just because it's a beautiful day and I get to go home," he said to a startled and delighted hotel maid, as he handed her a modest handful of roses.

"We are going to miss you, Mr. Hugh. You-all have been such a nice group, you and your friends. Like family, almost. But it is good to see you looking so well, finally. Had a nice trip, then?"

"A very nice trip, thank you. Very successful, business-wise. But California pales next to Savannah. Los Angeles is dirty."

"Don't I know it? But I guess I'll need to get back to work now. Have a good trip home, sir."

"I shall," he said. He kissed the hand he could pry loose from the roses.

"He's something else, isn't he, ma'am?" the maid giggled. She pulled free, found a place to stash her roses in her cart until she could find someplace better for them, and rolled off down the hall.

"I do get to go home now, don't I?" Richard asked.

"At the very least, after that show, we're going to have to get you out of Savannah, I think," Zanna said. She led off, toward her room. "Durand and his wife left this morning for home," she said, as they walked.

"Just us, then?"

"And Pat."

"How's she working out?"

"Lots of promise. Very raw promise, but weren't we all that way once?"

"If you're trying to make me feel old, you're succeeding," Richard said.

The words didn't match his walk, which was almost jaunty – not surprisingly, since he'd just landed a most wanted man, and also had been out buying roses for a lady. (What more could a man ask, really, but to tackle a dangerous enemy, and to have an appreciative lady to run to afterward?)

At the room, Pat greeted Richard like he was a hero. "They said you were wonderful, sir," she gushed, bouncing a bit on her toes despite herself.

Avoiding the chief's eye (he hadn't advanced the honor of Britain all that much, especially if you took the needless fisticuffs into account), and wondering what in the world Pat had been told (but being too proud, and also too cautious, to ask), he said "Thank you, but in this game part of the game is to pretend everything's easy, so you'll excuse me if I just shrug, I hope."

Pat looked shamefaced. "Sorry. I'm not used to things yet."

"No need to apologize. I'm not above appreciating the occasional kudos."

"Of course not," Zanna said. "Well done, Mr. Hugh. Glad to have you back safely. We leave for the airport in three and a half hours. Or I do. Anyone who doesn't come with me can buy his own ticket home."

"And find his own job afterward," Richard said, dutifully.

"Aren't you going to ask where we're going?" Pat asked, trying to contain her excitement, since she knew there was a stopover planned in Washington D.C., during which she might get to see people who made news.

Richard shrugged.

"I get it. Part of the game is pretending you don't care where they send you," Pat said.

"It's not so bad. Sometimes it's even exciting," Richard said.

"Not too often, I hope," Zanna said. "What the recruiters may not tell you, Pat, is that most of the time most of us are doing very dull things like walking around talking to shopkeepers and mechanics and old ladies who like to garden, hoping one of them accidentally saw or heard something that helps something else add up elsewhere. It's like putting together jigsaws without any picture to go by, much of the time."

"Secret service in a nutshell: Leave everything alone, or be all powerful and transform events at the drop of a hat, depending on what's wanted at the moment. Never mind what's possible; it's the dream that matters. Miracles on demand. That's us," Richard said. His tone bordered on facetious, leaving it to the listener to decide if he was being serious, and if so, in what way.

The chief wondered if he was feeling burnt out and needed a different sort of assignment for a while. Or, perhaps he really thought he was in love with Emma Chapman, and the disappointment of her not being there was finding an odd way of coming to the surface, now that the news was having a chance to sink in.

"You make it sound like working in a salon," Pat said to Richard. "Most folks want you to cut off their hair and make them look the same as always, or else ask for something impossible and wonder why you can't fix everything in their lives. I hadn't thought about it before, but government services aren't too different, are they?"

"Good analogy, I think," Richard said, waving the ladies into chairs, and following suit. "I think perhaps the gal is catching on."

"Then there's your wife, sir," Pat said. "She didn't have unrealistic expectations. Oh. Sorry. Not your wife. It's hard not to think of her as that, even if she is American. You two seemed to fit each other so well. Sorry. I'm still having trouble getting things sorted. Or unsorted, as the case might be."

"Speaking of Emma," Zanna said, "she got called out at a dead run. Something hot must have flared somewhere. She said to tell you goodbye and said she'd be back in touch if she could. I think she was as glad to get back to work as you were." She hesitated, studying Richard, weighing something in her mind. "Also speaking of Emma," she said, "I think the two of you might as well have some background on her, if you can keep it to yourselves."

Pat perked up. It was still pretty heady stuff to her to be entrusted with secrets. Richard, on the other hand, had learned long since that when this chief got that look on her face, she was about to dump something very unpleasant in your lap, and wasn't going to appreciate it if you made a scene in front of the other person or persons strategically placed in the room. He settled nonchalantly into his chair, and put a benign look on his face.

"I don't know what she's told you," Zanna said to Richard, "but don't go expecting too much from her. She's had it pretty rough. She got recruited young, and hasn't had anything like a normal life."

"Like I have?" he said. "Or you?"

" _Touché_ ," she said. "Or it would be, if it wasn't off-center because of the facts. Chapman's been at our game since she was 16 years old."

"No way!" Pat said.

"Oh, yes. Emma got caught up in a radical program that specialized in under-18s, with a strong emphasis on kids who'd been abused or were the victims of violent crime. The theory was they'd have a built-in prejudice in favor of crime fighting. Back then, to rely on children seemed a progressive thing to do, and fit in nicely with the popular but cancerous idea of 'don't trust anybody over 30.' I don't suppose I could talk you into pouring us some coffee, Mr. Hugh? Before I go on with this? Oh, I forgot to ask earlier, perhaps you need to wash up?"

Richard knew she was being kind, and resented that she felt that she needed to be. But, still, his hands were unaccountably starting to shake, and so the chance to go off alone and get them under control was a mercy. He tried to think of something suave to say, or at least something flippant, but in the end he just got up and went silently into the bathroom.

Pat whistled under her breath. "You're heading somewhere horrid with this, aren't you?"

The chief nodded.

"He's in love with her, isn't he?"

"Hasn't said so."

"In other words, none of my business and don't push him any."

"Good catch."

"Should I be leaving?"

"No."

"Then, I'm just here as some kind of buffer, aren't I?"

"More or less."

Pat thought about this. Then she smiled. "How am I doing so far? Buffer-wise?"

"Good for you, Pat. It's always better to kid about getting an ugly, thankless assignment than to waste energy resenting it."

Richard came out of the bathroom. "Sorry I took so long. Traveling seems to be harder on my system than it used to be," he said.

The ladies let the comment pass. They'd already set themselves up with coffee. Richard set himself up with a glass of water and got settled into a chair again.

Zanna waited until he got his façade adjusted, and adjusted her approach accordingly.

"Emma had the misfortune to be a young woman who fit their profile. Just like any perverts, they were cruising around looking for candidates for grooming, is how I see it. It was more or less the basic zeroing in on isolated, lonely sorts and throwing an arm around them and saying 'I know how to make you popular, at least with me.' Only, in this case, it was latching onto kids who'd been reduced to nothing, and telling them they were just what was needed to save the world. Before you waste any time fantasizing on what you'd like to do to them, there aren't any of the program leaders left. I got in a fit of pique one day and checked."

"A fit of pique? Our chief? Never," Richard joked. To his credit, his good humor sounded only slightly forced.

"In any case, I investigated. Every last one of the program developers and drill sergeants is dead. Or reported dead, at least. Probably some of them are living on remote islands under new identities. And may falling coconuts give them skull fractures."

"You seem to be taking this personally, chief," Richard said.

"It's hard not to, especially in Chapman's case. She was technically too young for the program, but she was so sharp, and so adaptable, and absolutely without relatives or long-term friends, and so they decided to see what would happen if they adopted a girl whose father routinely jerked his large family from one town to another, dodging creditors, until he finally got tired of it, killed the whole clan, and took off."

"Everybody?" Pat asked, horror struck.

"Except Emma, obviously, and he clearly meant for her to be dead. All seven bodies were found in a grove of redwood trees in California, not far from their house. Emma probably spent the whole night out there, in the damp, with corpses of siblings who'd come to depend on her. Also the mother's corpse, but she wasn't as much loss, not likely, anyway. From all accounts, the mother had given up, more or less, years before, and left the job of holding the family together to Emma, or Mary-Rhetta as she was known then. Mary-Rhetta was too unusual, of course. The government renamed her."

"Did they catch the father, then?" Pat asked.

"No, ma'am. As best they could tell, he hightailed it to Mexico. That was a pretty safe move in those days, as long as you followed the local rules once you got there." The chief watched Richard's face. "In case you're wondering," she said, "I know of at least five countries that occasionally remind their Latin American operatives to keep an eye open for the man. They don't make it official, but it's something of a clandestine international sport to see who can turn him up. No statute of limitations on murder, after all."

"It's a wonder Mrs. Chapman comes across normal," Pat said.

"Oh, she's a remarkable woman," Zanna said. "I think that she is normal, at least as normal as you can be and still do undercover work."

It was an old joke in the intelligence community. Richard didn't seem to much appreciate it under the circumstances, although he took a stab at a wan smile, for good form's sake.

"Mrs. Chapman's got strong faith in God. That helps, a lot," Zanna continued. "And she's taught herself to deal with things. She's extraordinarily good at coping. She can make friends with all sorts of people. I've met men she's sent to prison who seem to think she's just about the classiest lady they've ever met. She commands respect across a pretty broad spectrum. But I think she gets where she does by refusing to let herself think of herself much, or to think any further ahead than whatever she's working on."

Zanna judged she'd given Richard about as much as he could take and still maintain his composure. Besides, the set of his jaw indicated that he was starting to resist believing her. She turned her focus solidly on Pat. "Speaking of working, we've lined you up to apprentice on the stock exchange."

"I don't have the faintest idea what apprentices on the stock exchange do."

"I think you can handle it. And we'll help you with what you'll need to know to fit in, on and off the job."

Pat looked at Richard.

"You'll do," he said.

"I'm game," Pat told the chief.

"That's the spirit," Richard said. He turned to the chief. "I forgot to ask. How's holiday been?"

"I'd have rather been in London," Zanna said. "But the FBI wanted me in the States in case you didn't have enough luck with Padgett."

"So you got parked in Savannah?" His eyebrows went up. If he'd been in charge, he'd have sent her someplace else well before now. Savannah had its strong points, but his chief was a dyed-in-the-wool big city urbanite. Plus, Savannah was hardly a major transportation hub.

"It made sense to somebody in one bureaucracy or another," Zanna said with a laugh. "And it is a nice town to unwind in – and, I must say, Pat and I have been managing to unwind more than either of us generally does."

"I won't be able to look at another mint julep ever, I don't think," Pat moaned. "I loved them at first, but I messed up and overdid, I think."

"That's a polite way of saying she had a world class hangover before she figured out they were something other than the equivalent of lemonade," Zanna said.

"Never again. I promise," Pat groaned.

"Well," Zanna said, getting to her feet, "Alan Padgett was one we wanted to get. But just one. What do you say we all make the most of our last little chance at rest and relaxation before we head back?" She told them the time and place to rendezvous, then more or less shoved them out the door. She locked herself in, kicked off her shoes, and curled up in a chair to call the Prime Minister.

When the Prime Minister got the call, he more or less shoved a couple of visitors out the door. He locked himself in, kicked off his shoes, sprawled luxuriously across a chair, and listened with a great deal of understanding and sympathy, dispensing advice when it seemed called for.

# CHAPTER 42 – HOMECOMING

Pat tried her best to go home quietly. In her neighborhood, such an effort didn't count for much. Within half an hour, everybody who cared to know knew that she was home from her trip to America (although they all thought she'd been some sort of paid helper for a rich woman with a few health problems).

She sat in her tiny apartment in the divided-up house and surveyed her domain. Now that she'd decided to leave, the place seemed strangely unfamiliar and full of ghosts. She found herself half-desperately wishing Lanie was home already. But she knew that Lanie, being Lanie, would work whatever job she was at until the absolute proper last minute, concentrating on doing a good job at it, no matter how excited she was about something else.

Pat thought about going to the pet store, but decided against it. Lanie sometimes thought she was spying on her, especially when she visited her at work. Pat shook her head. She hadn't been spying on her little sister (not consciously, at any rate), but now she was in serious training to spy on other people. She hadn't thought to go in this direction, but when the recruiter showed up and explained a few of the options, it had seemed too good to walk away from – but the longer she was alone in her tiny, cheap but homey apartment, the harder it was to know what to do. She could probably close her eyes and manage to make dinner here, she thought. Not that being able to function blind in a place constituted a recommendation for it, but still...

Squeals of joy signaled Lanie coming home at a run to welcome her sister back from the only overseas trip ever made by anyone in their family, counting back as many generations as anybody knew.

The first thing they did after Lanie came exploding through the door was to close it behind her to keep out the small horde of interested bystanders. The second thing the sisters did was hug and jump up and down, Lanie squealing to her heart's content, Pat trying to act more like her newfound notion of a grownup.

"Did you have a nice trip?"

"Wonderful!"

"I've got news! I got hired full time down at the pet store!"

Pat almost said that several friends had told her that already, but caught herself. She braced herself. She hated to tell Lanie they'd be moving, too far away to commute easily to Uncle Birdie Wordies. "That's great, Lanie," she said.

"You don't sound that excited about it?"

"Lanie, I think it's great. It's just that, well, I've got news, too."

"So, we can both have news," Lanie said, jumping up and down again and throwing in a fresh hug for good measure. "I have more news. You first."

"I've found us a new place. I've got a new job, and I've found us a nice semidetached–"

"No-o-o!" Lanie whimpered.

"You'll like it."

"No, you don't understand. I've found us a new place, too. I took on the job of caring for Mrs. Tuttle, and it's to be live-in. I was going to take care of us for a change. She said you could come. She likes you, too."

Pat was dumbfounded. Lanie always had two or three jobs going, but they'd never added up to much. Now the girl was actually in a position to support somebody? It was wonderful, but backwards.

"Surprised you, didn't I?" Lanie said. "Me and Mrs. Tuttle have been setting this up on the sly, so I could surprise you. She's ever such a nice woman. I've got some of my stuff moved over already, mostly stuff I could hide under my coat, and we signed a contract, and everything. Mrs. Tuttle says I have to finish up school, even if it's by home study or some special school or something. She used to be a teacher. She'll help me."

Pat didn't know what to say. For lack of anything better, she said, "You've been very busy while I've been gone, it looks like."

"Oh, you don't know the half of it. I hadn't ever been alone and I didn't like it much, so I only came here just enough to sleep and wash up. It's amazing what you can get done when you only go home to sleep and wash up."

There wasn't much to argue with there, Pat thought.

She found herself in a quandary. With the type of work she was looking at going into, and the type of sister she had, perhaps it would be best at that if Lanie moved in with Mrs. Tuttle, who was no one's fool and who loved Lanie like nobody's business. Enough to adopt her, for all practical purposes, undoubtedly to help get her out from under their parents, who liked to use Lanie for some of their more dubious errands on the theory that 'the law would go easier on a dumb, innocent kid than on clever grownups such as themselves.' Plus, Mrs. Tuttle had managed to get Lanie to accept schoolwork again. That was a marvel. Pat had tried that before, again and again, with no success.

On the other hand, if she chucked the new job and its attendant dangers and problems, and went back to hairdressing, she could help Mrs. Tuttle with her Rescue Lanie project. Perhaps she should do that?

"What's this new job?" Lanie asked.

"I'm an apprentice on the stock exchange."

"Is that nice?"

"I think it will be. Especially once I get past the first stages."

Lanie looked at the floor. When she looked up, her eyes were wary but steadfast in a way her older sister had never seen before. "Pat? If I tell you something, will you promise not to get mad at me?"

"I promise."

"Because I love you, you know that."

"I know that."

"I don't want you to move in with me at Mrs. Tuttle's. She says it's all right, and it would be fun, in its way, and I know you'd do it, only..." Lanie looked around the room, at the thin walls, like they would lend her just the right words. "It's time, isn't it? For us to try standing on our own feet, isn't it?" she said.

"I could go back to cutting hair. I wouldn't mind. Or I could commute, maybe," Pat said, misreading her little sister entirely.

"I wish you wouldn't," Lanie said. "You take care of me too much. I didn't know that until you left for a while, because we've always been that way, haven't we? But I've been doing better on my own than I thought I would, and Mrs. Tuttle gives me good advice, and you could give me all the advice you wanted when you came to visit us, and I'd like for you to come visit lots, but..." She drifted off into a miserable silence.

Pat finally got the point. Little sister was ready to be weaned, after her own fashion, and substitute-mama big sister had best let go, or risk getting shoved off.

She smiled, with an effort. "I'm proud of you Lanie. And it's great about Mrs. Tuttle. She talked about taking you in before, only her family talked her out of it, because they were afraid of Dad."

"You never told me."

"I was scared, I guess."

"Of losing me?"

"Something like that."

"We'll always be sisters."

"Yes, ma'am. And you're right, I think. It is time to move on, for both of us."

"I was afraid you'd hate me."

"Never."

Lanie giggled with relief. "Tell me all about the trip. Was the lady nice to work for? Did she give you lots of tips? When Jennie Noonan did something like that, the lady paid her extra for all sorts of things, she said, only Jennie's silly and spent it all before she came home..."

# CHAPTER 43 – KEEPING COMPANY

Tabby planned to keep her receptionist job at the salon as long as she could, in part to cover the costs of evening courses. Melvil, the paramedic she'd consulted about ambulance jobs, also helped her out, financially, indirectly, by insisting on taking her out to eat several times a week. At first, he did it because he was interested in her plunge into his world, and wanted to help. Before long, the emphasis changed from following her career-switch progress to finding any excuse to spend time with Tabby. He found her intelligent, funny, charming, beautiful, brave, and brimming over with common sense. He couldn't believe his luck that she was single. Having found this wonderful woman, he was beside himself with fear that he wouldn't be good enough, somehow, to warrant her affection.

Tabby found herself being treated with great care and consideration. She found Melvil intelligent, funny, charming, handsome, brave, and brimming over with common sense. She couldn't believe her luck that he was single. But she didn't quite dare tell him so. That made them a matched pair right down the line.

-

One of the waiters at The Stuffed Pelican decided to be insulted that Melvil was holding Tabby's hand in public, and that the two of them were gazing fondly into each other's eyes while they talked. "I hope he's a pervert. Would serve the slut right," he said to Percy and Regina Terwilliger.

"Whomever are you talking about?" Regina asked.

The waiter sneered and nodded toward Melvil and Tabby. The next thing he knew, he was flat on his back, confusedly trying to track the stars doing circles in front of his eyes.

"Sorry, lad. I by rights should have let you have first shot at the blighter," Percy called cheerfully across the room to Melvil, who was quite naturally staring like everyone else.

Mr. Collins, finally recovered from his gunshot wound enough to be back in command, reached the scene of the slugging. He didn't quite know how to phrase his question, so he fell back on the standard "Is there anything wrong, sir?" It was a stupid question, and Mr. Collins knew it, but what else does one say to an elderly esteemed customer crowing over the supine form of one of your employees?

Melvil took leave of Tabby and trotted over before Percy felt obliged to shout across the room again. Percy, thus honored with a close audience, contented himself with repeating the waiter's remarks quietly to Mr. Collins and Melvil. After all, it hardly need be repeated loud enough to distress the ladies, need it?

Melvil checked the waiter to make sure he wasn't in need of medical attention. Finding him basically all right, he whispered something in the young man's ear that made him turn a funny shade of gray. The waiter struggled to his feet and beat a retreat to the kitchen.

"I shall deal with the young man later, I assure you," Mr. Collins said.

"No need, I think," Melvil said. "I'm sure he'll not bother us again." He turned to Percy, and stuck out a hand. "I can't say that I approve of flooring the fellow, but thanks for sticking up for Tabby."

"Not at all, not at all. Fine girl," Percy said as he stoutly shook Melvil's hand. "Misjudged her a bit at first, you know, but she's turned out top-notch. As for flattening the fellow, I can't tell you how good it feels to find I can still do it. By gum, that felt good." Percy caught a disapproving look from Mr. Collins, and decided a modifier was in order. "Although, of course, this was hardly the place to do it. Should have asked the blighter outside, of course." He harrumphed, straightened his clothes, and sat with great dignity.

Melvil was surprised to see what certainly looked like a small twinkle in Mr. Collins' eye as he left to greet customers who'd just walked in. Melvil guessed that perhaps Mr. Collins harbored secret yearnings to occasionally flatten some of his less capable staff. You would have to think that he sometimes had the provocation, at least.

Tabby's eyes were full of questions when Melvil rejoined her.

"Our friend Percy thought the fellow insulted you," he said.

She went crimson, and stared at the table.

"You used to go around with that waiter?" he asked.

She nodded.

"Please don't be embarrassed about it. I don't mind," he said. "No, that's not true. I mind horribly. But as long as you think of me as a step up, and don't go running back to him, I'll be happy."

Tears streamed down Tabby's face. "You deserve better than me," she said.

"Don't condemn me to that fate," he said.

She stared at him.

"Oh, Tabby. You're the best girl I've ever met, or am ever going to meet. If you make me go looking for someone 'better,' I'm stuck with being alone the rest of my life." The words came gushing out before he thought about what he was saying. Having said it, he froze in fear. He'd been spending considerable time rehearsing how he was going to tell her that he loved her, and this didn't fit the plan at all. His blood went to ice.

Tabby looked through her tears, and saw how afraid he was. She smiled. She took his hand, and wrapped it back up with hers, the way it had been before they'd been so rudely interrupted by Percy Terwilliger and his white knight routine. She'd been rehearsing how and when to say she loved him, if she could only convince herself that she dared hope that he could love her. She hadn't meant to say anything today. But, suddenly, under the circumstances, it seemed time. It took a mighty leap of faith on her part, but she looked him in the eye and said, "I love you."

Melvil nearly fainted with relief. His blood came back warm, but too much of it went to his face. "I suppose it's too early to take you out looking at rings," he managed to say.

She stared, trying to assure herself that she'd heard correctly.

"Say that again, please," she said.

"Oh, sorry," he said, misunderstanding her, and half-panicked.

"No, I mean it. Please say it again. It sounded too good to be true, and I need to hear it again before I dare believe it."

He looked at her, hope rising again.

"What I meant was, will you marry me?"

She nodded.

Applause erupted. Tabby and Melvil suddenly realized that half the people in the room had been hanging on their conversation.

"I say," Percy said to his wife, as he looked around at the people who were clapping, "that's hardly seemly, is it?"

# CHAPTER 44 – MEETING IN THE MEDITERRANEAN

Emma Chapman gazed down at the placid green sea and half wished it were the churning gray of a storm-tossed Pacific Ocean off Crescent City, California.

Two days before, she'd visited the most colossal of the Greek ruins, and had felt that the stone columns were not in the same league as redwood trees. Not even close.

Her days of late had been like that. Everywhere she turned, something reminded her of Crescent City, for better or for worse.

Lately, her nights had been full of dreams of taking her brothers and sister to play at the park on Brother Jonathan's Point. She remembered that the playground had been built over shallow graves of people killed in a shipwreck, or that's what people said. Some said the park builders didn't know about the graves. Others said the playground had been built over the graves on purpose. For that matter, others thought the park had been there first, and the graves dug into it. In any case, local children had delighted in scaring the newcomers, herself and her siblings, with stories about how, occasionally, bones would poke out of the ground and how the place was haunted (or so they said).

Each night, Emma's dreams had shifted from haunted merry-go-rounds to whirling and cold nightmares of being dumped and left for dead, her sleep-addled mind providing fresh and insane twists to stone cold sober memories. In her dreams, she was clawing her way back to Lady Bird Grove, just outside of town. In her dream world, part of her mind held tight to the idea that if she could just somehow get back to her half-dead teenage body lying on the rich, dank earth before anyone spotted her through the fog, that somehow she could crawl back into it and start over.

She remembered feeling like she was several feet outside of herself for much of that long ago night, up in the air and looking down at her body. Somehow, it made it seem – in her dreams – that the body was still there, and still available to be crawled back into. Maybe, given some sort of second chance like that, maybe she could build some sort of better life for herself. More normal. Less lonely, perhaps.

She'd liked Crescent City. That she was forbidden to go there helped make it a natural focus for her homesickness. She was forbidden because it wouldn't do to be recognized by people who'd known her before she'd been declared dead, then resurrected by the government project's leaders as someone else. Officially, it would not do.

As she got older, she thought more and more that she might like it very much to be recognized by someone who'd known her as a youngster. She imagined there would be something strength-giving about being recognized, or being called by her original name. It was an odd name, and she'd gotten a lot of teasing from other kids for it, but her mother had been so proud of it. Mary-Rhetta Butler. Like the Clark Gable character in _Gone With the Wind_ , her mother had said, only pretty and feminine. Emma hadn't agreed about it being pretty, and had been all too glad to jettison it at age 16, but now she wondered if she should have.

It didn't do to think of her mother, or the rest of the family, this much. Not in public, especially. Her mind – having decided this had gone on long enough – smoothly, gently, firmly shut them out, like it was trained to do. The change was so subtle that Emma didn't notice that they disembarked from her train of thought.

She could only imagine, but sometimes it was fun to pretend that she had a hometown to which she could return if she liked, and Crescent City seemed as good a bet as anywhere she'd lived. She'd liked the people there, especially the people at the café where she hung around after school and got to instruct tourists about whale watching, and sometimes got to pour coffee and wash off tables when the restaurant got really busy. As a teen, she'd been something of an expert on whales. It had been fun to have somewhere she could share what she knew, somewhere she was, in fact, heartily encouraged to share what she knew. Emma suddenly realized that she no longer remembered if there were whales in the Mediterranean. She had a feeling there were dolphins or porpoises of some kind, perhaps. She looked around to see if any of the waiters in the little outdoor café were free enough to ask about whales and such, but they were all busy.

She spotted the entourage coming up the hill and settled in to watch. When its leader looked at the people sitting in the bright sunshine at her café, she gave him a small, encouraging smile.

A smaller man, dressed all in black, followed the leader's gaze and, seeing Emma, began to bob on his toes and point at her. "That's her, uncle. That's her. That's the lady from on the couch, with the duct tape. She's lost weight, like she's been sick or somethin', but I recognize the bones. I am a photographer. I remember bones."

"That's about all I think you remember sometimes, bonehead, and don't call me uncle, and thank you for reminding me about duct tape," Frank Hoddel said. He motioned to one of his bodyguards to take his nephew away before he caused more embarrassment. He adjusted his designer tie, smoothed his coat, and pulled his shirt cuffs into position (a fellow should make a good first impression, after all).

"So, I finally get to meet the mystery lady," he said, cheerily, as he sat at Emma's table. His bodyguards stationed themselves around the terrace.

Emma watched them get settled. "Nice job," she said. "I mean, your men have got it worked so they can watch in every direction, as well as keep an eye on me. But they don't look obvious about it."

Hoddel took a look around. The woman wasn't just being polite. His men had done a good job of stationing themselves. But he wasn't sure that he liked that this tiny woman could appreciate the finer points of crime world security.

"I'm alone," Emma said. "Or I think I am. Officially, I'm not here. And I've made some people nervous lately. So having an eye out is nice, for me as well as you."

This really bothered Hoddel. This is not how people usually acted when surrounded by armed men, especially armed men belonging to someone else. "So, are we going to compliment my men all day or what?" he asked.

"No."

She fell silent, and watched Hoddel. He didn't look as well as his most recent photographs. He'd gained weight. It didn't look like he was sleeping well. Having to watch over his shoulder all the time appeared to be getting to him. Or perhaps it was just that he was dumping familiar enterprises, and taking on new and perhaps baffling ones, and didn't have his feet entirely under him yet. From what she'd heard, getting associated with a terrorist watch list had caused some big changes in the man's business plans – as it ought to, certainly, but so often didn't, the crime-prone mind being what it was.

"You haven't taken to drinking, have you?" she asked, as soon as the silence had stretched as long as she wanted.

"What sort of question is that?" he asked, offended.

"I need a job done, and I'm trying to decide if you're the man who could do it. You had a good reputation going, for this kind of stuff, but lately, I don't know. I hear all kinds of things about you lately."

"Don't you worry about me," Hoddel said, his dander up. "How about you? I hear all kinds of stuff about you, none of which seems to be true. Who the hell are you, anyway?"

"All right. Swearing is hardly necessary. I'll tell you. First, I am not, repeat not, here to arrest you, so don't do any panic routines on me, all right?" She watched his reaction. His reaction was to look around for snipers. "And I'm not here to get you shot or anything like that. I need some help. There's a guy that law enforcement hasn't been able to get its hands on. But I thought that maybe you could."

"Why should I?"

"The guy who killed the London cabbie, drove the cab all over London, and shot up that neighborhood. Tommy Miffitt. Remember him?"

"Yeah. I remember him. I'm English, aren't I?"

"So, here's my offer. I hear that one of my colleagues took you for about seventeen million–"

"Forget it. I don't need the money."

"So, you don't want to talk about money?"

"Nah. I was pretty sore at first, but I've been dissecting what he did, and he took me real slick. Maybe he did me a favor. I think maybe I can make more money his way than what I was doing." Besides, he thought, when cops started talking big money, it was usually a trap, and he was pretty sure this lady was some kind of cop. He wasn't going to be suckered that way.

"How nice for everybody, if you only con people who deserve to be conned," Emma said, sipping her tea.

"Hey, what kind of cop are you? If you are a cop?"

Emma searched out the eyes of the head bodyguard. Getting his consent, she reached into a pocket and pulled out credentials. She sat quietly while Hoddel studied them.

He was impressed. This lady wasn't in the bush leagues, to borrow Yankee slang. "I thought you sounded American," he said, feigning indifference. "But what are you Yanks wanting with a fugitive from London murder charges?"

"Miffitt's also wanted for causing some trouble outside of Britain."

"What's that to do with me?"

"Maybe nothing. But you asked."

Hoddel grinned. The lady was holding her own pretty well. Maybe he could do business with her after all. "Yeah, I did ask. Thanks for answering. But I still don't think I understand why you came to me."

"I think maybe, once I tell you a bit more about what Miffitt is up to, that you'll want him as much as we do. I also think that he's not likely to get caught by people who have to follow the rules that people like me have to follow."

"I can't believe I'm hearing this."

"That's good. Because I'm going to deny ever having said it."

"You wearing a wire? This some kind of a trap?"

"Easy enough to check. My place or yours? With the understanding that it's only to check for wires. I'm not some kind of floozy."

"No, ma'am. You don't come across cheap. Maybe we don't need to check for wires, but why don't we take a walk? This sitting up here out in the open is maybe not so great for discussing what I want to discuss."

"I agree. You choose where we go," Emma said. She signaled for her bill. After she paid up, she offered her handbag to one of the bodyguards, who'd been eyeing it suspiciously.

"Not here," Hoddel said. "But I want to have it checked when we're not so public."

"Sounds reasonable," Emma said. "You can check the cane, too, whenever you want."

She flourished her feminine cane of carved wood. To her satisfaction, a couple of the bodyguards flinched when the cane pointed more or less in their direction. It was nice to know who assumed that canes had guns or dart shooters hidden inside.

"Hey, I know you!" one of the bodyguards said, halfway down the hill. "You're that woman that did first aid on that woman copper Miffitt drilled back in London. And you got stabbed and beat up half to death afterward, by some punk mugger. Right?"

"Not my best day ever," Emma said.

Hoddel's bodyguards liked that answer. It showed proper pluck.

Hoddel noticed that his bodyguards liked the woman's attitude. He put himself more on his toes. It would never do to be outdone by someone in front of his men. Especially a cop. Most especially a lady cop. And a foreigner, no less.

When they got to the house he was renting, Hoddel ushered Emma into a lushly appointed sitting room. He signaled for his men to stay outside.

"I don't get it," he said, once the door was closed and they were alone. "Aren't you afraid of me?"

"I'm not stupid. I'm scared half to death of you. But I'm more scared of what's going to happen to London if somebody doesn't get our mutual enemy off the streets soon."

"Why should I think he's my enemy?"

"Because Tommy Miffitt thinks you've stolen some of his supposed glory, and also you've hired away a couple of his best lackeys. He likes to be in control, and he thinks you've messed him up."

"You say."

"I'd offer to play you a wiretap, but what's the point?"

"Yeah, you can make up wiretaps, if you know what you're doing. But I could kill you," he said, getting back to why she ought to be afraid of him. "Or hold you for ransom or something."

"Sure you could, if you were that low, or not very smart. My government won't pay ransom. Besides, I'm on their if-you-get-into-trouble-we-never-knew-you list. Besides, if you kill me, other agents will feel duty bound to track you down even in their spare time, devoting themselves to finding some way to catch you up on something, even if it's just traffic charges. It's hardly worth it."

"You don't seem to care much. Personally, I mean."

"I'm crippled, I hurt all day long, I've been on the same lousy case for two years, and I've been hearing rumors that the boss thinks it's about time for me to retire. Pardon me if I'm depressed."

Hoddel stared at her, taking stock of how serious she was, or wasn't. Then he roared with laughter.

A bodyguard stuck a head in, to make sure it was just laughter, but retreated as soon as he got the signal that everything was all right.

"Lady, you scare me," Hoddel said. "But you're all right. What do ya want to drink? Then you tell me what it is you want and what's in it for me."

# CHAPTER 45 – TRANSITIONS

Frank Hoddel's enterprises kept dissolving or turning into what looked like legitimate endeavors. Investigators began to pull out their hair. The man was covering his tracks faster than they could find new ones. On the other hand, he hadn't been linked to any new kidnappings or murders. Maybe he'd been scared straight. One could only hope.

No one seemed to be able to pin down his present location. People could tell you where he was a week ago, maybe, but nothing more recent than that. And sometimes the information about where he'd been didn't seem quite right.

-

Former secret service driver Tommy Miffitt, alias Mighty Planetary Master (British version), aka The Cabbie Killer, had gone even more invisible than Hoddel.

His former lackeys were walking around in a daze, stunned that they'd been abandoned – those that hadn't been killed. Miffitt had made sure that his best people weren't around to give insights into his personality or resources. The survivors soon realized what had happened, and weren't always so sure whether they were more glad to be alive, or more humiliated that they'd been deemed not a threat.

Somehow, he'd even assassinated those men who'd gone to work for Frank Hoddel. This impressed Hoddel more than he liked to admit. He ordered a couple more bazookas, just in case the right sort of opportunity arose to use them on Master Miffitt. That would exhibit the right sort of panache called for under the circumstances, he thought.

-

The occasional undercover agent wound up shot, but there were no more insulting notes on any of the dead ones.

The behind doors betting in the intelligence community was split on whether Miffitt had changed his modus operandi or had gone out of business. The local skewing of opinion, to be honest, often matched the resources available to be allotted either to Miffitt or to new cases. Unconsciously, of course. It would be inexcusable to knowingly pick suspects based on the way the budget worked.

-

The note came via regular mail, postmarked Brighton: "I am young. I am patient. I am building a nuclear bomb. Yours truly, Thomas L. Miffitt."

The consensus was that Miffitt was possibly capable of getting his hands on the components of a nuclear bomb, but wasn't deft enough to build one without blowing himself up along with at least a portion of the neighborhood, if not an entire village or town. But where? That the note had been posted from Brighton probably meant nothing with a man like this.

Britain had been fairly thoroughly scoured when he'd first gone to ground. Because of the bomb threat, it was combed again with particular care, as was much of Europe. And the United States. And Bolivia, the Philippines, Hong Kong, Lithuania, Cypress, Iran, and Iceland. Anywhere he or Alan Padgett had left their morbid calling cards.

To be on the safe side, agents started looking wherever profilers thought Tommy or his compadre Alan might have been contemplating. Quite frankly, it encompassed nearly the entire planet except for Antarctica. (Megalomaniacs do have a nasty habit of thinking overly broadly – and this case had the misfortune to involve not one, but two, unbound minds.)

As usual in such matters, stories began to drift in of difficulties not necessarily tied to the suspect. For instance, from Alaska: Barrow was easy enough to find, but Kotzebue took two tries, which was extremely embarrassing but provided some much-needed comic relief in the midst of a deadly serious endeavor. Having been told – incorrectly, no less – that Kotzebue was on the Seward Peninsula, the city slicker, know-it-all pilot sent up from the mainland went to the town of Seward, thinking he'd drive – to what he assumed was a despicable dust speck of a town – from there. Big mistake. Kotzebue is next door to the Seward Peninsula. Seward, however, isn't remotely close to the Seward Peninsula.

Alaskan law enforcement officers made a point of taking pictures of themselves with the pilot before they told him his mistake. The opportunity was, they explained, too rich to pass up.

When he didn't take the ribbing with good grace, they checked him for intoxicants. They found he was higher than a kite on illegal drugs. So they grounded him. This they also thought was great fun, him being a fed, and them being locals, not to mention Alaskans.

-

Alan Padgett was no longer of any use. He'd gone entirely off the edge, and didn't remember any Tommy Miffitt. According to Alan, every grand or difficult attack on any undercover agent was his personal doing, even from before he was born. His psychologists didn't think he was faking. When he said that George Washington or Napoleon or Churchill should have listened to him, they thought he believed it. It was decided that all he was presently good for was to provide a textbook case of delusions of grandeur. His obsession with braiding a beard that was no longer there was also considered interesting.

-

A bomb was found, in a flat in Newcastle. It was crude, but workable; it was more along the lines of a dirty bomb than what was dropped on Hiroshima. It had everything in place except the hot stuff. It was crawling with Tommy Miffitt's fingerprints.

Police found fresh milk in the refrigerator. Miffitt's fingerprints were on the bottle. The obvious closeness of the escape made the pursuers half crazy. Dogs were brought in to sniff out Miffitt's trail, but they went as far as a local bus stop, then looked around in confusion. Miffitt, it was assumed, had taken off in a public bus. Surveillance was set up, but he never returned.

The behind doors betting now took on the weighty problem of wondering if he'd never laid his hands on any nuclear fuel, or if he'd taken it with him when he slipped off.

That the Geiger counters (or, rather, their more sophisticated, ultra-classified modern equivalents) registered only moderately elevated levels of radiation didn't provide much comfort, despite official reassurances that if the readings didn't go off the scale everything was relatively okay.

Self-proclaimed experts theorized that Miffitt might never have taken his plutonium (or uranium, or whatever he had) out of professional grade storage containers, and that's why the readings were so low.

That the real experts, the ones really high up, seemed to have developed an aversion to talking about specific isotopes only added to the worry. The real experts usually liked to dazzle people with their knowledge, including their apparently effortless understanding of the vastly different potentials of different isotopes.

For that matter, suddenly the genuine experts were quietly asking around about odd off-brand radioactive stuff, like cesium and americium. They insisted that their inquiries were routine, and unrelated to Miffitt. The lower-downs wanted to believe that, but found it fishy that all of a sudden they were seeing reports lying about that stated in handy sidebars that it would take the theft of simply hundreds and hundreds of soil testing gauges to pose any real threat from their radioactive components, and that only dozens and dozens of them had gone missing from construction sites and road projects and were therefore presently not where they ought to be. Absent without leave, if you will.

Looking for a silver lining, law enforcement and national security experts told themselves that at least it looked like Tommy Miffitt was only out to kill lots of people, but would likely leave buildings and bridges still standing in his wake. His choice of bomb type suggested that, at least. Law enforcement being the sort of profession that draws people who generally care more about humans than things, this particular silver lining didn't help them much. It helped a little. Infrastructure was important, after all. But it didn't help much.

In hidden back rooms around Britain, dart throwers started throwing darts at pictures of busses. It was annoying sometimes, how convenient and useful public transit could be for crooks.

-

The few women who'd stuck by Richard Hugh after his broken nose and face lacerations found themselves no longer invited to dinners and shows. A couple of them took it personally, but most of them didn't. They liked him for his charm and his taste, and for the free dinners and shows. None had bothered to get to know him as a human being.

At first, the prevalent theory was that the fellow had finally fallen in love. But when he was repeatedly and consistently seen alone, gossip became less charitable, and more medical.

-

Some of the agency doctors thought Richard Hugh seemed too chipper for his post-trauma status or his sudden decline in womanizing, and so hauled him in for repeated checkups. They worried because men who decide to commit suicide very often have a run of happiness right before they kill themselves – a rash of enjoying the lack of pressure after the decision has been made. But they decided that he wasn't suicidal, in part because he was also more prone to periods of anxiety, well hidden, and because he had been showing a markedly increased interest in messages and mail.

He was also doggedly working on the Miffitt case, which the doctors took as a positive sign. He'd been pulled from it because he'd been taking it personally (as well he might). But he'd been reinstated, in part because nearly everyone was taking it personally, and also because he'd proven he could maintain his composure just about as well as anyone else available in the UK. Key word: available. The more usual sorts of terrorists and crooks were stretching law enforcement manpower resources to their limit. The more usual sorts of terrorists and crooks tended to do that, from time to time. Alas, that's how the world was.

The agency doctors, to cover themselves, found studies suggesting that it was a good thing for agents to be assigned to cases that they really cared about, particularly those in which they felt they had a personal stake. To cover themselves further, they found other studies that suggested that this was a very bad thing. They made sure that Zanna Wyatt and other persons in authority got both opinions thrown at them, by different doctors, so that, come what may, the medical department would be able to say "I told you so."

-

Despite the doggedness of agents around the world, Miffitt was still nowhere to be found. Partly they blamed that on the fact that he had, as the London cop had said, a face like everyone's uncle. But mostly, they reluctantly admitted, the man was really, really good at eluding capture. There was still a stubborn resistance to calling him Mighty Planetary Master like he wanted, but there was a growing respect for his ability to fade into society, or out of it, whichever he was doing. Some agents took to calling him The Invisible Man. But most just called him Tommy Miffitt, with appropriate adjectives added, depending on whether ladies were present.

-

Word from France was that Leandre Durand had been transferred to the diplomatic corps and would soon be posted to a high assistant position in the French embassy in Australia.

Perrine was trying to be open-minded about Australia; it seemed a bit coarse to her, from what she'd seen of it on television and read about in the newspapers. The Durand children were beside themselves, imitating kangaroos until their legs couldn't manage one more hop.

-

Of Emma Chapman there was only word that she'd been sent on yet another assignment, again deeply classified. Richard Hugh got a postcard from Mexico, with what appeared to be a standard "Wish You Were Here" sort of message, plus a promise to get back in touch when the job allowed it.

# CHAPTER 46 – INTERNAL REVIEWS, PART 1

The higher-ups in the internal security division were unaware of the medical department's recent investigations of Triple-O Five (not that they would have trusted the medical department's conclusions anyway). Somewhat behind the curve, they caught wind of Richard Hugh behaving oddly. They assigned a woman to tail him, to see if there were any hints of his suddenly developing an affinity for questionable factions inside Syria, or something like that.

The woman dutifully reported that Mr. Hugh had spent 17 minutes inside a store at a greeting card display, and had looked at 23 cards (as best she could tell), some of those multiple times. He'd placed two phone calls, on pre-programmed numbers. He had subsequently received one call.

He'd spoken quietly, and she hadn't been able to get close enough to him during the first call to hear anything, but she had successfully stationed herself where she could pick up on parts of the others.

Her transcription of the second call: "[0005]...No, I can't easily call you back; I'm at the shop now. I want your advice on something... All right, then, as soon as convenient. Goodbye."

Her transcription of the third call: "[0005] Thanks for calling back. Do you think Emma would be offended at a card that mentions money being saved by no longer using hot water for showers and then offers to take her to dinner on the proceeds? I think I could pull it off in person, but I'm a bit worried it might be misread sent through the post... No, I don't have a personal address at present... Knock it off. This isn't funny. I'm at a card display and everything is either too much one thing or another and I don't have the faintest idea what I'm doing, so I thought perhaps humor would be safest?... Oh, you're a lot of help. I thought the French prided themselves on being good at this sort of thing. Tootleloo, then. [Subject rings off abruptly]."

Obviously this was coded communication, the woman said, although in an as-yet-unknown code. Additionally, the subject's body language and tone of voice had suggested that he was dealing with something secretive with high stakes.

She reported that Hugh, after ringing off the third call, had collected a handful of cards almost as if he intended buying the bunch and deciding which to send later. At this point he'd broken into a sweat, and looked at the cards as if they were associated with some sort of significant hazard.

He tried to restore the cards to their proper slots, which proved difficult since he hadn't paid strict attention to where he got them. There was the possibility, she surmised, that he was putting on an act, and pretending to be confused, so that he could put them into a revised pattern as a coded communication to a confederate.

There was also the possibility, she reported, that he had agreed to do something, but had decided at the last moment to back out. She slightly favored this theory.

Assuming her best shop assistant air, she had stepped up and offered to put the cards up for him, to which he had happily assented (which admittedly argued against the coded restocking theory, unless she'd thrown him off his game, of course), and then he left.

Of course, she had not re-shelved the cards. One does not re-shelve possible evidence. Therefore, British taxpayers incurred the expense of nine greeting cards of varying degrees of seriousness.

Much to-do was made of the cards by the investigators, who finally decided that only a profiling expert had a chance of teasing out their full significance.

When he found out that his esteemed colleagues were investigating Richard Hugh for possible disloyalty because of recent uncharacteristic behavior, the profiler collapsed in guffaws. "Don't you geniuses keep up on gossip? He's reported to be head over heels in love with another agent. I thought everyone knew that? This is just the sort of hapless assortment you'd expect from a man in his condition."

The investigators asked if perhaps someone needed to be reassigned, since fraternization within the agency could be so dangerous.

The profiler told them the other agent in Triple-O Five's case was American. This caused the profiler's esteemed colleagues to rapidly reverse course, and ask if perhaps there wasn't a suitable British woman they could steer Hugh toward, since it would hardly be desirable to have someone of his status hanging about with foreigners.

The profiler was a decent man and all in favor of a man choosing his own relationships (within reason, and the better sort of Americans were within reason, as far as he was concerned) so he solemnly vetoed the plan of trying to make Hugh fall for a local gal, and also quashed further investigation, at least in his jurisdiction.

A few days after that, the internal review people temporarily got somewhat exercised over a report that Hugh had been seen looking at a seatbelt buckle and shaking his head, with an indecipherable expression on his face. They finally wrote it off as a car crash survivor still marveling at actually being alive. That tied in with his new habit of giving a friendly pat to the boot of a car before he got in to drive. The man had definitely learned to appreciate a well-built, well-equipped automobile, they decided. This being seen as a healthy trait in a British male, they let the matter drop.

Then Hugh uncharacteristically took a whole weekend off, and went to the beach, where he was seen writing something in the sand with a stick. He wrote it way down on the beach, in the wet sand, between waves, and seemed to enjoy watching the waves wash his handiwork away. With each wash (he repeated the process three times) he seemed to be willing some sort of message westward tending south, or at least that was the impression Dr. Orchard had. Dr. Wesley Orchard of internal review wished to make a name for himself, and so had sacrificed his own weekend plans in order to secretly follow Richard Hugh about. Dr. Orchard noted that Hugh seemed to write the same word each time, that it seemed to be composed of four letters (impossible to tell at a distance, of course), and that it almost certainly represented 15 separate strokes. The first letter appeared to be a capital "E", but Orchard didn't want to bet his professional reputation on it.

Orchard's colleagues, when told on the Monday about this strange performance, were much perplexed, until one of them remembered that the Prime Minister, who was from the same part of the country as Richard Hugh, was known for writing things in the sand, as a play-pretend way of sending messages across the waves. It was some silly tradition from that part of the country, that was all; rather nutty for grownups to be involved in, but harmless enough in its way. The generally held theory was that the PM used the silly activity as a way of coming across as playful and in touch with the common man. It was a dubious ploy, in their professional opinion, but it did seem to play well with certain segments of the voting public.

But Hugh was hardly a politician, out to sway public perception, Orchard noted.

But, then, Hugh was notoriously superstitious, and likely this was some annual ritual that made him feel better, his colleagues replied. The man was eccentric, that was all. Forget about it, they advised.

Dr. Orchard nodded what may have been taken as assent, but behind their backs arranged for testing of unmanned spy aircraft to be conducted where Hugh had gone, on the grounds that he had (he falsely said) a very good tip that a new and unspeakably vicious terrorist group was forming deep underground in Lebanon, with secondary offices in the Ivory Coast, and that they were relaying satellite-conveyed messages to one another along that very beach. If you had to test an aerial spy device somewhere, he said, you might as well test it somewhere you wanted to watch, and kill two birds with one stone.

Dr. Orchard, it may be said, was seriously attached to the concept of killing two birds with one stone whenever and however possible.

# CHAPTER 47 – THE CODED MESSAGE

Zanna Wyatt was in what had been her office, helping her replacement wade through some residual confusion, when the man looked over at one of his monitors and swore. "Ruddy machine keeps garbling things," he said, as he reached over to hit a special delete-and-destroy button on his computer.

Zanna nearly broke his arm. "That's not garble. That's code. Some types of code are supposed to look garbled," she said.

"I knew that," the man said. He wasn't very convincing.

Zanna made a mental note to make sure that the encryption division got word that they might need to search out and reconstruct a few messages that had been sent to the new chief. Or try to, at least. She shuddered to think what might have been lost.

She studied the odd-looking line of letters, numbers, symbols, and assorted misplaced punctuation marks.

"But I don't recognize this code," the new chief ventured to admit.

"You wouldn't. It's an old one. Some of the older American field agents use it to send unofficial messages."

"Why the hell should I be wasting my time reading unofficial American chatter from codgers for?"

"Because sometimes the unofficial stuff is more useful than official dispatches, plus the older agents generally have a better feel for things."

"I knew that," the new man said again. He definitely sounded like he was bluffing.

Zanna briefly considered calling off her engagement, out of sheer panic for 'her agents.' But only briefly. She was madly in love. Besides, if the new chief didn't shape up soon (out of fairness, even top men sometimes were idiots whilst suffering from new-job nerves and confusion), she'd have him demoted, and they'd try again with someone else.

She sent a copy of the message to the code experts, and made a printout for herself. Then she sat down and tried to convince herself that she had read it wrong.

-

"Hello, gorgeous. Any idea what this is about?" Richard said to Darlene Dourlein when he showed up in response to a summons from his new chief.

Darlene shook her head. "He hasn't learned to keep me posted yet."

"Key word in that phrase is yet?"

She smiled slightly, which Richard took as a yes.

"Don't tell him I said this, but new chiefs do take a bit of breaking in, don't they?" he said amiably.

"It's a wonder any of you in the field have any sense of humor left. Did you hear he's been destroying coded messages? He thought they were computer glitches."

"Ah, that explains the screaming and weeping I heard down the hall – and why it seemed most piteous when I walked by the encryption division."

"You should have heard them when they got the news. Once the shock wore off, I mean. Mr. Riley had to be sedated."

"Not really?"

"Have I ever lied to you?"

"No, ma'am. That's too bad about Riley, though. He's close to retirement, isn't he?"

"Two months. He's not very happy with Wyatt, tossing him a new chief this close to his getting out."

A buzzer rang on Darlene's desk. She pushed a button.

"Isn't that Triple-O whatever chap here yet? He's going to be late," the chief whined through the intercom.

"Mr. Hugh has just arrived, sir. Shall I send him in?" Darlene said, with forced calm.

There was a pause, then, with a bit too much dignity, "Yes. I guess I'm ready for him now."

"Yes, sir," Darlene said.

To Richard, when the intercom had been securely shut off, she said, "Try not to break his nose. He shows a teeny bit of promise, really."

Richard's eyes were twinkling as he went into the office. He sat in a comfortable chair instead of the straight-backed hard one set out for his use. He slouched, and crossed his legs. He didn't often cross his legs while wearing Belgian linen slacks, but this new chief needed a bit of intimidating, and striking the right nearly-insubordinate pose was worth a few wrinkles.

Richard tried to look the chief in the eye. He'd found that the man had an annoying habit of looking at something in the air just above a person's right shoulder.

The man, as usual, focused on something imaginary beside his ear.

Undaunted, Richard smiled pleasantly and said, "Office Management 101, sir. Always assume that your secretary is not alone in the outer office, until advised otherwise."

"So you heard, then?"

"It's Triple-O Five, by the way. Better known under most circumstances as Richard Hugh. Never as chap, by the way, unless you mean to rankle."

"I heard you were a smart mouth."

"I heard you were deleting coded messages. There is weeping and rending of clothing up and down the corridors."

"I thought things were supposed to be secret around here!" the chief yelled. He pounded his fist on the desk for good measure. He was, Richard noted, the sort of man who looks ridiculous pounding his fist for emphasis.

Richard answered in a normal voice, calm and not rushed. "I believe you have been misinformed, sir. Anything to do with national security we can take cheerfully to our graves. Anything to do with personal matters or agent safety takes an average of 18 minutes to make the rounds of this floor, and reaches Bangkok by tomorrow noon at the latest."

"That's not fair."

"It's survival, sir."

"Oh, that reminds me. Why I called you here. Some old colleague of yours from America sent a coded message – which I did not delete, thank you very much – saying that some other American you know got smashed to smithereens in that hurricane that hit Mexico. Why I'm delivering personal messages, I don't know. I didn't think it was part of my job, but Mrs. Wyatt said it's not the sort of thing a chief ought to delegate."

Richard fought off a rush of panic. He steadied himself, and decided to make a stab at making the worst-case scenario go away as quickly as possible.

"Emma?" he asked.

"That sounds right. Let me find the decoded note... Here it is... Emma Chapman."

"How bad?"

"Dead. Didn't I say that already? What do you think smashed to smithereens means, anyway?"

# CHAPTER 48 – INTERNAL REVIEWS, PART 2

He didn't have a good picture of her, not really. Not one that did her justice.

He hadn't quite dared to take any of her himself, for fear the gadget that housed them might fall into the wrong hands, for fear she might think he was crowding her or hurrying her, or compromising her safety – for fear, if he wanted to be honest with himself, that he might give his own fanciful heart a bit too much encouragement by playing around like that, or having her image always at hand.

There were file photos, plus Durand sent him snapshots that Perrine, blithely ignorant of the dangers, had snapped of Emma in Savannah. But they didn't capture the essence of the woman. Together they added up toward a good picture, but they fell short, somehow.

He got his hands on CCTV images from when he, she, and Durand were walking around asking about the man who'd tailed them in the stolen cab, not knowing yet that it was Tommy Miffitt. He also obtained a shot of her from a newspaper, showing her giving first aid to the fallen policewoman. He wished he could turn back the hands of time, and play that whole sequence of events differently. He wished he'd somehow stopped Miffitt from hurting anyone. He wished, at the very least, that he'd defied Durand and stuck by Emma at the crime scene, and not left her to wander into a mugger's path, alone.

He wished... a lot of things, really.

Most of all he wished he'd found more time to be together with Emma, just the two of them.

He thought of that morning in the safe house, when she'd messed up on the dress buttons. He rubbed his finger gently over the buttons in one of the pictures, remembering her look as he redid them. How it changed. From wariness to wonder. He'd longed to talk to her after that, alone, but circumstances had moved in on them. He rubbed the buttons again, trying to touch a memory that didn't hurt.

-

Richard tried to think how many times Tommy Miffitt had driven him about, and driven him half mad in the process, with his endless prying and posturing. Dozens of times, probably, when they were both younger.

One of the first things Richard had done when he got senior enough to throw his weight around was to politely request that he not have to put up with Miffitt as a driver, if it wasn't necessary. It had probably been years since he'd had to work with the man – yet, surely he should have been able to properly remember the man when it mattered: not just the face, but the name, the agency connection.

Richard tried to ease his guilt by noting that Miffitt in agency mode and Miffitt at loose on the street had been like two different men. The one he'd known was a sniveling sort of creature. The madman version had been pumped up with his own importance, and feasting off people's fear. But then again, Miffitt had been standing there, daring him to remember him.

Richard had nightmares of shooting sprees starring people he knew but couldn't recognize until too late because they were in berserk mode, or older than he remembered them.

-

Mistake upon mistake, he'd been given a second chance with Emma in Savannah, and had missed that, too. It was funny how a man's life could seem to collapse into a pile of lost chances.

There'd seemed time enough to talk to her after he'd managed to get his head clear and his face completely healed and his life back together. He'd wanted to give her something big and whole and neatly tied together. He'd wanted to give her himself big and whole and together, if it came right down to it.

-

He'd wanted more than anything to help her. To hold her. To make the world go away. To look into those accepting eyes, those eyes that saw past his face and his smart clothes and polished manners, and still seemed to like what they saw.

That was nearly the worst of it, knowing he'd found someone who'd somehow come to know him, and honor him, and not knowing if it was possible to find that again.

There was more, of course. Worse. Specific to Emma.

How could a woman get inside a man's heart like that? How could she rip it so severely when she left, even without meaning to?

How could a woman get inside a man's head like that? He'd planned a lifetime of being in control; and there she'd been, invading his thoughts at every turn.

-

He found out that the seven hundred dollar donation in the collection plate wasn't, in some ways, out of bounds for her. She'd always found ways to tithe, usually in fits and starts out of a fund she let build up between times. The money went quietly and anonymously into red kettles at Christmas, or St. Vincent de Paul might get a donation now and then, or Samaritan's Purse, or The Alliance Defense Fund, or the Acton Institute, or Prison Fellowship, or a Christian maternity home. But sometimes she managed to attend a church service, and that church would get her offering, usually hidden in an unsigned envelope.

Not many people knew about it, but those who did were certain that she made sure God got at least His full ten percent over the course of any given year. But she always did it quietly.

For her to have tied her tithing to a dramatic public experiment in honesty was a shock to him after he learned that. She must have been unspeakably in need of something, he thought.

Certainly he'd thought so at the time, or so he told himself.

He was now convinced that he had taken her hand and led her away from Durand and his wife, instead of her leading him away. In his mind, he was also sure that he'd invited Emma to lunch without any prompting, so the two of them could talk. And flirt. He was convinced that he'd firmly decided ahead of time to be very personal, for a change. In his recollections, he'd firmly taken the initiative.

What he had seared without alteration into his memory was that when they had finally, at that lunch, dared to look into each other's eyes as man and woman, and not agent and agent, she'd invited him to come closer. And he had. Gratefully. Earnestly. Hungrily. Hopefully. Or at least he had started to. But just then, naturally, just their luck, Emma had seen Mrs. Wyatt and Pat, and it was back to business again. There had seemed time to get back to her. There had seemed time.

He remembered nibbling on her knuckle in the restaurant, and how she hadn't pulled away. Surely there had been promise in that small gesture?

-

Even after Zanna Wyatt's briefing on Emma's background, when he'd felt half-desperate to look into Emma's eyes again and find the hurt and slay however much of it he could, he remembered that he'd been resigned to wait until it was convenient for the two of them to get back together. What sort of man was he, acting like he always had all the time in the world?

-

He had so looked forward to telling Emma about catching Alan Padgett.

He wished now that he'd insisted that she go with him to California. She'd brought them the information needed to crack the case. She should have been there, instead of in Savannah waiting to get called away, waiting to be steered eventually to the coast of Mexico during hurricane season – most likely to trail Tommy Miffitt, a murderer on the loose because of his own criminal forgetfulness.

Sometimes Richard hated himself.

-

He sent the Salvation Army money. Not in her name, or anything like that. That was too much like wearing one's grief on one's sleeve. He started investigating other charitable groups Emma had reportedly favored. But he didn't tell anybody.

-

He picked up another picture of her from the crowd camera, an image of the two of them in a sea of strangers. She was so short. It fascinated him, to have a perspective where he could see the difference in their heights.

He'd turned away from her, and she was looking up at him. The look on her face was forgiving, he thought, and patient. She looked like she thought there was all the time in the world for things to work out right.

He gently ran a fingertip over her hair in the image.

How had he ever thought her plain? He wondered at that. Someone with that much life and love in her wasn't the least plain. It was impossible to understand how anyone could ever think so. Her inner beauty radiated, even in pictures. What sort of blindness had kept that from him for so long? Willful blindness, he suspected. The blindness of a man overly protective of his own heart, he decided.

-

He wondered what she'd think of him, and his silliness about shampoo and soap.

She hadn't worn scent. The closest he could come was the fresh smell of soap and shampoo that had surrounded her when he'd done up her dress for her, shortly after her shower. At first, he hadn't been able to bear the smell, and so had purged his bathroom of anything that smelled too much like what had been at the safe house. Then he hadn't been able to stand being without her smell, and so had stocked his bathroom with products identical to those at the safe house.

When it occurred to him that the products might go as needlessly out of fashion as they had meaninglessly come into fashion, he told himself that was a good thing, because it would force him to move on if he couldn't restock just that shampoo or soap.

A few days later he abruptly reversed course, and went out and bought enough to last about five years. His (admittedly feeble) excuse was that it was unmanly to let the whims of a corporation make his decisions for him.

He seesawed between keeping the stockpiled soap and shampoo hidden away, and having it where it should be if it were nothing but regular reserves.

-

He wondered what she would have thought about him and his problem with dirty dishes. He could force himself to prepare food, and he could force himself to sit down and eat it. But sometimes after that he would more or less circle around his flat, avoiding the kitchen.

The dirty dishes reminded him of Emma coming into the safe house bedroom and saying she hated being told to do dishes.

As a general rule, he had never much minded washing up after a meal. It was just one of those things a man did to keep his life tidy.

Sometimes, as he circled the flat getting up nerve to face the dishes, he wondered if he had made his life too tidy.

He experimented with leaving dirty dishes in the sink, only washing when he had accumulated a sink's worth. It felt too much like conceding defeat.

-

In a car, he couldn't buckle his safety belt without thinking of Emma – of how she'd been fearless about an armed kidnapper and a mysterious midnight prowler, but had been afraid of switches and latches and seat belt buckles, and of meeting the Prime Minister – but only because of his birthday.

It didn't do to remember that they shared the same birthday, especially since he no longer believed the old bedtime story – or maybe he did. It was the twins you didn't know who would sneak up from behind and hurt you, after all. Not an all-too-human woman who looked you square in the eye, again and again. For that matter, it didn't do to think of bedtime stories. It conjured up images of Emma's embarrassment when she finally noticed that the safe house couch was a sofa bed.

It also conjured up more images, less funny, more painful, and sometimes unspeakably lonely or haunting. Sometimes he stared at his bed, where she should be in it.

-

Poetry had come to bother him. He lost count of the times he woke up in the small hours with "There is a budding morrow in midnight" (Keats) ricocheting in his head.

It had been a reassuring thought, in better days: tomorrow always comes.

The sun always rises.

Sometimes, these days, he wished it didn't.

-

Some days he definitely had better hold of himself than others.

The day he found the note from the teenagers to Emma, the one to go with the negligee they'd snuck into her shopping bag – that was a bad day.

He found it at his front company office, when he looked in his jacket pocket for something else. He'd forgotten about the note. To find it accidentally was a shock. Without wanting to, he wondered what Emma would have thought about the negligee, all lace and fabric scraps. The wondering hit him like a wave.

He didn't realize he'd sat down until he heard a reassuring cooing of sorts and felt a motherly hand on his shoulder, and looked up to see his secretary. Mrs. Shaw fed him tea and biscuits. She was wonderfully old-fashioned that way. She had tea ready at the drop of a hat, if anyone got upset.

He couldn't decide what to do with the note. It upset him, infuriated him, but he couldn't bring himself to tear it up or throw it away. That Emma had been more or less adopted by a pack of mad-looking adolescents was, in its way, one of the sweeter memories.

The negligee had been in the boot of Durand's car when it was smashed. What had happened to the negligee after that, Richard didn't know. Emma had never mentioned it, and he'd been too embarrassed to bring the subject up. Probably his agency or Durand's had it, in its costume section, if it hadn't been thrown away. He'd wondered about it in Savannah, but had shoved the thought from his mind. Once back in London, he'd walked through a few lingerie sections, doing reconnaissance, thinking of what he might buy her, if he ever got to the point he thought he could or should. After that, he'd decided he should start with greeting cards. Much safer, cards were.

-

One particularly bad day he rather desperately took a very short woman of high social standing and low morals to a hotel, then backed out with confused mumblings about how he never should have asked her out in the first place. Her low morals not being satisfied in the anticipated way, the woman pleased herself by spreading gossip, somewhat embellished, about the man who jilted her.

At least he'd had the sense to stop his mumbling before he got to the part of the explanation about wanting to see how a tall man could work things out physically with a short woman. It was the truth, but entirely pathetic and unworthy, he thought.

Having mortified himself, he declared a moratorium on dating, and threw himself back into his work.

At night, he'd lie awake and wonder which way to go with what was left of his life. He was fairly sure, most nights, that although he might marry someday, he was through playing around. Anything but marriage smacked of half measures now. Perhaps, he thought, it smelled of cowardice, too. He didn't much like that thought, but there it was.

In any case, he decided, there was no time left over until Miffitt was caught. He owed her that. The Mighty Planetary Master mess had been her case; had been, moreover, what had brought her to England. He must help to close it.

-

He tried a few times to get more information from the Americans. At first, all he got were messages that translated, roughly, as "Who? Never heard of the woman."

Then he got one that plainly came across as, "We can't tell you anything. Lives are at stake. Shut up and go away."

This didn't make much sense. But then, in his opinion, at a certain level of any bureaucracy the bureaucrats believed religiously that whatever they were doing was life and death for somebody. It was how they justified their tedious hours behind desks, their astonishing paychecks, and their coveted security clearances.

Although it didn't make sense, he'd been an agent too long to ignore the order to cease and desist. So he kept his questions to himself.

That is not to say he stopped wondering.

His mind played cruel tricks on him. He accepted that he might never see Emma Chapman again, but once the initial shock wore off he refused to believe that she was dead.

Not yet. Notifications were not proof. He would wait. He knew denial was part of the usual grieving process, but he refused to believe that his grief would play by the rules. His life hadn't. Besides, it didn't feel like she was dead. He'd had a premonition when his favorite grandmother had died. When the phone rang, he had known what the news would be. When he received news of his father's death, he'd accepted the news with the certainty that it was true, if unexpected. Sometimes a person just knew.

-

He put the pictures of Emma, and her Mexican postcard, in a drawer, and turned in a letter stating that he planned to resign once the Miffitt case was over.

There were other things he could do. He was, when you got down to it, a quite good money manager. It wasn't just that he could talk geared zeroes with the best of them, or had been one of the few people on the planet with a healthy wariness of a certain generation of split capital trusts. He had a feel for risk levels versus potential when it came to investments, and a knack for growing portfolios honestly. It could be quite satisfying to increase wealth for people who trusted him, not to mention the being able to look himself in the mirror afterward, win or lose.

He also hadn't been to Mexico in a long, long time. Maybe they'd still need help rebuilding from the hurricane. When he got there, it wouldn't be his fault if he accidentally learned something.

-

He went to the beach and wrote her name in the sand and let the waves wash it away, pretending that somewhere, somehow, she would know he was thinking of her. He was of two minds as he did it: part of him was trying to let go, part of him was trying to connect.

At one level he was just trying to connect with something bigger than himself. Oceans were good that way, he thought. They presented you with something obviously much bigger than yourself.

-

An amazing variety of people let drop that they were praying for him. He'd been led to believe that only intellectual Neanderthals believed in intercessional prayer. So much for that theory.

That his emotional pain surfaced now and then enough for people to notice bothered him. On the other hand, he found it strangely touching that people were, after their own fashion, trying to keep him connected to and held up by the good guy side of the universe.

-

What with one thing and another he started to feel better. More normal. Some days he wondered why he'd ever fussed. He and Emma hadn't actually been all that close, after all. There'd been a lot of potential, but they hadn't been all that close, after all.

-

What with one thing and another, he had to admit she might be dead. Was probably dead. He'd better get used to it.

Sometimes he could.

Sometimes he couldn't.

To save his sanity he started dwelling on the good memories, letting himself smile at them instead of fight them.

Besides, hadn't one of her greatest gifts to him been nothing more or less than proving that a person could successfully move on after even the worst of calamities? Hadn't she done so again and again? Wouldn't it be pathetic, probably ungrateful, perhaps even disloyal, not to pick up the pieces of his life and forge ahead?

Wouldn't she want him to do that?

-

Durand called. "Hallo. I hope this is a good time to talk?"

"As good as any."

"Ask me how it is going in Australia."

"Why?"

"So that I can tell you that it is better today than yesterday."

"I'll bite. Why is it better today than yesterday?"

"Because this morning a joint French and Australian operation captured five terrorists who intended to take over a school and kill everyone in it."

"Congratulations."

"Thank you, but I need your help."

"Nice try."

"What?"

"You don't have to find work for me to do, to make me feel useful."

"Stop being paranoid. It doesn't suit you. We captured five terrorists, and confiscated more weapons than were decent for them to have, and seized their computers and their planning sheets and the pictures they had of the school grounds and the inside of the school, and the model they built from the pictures, and the videos they meant to have released to the imbeciles of the press who accommodate them. But there are about fifteen more of them running loose, so far as we know, and they seem to answer to someone in the UK, and while others of our side are notifying the larger agencies, I have been authorized to brief the chief of MI5½ if I feel it would be useful, which I do, but I am having a brain block and cannot for the life of me remember who the new chief is. Name, please."

"Stolemaker. Andrew Stolemaker."

"Thank you. I am glad I asked. I had thought it was something else."

"Until two days ago it was."

"You are chewing through chiefs, if you don't mind me saying so."

"This one reportedly has a head on his shoulders."

"But he is new! Will he stop rearranging the furniture long enough to listen properly?! Will he listen to someone at my level?! Will he understand what I am saying?!"

"Durand? This wasn't by any chance a school attended by any of your children?"

"You have heard already?"

"No. You just seemed more rattled than usual."

"I would not say that I am rattled."

"Bad choice of words on my part."

"I have carefully cultivated the idea that I am unflappable regarding threats against my own family. When I admit to even having a family, of course."

"No one will hear any different from me."

"I do not expect you to understand, you being a bachelor, but the family a man makes is different from one he inherits."

"No doubt. Let me know if I need to light a fire under anybody."

"I will."

"Durand, for what it's worth, I've seen you pull out all the stops to help total strangers."

"Nice try."

"What?"

"You do not have to go out of your way to pretend that I am being professional."

"Stop being paranoid. It doesn't suit you."

-

Richard stopped staring at safety belt buckles, but acquired a habit of absent-mindedly rubbing the shoulder belt.

The new habit drove the internal affairs people and the agency doctors half batty.

For one thing, they didn't know whether to be surprised or glad that it wasn't a rabbit's foot. So incredibly many of the field agents had a rabbit's foot at hand at odd moments just to annoy the internal affairs people, and the internal affairs people knew it. The highly trained psychology experts resented that field agents wanted to annoy them. After all, they were only there to help the field agents, now weren't they?

Triple-O Five, at least, didn't seem to be rubbing seat belts to harass anybody. He just seemed to be doing it, rather unconsciously, like some people scratch their nose when they're thinking, but don't realize they're scratching their nose. Still, it was worrisome, so they called him in for a counseling session, after which he never rubbed a seat belt again.

This rapid cure was counted as a medical coup by the experts, who never entertained the unlearned notion that a grown man might, without their help, apply himself to eliminating a heedless and harmless quirk that had brought lunatic counselors down on his head.

-

His newest chief had mixed feelings about Richard Hugh's proposed resignation.

Stolemaker called Richard in, looked him square in the eye, and said he was counting on him being honest about his own fitness. He offered a holiday, if that would help any. Richard said he'd think about it, but right now he thought he'd go nuts if he didn't stay on Tommy Miffitt's tail. The chief obliged him by keeping him on the case.

Stolemaker tracked down what information he could get on Richard and his recent troubles. Then he tried to pin down what the relationship had been with Emma Chapman. For all he could tell, Richard hadn't quite decided if he was in love with the woman. Certainly there'd been no public declarations. That made things tricky. The chief considered asking Richard point blank, but decided against it. To some degree, it was pointless. The man was hurt, that was obvious, but if he was holding together the details were merely a matter of curiosity, the chief decided.

He wondered at the enforced idleness in Savannah. He wasn't sure if he could've kept from going loopy if he'd been in Richard's shoes. And that had just been for recuperating from a car wreck and savage beating. Getting over a woman's death had to be worse.

He decided that if Richard didn't keep himself very busy right now, he'd find extra work for the man. Not make-work stuff either. Something tough. Something that required concentration and skill. A good man shouldn't be mollycoddled, he thought. He should be given proper challenges, or else an attractive redundancy offer to get him out of the way. That at least freed a man to do other things with what was left of his earthly life.

-

Stolemaker shook his head. Just his luck, he'd inherited a department in which roughly 60 percent of the employees were eligible for retirement within three years. Another man might have rejoiced at the chance to bring on so many of his own people and train them fresh. But Stolemaker's common sense said he'd be better off with a goodly percentage of highly experienced and battle-tested people he could keep for a long time, if they proved worthy of retention.

His common sense also told him it was no good playing at what-ifs. He asked his sub-department heads what they thought of a push to recruit more people in their thirties and forties, so that the place wouldn't suddenly find itself overrun with people who were barely weaned.

He was surprised how many of his subordinates knew people in their fifties they wanted to snag from elsewhere. That hadn't been quite what he had in mind, but he told them he'd think about it.

# CHAPTER 49 – MANY HAPPY RETURNS

The Prime Minister's official birthday party was very big and quite crowded and notably noisy. Zanna was the woman of the hour.

Members of the press, rather fond, in their own ornery way, of the man she was soon to marry, were delighted with how the betrothed man and woman gazed at each other in semiprivate moments. The photographers and reporters outdid themselves trying to record and transmit the sense of mature and dignified passion along to the public.

At long last, the couple of honor was allowed to say goodbye and proceed to a more private setting.

Unbeknownst to the press, the Prime Minister had arranged a smaller party in his small library – just he and Zanna, her mentor, and Richard Hugh, cozily in amongst the books. They were attended by staff members who knew how to knock and then to wait for permission to enter. (The Prime Minister considered finally acquiring topnotch household help to be one of the more satisfying coups of his administration.)

"Thank you for coming. This one's yours," the Prime Minister said to Richard. "Too bad you couldn't attend the main event, but I couldn't let the day go by without wishing you a happy birthday." He raised a cup of coffee in salute.

Because her mentor was watching her closely, Zanna raised her coffee with her left hand. Her mentor broke into gales of laughter, to see her so valiantly being non-superstitious (as he saw it).

"Something I need to know about?" the Prime Minister asked the gnarled old man.

"No, sir. I think not. Although I would like to say for the record that you're getting one of the most, um, determined women in the British realm."

The Prime Minister took it as a compliment, and beamed.

Zanna knew it was at least something of a stab, and also knew that the gnarled old man was willfully pretending she was being valiant instead of faithful, but decided not to set the record straight. At least not there and then.

Richard had no idea what was going on, but decided it would be ungentlemanly of him to ask. Besides, he wasn't sure that he cared.

There was a knock at the door. It sounded like the 'we have things well in hand but you probably ought to know about it right now' variety of knock that world leaders have to learn to expect now and then. Everyone in the room stiffened.

"Come in," the Prime Minister said.

An aide opened the door and stood at the threshold. "There's a lady here insisting upon seeing you," he said, with a twinkle in his eye.

This had everyone baffled. The only lady who ought to be showing up at late hours and being introduced with an obvious twinkle in the eye was already in the room.

"I've got a present for you," Emma Chapman said, sticking her head into view around the aide.

The Prime Minister, before he caught himself, did some sort of hex sign in Emma's direction, followed immediately, and guiltily, with the sign of the cross.

"Oh, is that our recently deceased American agent?" Zanna's mentor said, with apparent amusement. "I didn't know they still played that game."

"Not often, I don't think. But they wanted me off the books rather badly, I guess," Emma said cheerfully. She turned her attention to the Prime Minister. "May I come in, sir? I really do have a present for you."

"My dear, you are gift enough," the Prime Minister said, recovering his usual topflight politician's equilibrium. "Come in. Come in." He swept her up in a quick hug across the shoulders, totally appropriate for a man committed heart and soul to a fiancée, but delighted to see a visitor who happened to be feminine.

Emma nodded at Zanna's mentor. "It depends on this gentleman's security clearance, I guess, how much of your present you get right now."

"He's good for whatever you can lob at us," the Prime Minister said.

Emma handed him a videophone.

The Prime Minister took it gingerly. "The United States hasn't declared war on us in the last twenty minutes, or anything like that?" he asked, looking at the phone like it might be booby-trapped and Emma as if she might be some sort of cheerful, underhanded assassin.

"Oh, don't tell me that you like the more-sophisticated gadgets as much as I do?" Emma said.

"Is this some kind of special phone?" he asked.

"I think so. Especially this little speed-dial button here."

"You would like for me to press it, I take it?"

"Or I can. The bottom line is that I'd like you to talk to the folks on the other end of the line."

The Prime Minister pressed the button. When the phone was answered, the video screen showed Felicity, the young woman from the special labs. Felicity looked like she was ready to bust with news. "Hello, sir. Has she told you what's up?"

"No."

"Oh, good. We told her we wanted to be in on the surprise. Hang on." The screen showed that Felicity was jogging through the facility. Finally, after nearly inducing seasickness in the Prime Minister, she stopped. She proudly said "Happy Birthday, sir! And Many Happy Returns!" as she redirected the phone to show a man bound hand and foot.

"Get me the hell out of here!" Tommy Miffitt yelled.

"That is no way whatsoever to talk to a Prime Minister," Felicity scolded. She turned the phone back toward herself and walked away from the captive. "Don't take it personal, sir. He's been abusing anybody he can yell at, this one has."

"I apologize. I'll try to get him off your hands as soon as possible," the Prime Minister said.

"He'd probably appreciate that, sir. Other drivers are in charge of making sure he doesn't escape. They took it rather to heart when one of their own turned out to be a murderer, sir."

"Well, you must tell them that I don't blame drivers in general, then."

"No one thought you would, sir. I think it's more that they were offended personally. They take a lot of pride in what they do, you see."

"I'll get right on it," the Prime Minister promised.

"Oh, finish your parties if you want. We have things well in hand. Thank Mrs. Chapman again for us, though, will you? She's who handed him over to us."

"I shall, thank you."

"Goodbye, sir."

After the phone connection was cut off, everyone in the room stared at Emma.

"Anything to drink besides coffee?" she asked. "Tea perhaps?"

The Prime Minister rang for tea. To his surprise, one of his aides was already standing outside the door with a tea tray. The man swept in, poured tea into a cup, added sugar and cream, stirred, and handed the cup to Emma.

"Thank you," Emma said.

"You're welcome, Mrs. C.," the aide said. He bowed, winked, and left, leaving the tea tray behind him, along with the impression that he'd just served a cherished friend, if not a goddess of some sort.

The Prime Minister checked to make sure the door was securely closed before he spoke.

"You know Higgins?" he asked Emma.

"Not really. He and I crossed paths in Tibet years ago. Spent five or six days trying not to die in a bad storm. Got rescued together by nomads and spent another several days recovering enough to walk out of the country. It's not like we've kept in touch."

"Right," the Prime Minister said. There didn't seem much else to say, unless he wanted to admit that he'd had no idea that his faithful servant Anthony Clive Higgins had ever been out of England, much less to a rather odd location like Tibet, or that the fellow could possibly know an American spy, much less one from a not-generally-acknowledged sub-agency.

Emma turned to Richard, who was mutely sitting where he'd more or less collapsed when she walked into the room. "I didn't know I'd been declared dead until I called your labs today. Otherwise, I would've gotten word to you before this. After I did get the news, I was up to my eyeballs, trying to get Miffitt properly stashed without letting Hoddel and his crew pick up on anything that might be secret. After that–"

"Hoddel? Not Frank Hoddel?" Zanna said.

"Yes," Emma said, dutifully changing the direction of her concentration. "You might say we subcontracted part of this job." From a flicker that snuck loose on a corner of her face, it was suggested that it had not been her idea; that, perhaps, she had fought against the plan, and still wasn't proud of it, even though it had been successful.

She turned to the Prime Minister. "I'll have to leave it to my superiors to decide how many of the details get shipped to you and yours, but, long story short: Hoddel and company found Miffitt and his bomb stuff. I had the primary responsibility of extracting Miffitt from their clutches, and for various reasons it didn't seem to be something I was going to be able to dilly-dally over, so I fobbed the radioactive stuff straight off onto MI6. I hope that was all right?"

"Quite. So, you can verify it's secure?"

"I can verify a team was on scene when I left."

"Fair enough. Thank you. We'll take it from here. One question, though. Are we talking just a little bad stuff, or a lot of bad stuff? Enough, say, to decimate a large portion of London?"

Emma nodded. "Depending on how it was disseminated, of course."

"Of course," the Prime Minister said.

"If I understand this right, if Miffitt's setup had gone off as planned, the major results would likely have been along the lines of moderate illness, plus real estate that might be off-limits or, at best, very cheap for a few generations. It's not like some poison gas where you're apt to have mass death all at once. Not that a massive kill-off wasn't possible, I guess. Just not likely. As I understand it. Which is iffy."

"Somebody remind me that every age has its man-caused plagues, will you?" the Prime Minister said.

"I can give you the nastiest list of ancient terrors you can imagine," the gnarled old man said. "I'll have it on your desk in the morning, if you'd like. Sieges, burning of witches, drawing and quartering, hanging of five-year-olds for petty theft, you name it. Honestly, we're comparatively civilized these days."

"I know. Sometimes, though, I need a bit of reminding."

"Just so long as you remember that the reason we're so civilized overall is the constant work of soldiers and spies, we'll be all right."

The Prime Minister smiled. "I do like to think that common cops, and churches, mums, dads, grandparents, and perhaps even us mere politicians and diplomats fit into the picture somewhere. That's not to mention teachers, judges, the man with the corner shop who looks out for his neighbors–"

The gnarled old man snorted. "In a way, of course you're right. But you'd never hold the lines by yourselves, and that's a fact."

The Prime Minister acknowledged the point: whether it was because he agreed or whether he was being diplomatic was open to some question.

Emma sipped some tea, then set the half-full cup down. "Well, if you'll excuse me, I didn't mean to crash your party," she said as she headed for the door, with just the slightest sideways glance at Richard.

"Oh, no you don't," the Prime Minister said. "This is your birthday party, too. Happy Birthday, my dear triplet." He raised his coffee cup.

Emma retrieved her teacup, and raised it to meet the toast. "I'm not so sure I'm glad that you brought that up," she said, smiling.

"Tough," the Prime Minister said, smiling back. "I intend bringing it up – behind closed doors, of course – until we all get over the willies about it."

"Actually, the worry about meeting you proved worse than the reality," Emma said.

"That's usually the case, but good for you for taking notice. Here's to another year then, God willing," the Prime Minister said, raising his cup again.

Everyone in the room raised a cup in salute.

Zanna noticed during the toast that her mentor had somehow got fingers crossed on both of his arthritic hands. He sent her a pitiful look that begged her not to say anything about his finally succumbing to silly safeguards against imaginary dangers.

"And here's to my retirement, I guess," Emma said.

"Retirement?" the Prime Minister asked.

"When I reported that Miffitt was in proper custody, they told me that I'd finished my last case; or, more specifically, that I'm done as soon as the debriefings and reports are done to their satisfaction. It's not as nice a birthday present as you got, I don't think. But since I'm not in a position to argue, I guess I'll try to be gracious about it. Besides, the fellow who gave me the news acted like he thought I'd be glad to finally have achieved the chance to take off. He might actually believe it. Of course, he's not yet 30 years old, dreams of living on the beach fulltime, and thinks I'm ancient and decidedly showing signs of wear."

"What are you going to do?" Zanna asked.

"Haven't the faintest idea. To be fair, though, the boss has been dropping heavy hints that I'd already lasted longer than anybody else on his force. So it didn't come as a complete surprise. But I didn't dare let myself think further ahead than Miffitt. That guy took a little concentration to catch up to, I'll give him that."

"Where are you planning on living?" the Prime Minister asked.

"Haven't decided yet. There were some things I wanted to find out, before I decided that." She glanced, almost imperceptibly, at Richard.

The Prime Minister rubbed his hands together in an oversize display of glee. "I haven't been able to offer harbor to anybody with really useful experience and talents in a long time..." He looked sideways at Richard. "And I suppose, while we're at it, madam, we should help you get a new name..."

"Oh, darling! Look at the time," Zanna said. She herded her fiancé and her mentor through the door. "We were just leaving," she called out, as she closed the door behind her.

"Feeling a bit blindsided, I shouldn't wonder?" Emma said to Richard.

"A bit."

"Sorry."

"Not your fault."

"Not most of it. I made some silly assumptions, though."

"Like not knowing you were dead?"

"Well, yes. That one did stun me. I think I'm still partially deaf from Felicity squealing at me. Enthusiastic young woman, that girl."

"No question."

"I should have had her drop you a message. She could have figured something out."

"I'll survive."

That brought the conversation to a halt. Emma poured Richard more coffee. He reciprocated by pouring her more tea, and serving her a piece of birthday cake.

"Do you like England?" he asked.

"Depends."

"On what?"

"On you."

That also brought the conversation to a halt. But this time the silence was more pleasant, once Richard decided to try for a kiss, and met with no objection. For that matter, a fair amount of encouragement.

When she came up for air, Emma said, "I used to hate my birthday."

"Mmmph," he managed, as he dug his face into her neck.

"Coming exactly a week before Halloween, it made for a lot of bad jokes about being close to a spook."

"Mmmph," he said. He could feel her cheek against him, and it felt as if she might be smiling. He drew back for a look. Sure enough. She was smiling. "Oh, and are you calling me a spook?" he inquired.

She wiped a stray tear from his face, one that had got past his careful wiping of the others on her collar. "Not nearly dignified enough, is it?" she said. "Spies being called spooks, I mean."

"Who cares?" he asked. As soon as it was out of his mouth, he wished he hadn't said it, at least not like that. It mattered incredibly what Emma thought about him.

"I don't know the proper order to say this in," she said, struggling with her words. "But I'd like to say what I feel about you, but I'll be darned if I'll do it in some British variation on the Oval Office. Too Clintonish, if you know what I mean."

"Er, right," he said, embarrassed. He'd forgotten they were in the Prime Minister's library. It didn't feel a proper sort of place to be smooching, at that. "And I suppose you're still afraid of my cars," he said.

She nodded. "And we'd embarrass ourselves silly in public, what with all the wet eyes all round and the fact that I'm not sure I could keep from staring at you and, uh... well... and..." She sat, and tossed her hands in the air. She laughed.

Richard noted with amazement that it wasn't like any woman's laugh he'd heard before. There wasn't anything calculated or self-conscious about it. Sheer happiness, that's what it was. He looked into her eyes, and saw trust and acceptance. Also desire. Also admiration and respect. He'd been feeling wobbly and shaky and at least somewhat unsure of himself since she'd walked in. Suddenly he felt strong as an ox. "We'll think of something," he said. He helped her to her feet and escorted her out the door before he had a chance to forget again where he was.

As they went down the hall, the Prime Minister's clarion voice rang out after them. "Do try and convince her that Brits are better than Yankees, old son. Any means necessary!"

There didn't seem to be a decent response to that, so the pair of them ducked out into the night without a word.

"I doubt you're helping things, darling," Zanna said to her intended, as she hauled him back behind closed doors.

"Doubt at this point I could hurt anything, eh?" the Prime Minister said, chuckling. "And I owe Richard a bit of a bad time, anyway. I never have got even with him for the time he rowed me out to an island and then left without me."

"I thought you told me you asked him to take you out there and come back in two days, so you could prove yourself a proper Robinson Crusoe or something?"

"Oh, I did. But the fellow ought to have known better than to go along with the plan. I haven't the makings of a Crusoe. I had a rotten time of it."

"Didn't you tell me he came to your rescue somehow or another?"

"In a manner of speaking, I suppose you could say that."

"Yes, and even though you'd panicked and swum to a nearby island, where no one could be expected to come looking for you?"

"I don't think I'd like to say that I panicked."

"You were nine years old, for pity's sake."

"Still... By the way, darling, have I told you that you look positively stunning today?"

"And he came by that day, even though it was a day early, just to make sure you were all right?"

"You don't sidetrack easily, do you?"

"I thought you said that was one of the things you loved about me?" Her eyes twinkled.

"Yes, but let's not overdo it, shall we?" he said. For good measure, he swept her into his arms and smothered her with kisses.

# CHAPTER 50 – PUTTING THE PIECES INTO PLACE, PART 1

Months later, two men sat in the Prime Minister's library to hold a private chat.

"So," the Prime Minister asked, "Which was the original Mighty Planetary Master, and which was the copycat?"

"Take your pick at this point," the prosecutor said. "Padgett says he's Numero Uno. So does Miffitt. They each frame it in the form of saying that hiring the other fellow was the worst mistake of his life, but they do corroborate that they coordinated their attacks so they could throw people off their trails, and so they wouldn't accidentally bump two people off in a way that would need time warps if it was one person."

"Padgett seems to be back among the reasoning?"

"Oh, yes. It's a pretty safe bet he was fooling the psycho experts, at least to some degree. It's also a safe bet that he's not normal, either. But once Miffitt showed up and started claiming credit for being one of the world's biggest bad men ever, Padgett rather immediately forgot Napoleon and George Washington. Couldn't wait to light into his former good friend Tommy, calling him a lousy imposter."

"What's your hunch, at this point?" the Prime Minister asked.

"My hunch, and some of the evidence, suggests that they got drunk together one night when Padgett was nursing his sense of humiliation at being demoted and shipped overseas to an embassy post, and Miffitt was simultaneously feeling stepped over when he couldn't get promoted out of the motor pool. And they came up with this plan. Two meager minds adding up to one seriously warped one, something like that."

"But why?"

"The usual reason. They couldn't manage to be big shots any normal way, so they figured out a way to kick anybody better than them in the shin. Basic bully stuff."

"A little more sophisticated, I'd say."

"Oh, certainly. They had the training to be more sophisticated. Padgett went very high in the American game, only getting demoted when he wouldn't keep his hands off the females who were trying to work with him. Miffitt never got very high, but he kept aiming there, and we kept obliging him with all the training he was willing to undergo, for the most part. What it's looking like at this point is that for a longish time they nursed the idea along. Then, after Padgett did his disappearing act, he got hold of Miffitt and bragged about it, and they decided that they were suddenly charmed or something, and they kicked things into motion. We helped things, by letting Miffitt do courier work the world over, as well as do chauffeur jobs."

"Too bad for everybody all round, I guess," the Prime Minister said.

"Changing the subject, your bride isn't really pregnant, is she?"

"Is that what the help is saying?"

"Carefully camouflaged, but yes, I think that's the general feeling."

"A man in my position has no secrets, does he?"

"It's true, then?"

"Uhhmmm."

"I'd have thought you two were a little old, if you don't mind me saying it."

The Prime Minister laughed. "That's what we thought, too."

"Oops."

"Happy Oops. We're both delirious with anticipation."

"Any chance of an embarrassingly early arrival?" This said with a worldly air.

"With Zanna? I'd say you don't know my wife."

"One of those 'not on your life, love of my life, until you've committed publicly to the long haul' sorts, is she?"

"I think the proper way to phrase that is that she's a decent, self-respecting, God-fearing Christian."

"Good for her. And good for you."

"Good for me why?"

"Don't look as though you think I'm ready to spring some sort of trap on you. I'd rather this not be broadcast, since I've cultivated a brute animal reputation for the bloody fun of it – not to mention what it does psychologically to opposing legal teams – but actually I agree with you. My wife is the same sort of woman. My granddad drilled it into my head, my father being too shy to discuss such things, that the only sort of woman to marry is the sort you know is appalled with the idea of bedding with non-husbands."

"Hurrah for granddads. Mine was merciless with the message that cheap living always costs dearly in the long run."

"Cheap judgment leads to miserly, miserable life," the prosecutor said, ponderously, quoting his grandfather again.

"Devilish life, devilish doubts," the Prime Minister said, magnificently, quoting his.

"Did we have the same grandparents, by any chance?"

The two men laughed. But then the Prime Minister sobered. "On a related but scarier subject... Regarding the possibility of early arrivals, I mean... Well, here's the thing. Here's where I need your help. Because of Zanna's age, and the fact she had a couple of miscarriages in her previous marriage..."

"You don't want any announcements until the matter's more assured? I can do that. My wife and I had our own sorrows that way. I agree whole-heartedly to wait for proclamations until you've more reason for confidence." He got a mischievous gleam in his eye. "Just let me know when I can start making rude jokes to my fellows at the club, will you?"

"No sense asking you not to, is there?"

"After the way you went after me when I remarried?"

"That was ten years ago!"

The prosecutor raised his cup. "All things come to he who waits," he said.

The Prime Minister met the toast.

"Sometimes. God willing," he amended.

# CHAPTER 51 – PUTTING THE PIECES INTO PLACE, PART 2

Henry Rochester (lately Richard Hugh) was riding in the back of a regular limo making its way through Australian traffic. Well, the limo was armor-plated a bit more than a regular limo, maybe. But it definitely was not secret warfare equipped. He wondered if that was perhaps a good thing under the circumstances. He was afraid that he might have been tempted before now, if the car had ejector seats, to at least consider launching one or another of the Durand sons.

"Oncle Henri, Oncle Henri, look, look!" the youngest one was saying. "We are nearly there!"

"I think perhaps your Uncle Henry could use a little quiet time before we join the ladies, no?"

"But Papa!"

At a look from Papa, the three youngsters fell silent, and sulked. For nearly 30 seconds. And then the older boys grabbed the youngest and tried to pull him in two.

"On second thought, I would prefer the noise, I think," Henry said.

"You see, Papa! You see!"

Leandre Durand looked his old friend in the eye. "You are hardly helping me to teach them any discipline."

"But that is why he is our favorite English uncle, Papa."

Durand didn't think this statement deserved a comment. But Uncle Henry took the bait. "Tell me, boys. How many English uncles do you have, honorary or otherwise?"

"Just one," one of them sputtered, doubled up with laughter.

"But you are my favorite one anyway," the youngest boy said, solemnly.

"And they are all very honored to have been asked to the wedding. Aren't you, boys?"

"Yes, Papa," the oldest said.

"Of course, Papa," the middle one said.

"But the suit I am having to wear is very uncomfortable," the youngest declared.

Durand ignored the yes-men among his offspring, and helped the youngest rearrange his clothes so they didn't cut into him or bunch up in the wrong places.

The limo arrived at a beautiful house with beautiful landscaping. Armed guards opened a gate to let them in. The limo was driven at a dignified pace up the driveway, and brought to a professionally smooth stop. The driver, one of MI5½'s finest, excused himself with a salute and a barely suppressed grin, and took himself off, officially to give the bridegroom time alone with his friend if he wanted it, unofficially because the MI5½ drivers, as a group, had, now that his limo phobia was out in the open, adopted Triple-O Five as a special case in need of particularly compassionate care, much as if he were a beloved nephew with rare and misunderstood handicaps. (Whether 0005 wished to be thought of as a special case remained to be seen, but it seemed unlikely.)

"It is very nice of the government to lend us this house for the occasion, is it not?" Durand said.

"Are you talking to us, Papa?"

"No, I guess not. Run and find your mother and tell her that we will be in soon. She will be upset if we surprise her before she thinks she is ready for us."

"But then... won't she be upset with us, if we go in too soon?" the youngest asked.

"Oh, no, my son. You are not the guest of honor. You are the guest of honor's advance guard. It is your job to go ahead of us and see that everything is ready."

"Really?" the boy asked, his eyes big. He turned a withering glare on his brothers for having kept this important information from him. He was sure they'd done it on purpose. Suddenly it was almost all right to be wearing a suit. It helped him to look properly official, like his father looked in a suit or in a uniform.

The boys barreled out of the limo. "Papa said to run to find Mama," the middle boy yelled, challenging his brothers to a race.

The older two left the youngest hopelessly behind, so he slowed to a walk and ambled with exaggerated dignity.

Durand shook his head sympathetically. "I was the youngest son," he said. He turned to his friend. "And you?"

"An only child."

"Ah, that explains how you have stood being lonely all these years."

"Maybe. And maybe I wasn't lonely."

"Suit yourself. I am sorry if my sons were too rambunctious. I do not have the control over them like their sainted mother. We started late on our family, as you can see, so now, as I am beginning to feel my age, suddenly I have four reasons to stay young. They are the miracles of my life, but it was much easier when I was off battling evil, I think. Really, I had no idea what my Perrine was up against. One daughter and three sons! I had this silly idea that they tended always to get along with each other when I was away from home."

"For three brothers in suits in a limo on the way to a wedding, I'd say they behaved wonderfully."

"You are too kind."

"I'm also scared half to death."

"The best way to be before your own wedding, I think."

"I give up. Why is it the best way to be?"

"It shows that you understand that what you are doing is incredibly serious and potentially the biggest mistake of your life."

"You're a great help."

"That is what a best man is for, is it not?"

"I can replace you with one of your sons. The youngest, I think, would be properly dignified and reassuring."

Durand laughed. "Yes. Regis would do a fine job, if you must dismiss me. But I beg a second chance. For instance, I would like to say that you have the hardest part of the wedding behind you."

"Which is?"

"You have found a woman who suits you. You perhaps do not look as though you belong together, but in your hearts you value the same things, and you respect each other." He grinned. "And this is not to mention that you are both technophobes."

"I am not afraid of technology. I simply do not see any point in wasting my time trying to keep up with, or even putting up with, gadgets I don't need."

Durand regretted bringing up the subject. His friend was so awfully thin-skinned when it came to his inability to keep up with what devices were available, not to mention how they worked. "I am sorry. You are right, of course," he said, soothingly.

Soothingly did not play well. His friend countered with, "And I don't see you always being able to handle what is issued to you."

This was true – which made it not something to be discussed, at least under the circumstances.

"To get back to the subject of your lovely bride, from which we so unfortunately deviated," Durand said, "Do not discount the fact that she has proven that she can live quite well without you. You are not the sort of man to have a woman who hangs on your arm because she's too afraid or too lazy to live by herself. No, you need a woman who hangs on your arm because she has decided to stand beside you. There is a difference, you know." Durand got a dangerous twinkle in his eye. "And furthermore–"

A dark-haired girl of 16, breathtakingly lovely in the way that only God-infused girls who are habitually happy can be, walked up to the car.

Durand, noticing her just in time, bit back what he was about to say. He fought back an urge to wipe his brow in relief at having escaped having the girl hear him being merciless toward a man who was agonizingly within hours of his first actual sex with the woman he loved. It would be just his luck that the girl would think that he, Leandre Durand, her own father, did not entirely and wholeheartedly approve of restraint prior to marriage. The girl was at a dangerous age. Girls of her age took the wrong comments seriously. For that matter, as a father he was finding that it was very nearly the trademark of children that they took the wrong comments seriously.

For that matter, now that he thought about it, a man such as his friend, in his friend's obviously agitated state, might not appreciate such teasing, or take it in the spirit in which it was intended. It was hard to know with men on the brink of marriage, what they might do. The strain could make even the most reasonable man in the world temporarily loco. It was great sport for onlookers, but, indeed, must be handled carefully if the standards of civilized society were to be maintained. Or, indeed, if a man didn't want his neck wrung by his own best friend. It was a fine art, gauging exactly how far you could push another man and get away with it.

"Mama says that we are ready for you now, if you have not scared to his death our Uncle Henry with stories about the married life. I do not know what she means by that, but she told me to tell you," the girl said.

Durand laughed. "Oh, my daughter. Since I met your mother I have only the highest recommendations to give for married life."

"I suppose you wish for me to memorize that and take that message back to her?"

"No, I think not. You perhaps have more things to do than to play messenger for me, and I wish to tell her myself, so that I may plant a huge kiss on her lips when I do so."

"Oh, Papa. Ick."

"Run along. We will be inside shortly."

The girl didn't translate run along as an excuse to run, as her brothers had. She was in quite feminine formal clothes, and was wearing high heels for the first time in her life (Mama and Papa had been strict about heels and other unhealthy foolishness). She tottered happily away from the car, feeling recklessly grown up and important.

"That is the only real concern that I have for the two of you, my friend," Durand said, nodding at his daughter as she disappeared back inside. "My girl, she is the same age that Emma was when she was misled into a dangerous life. Can you imagine? So young! And before that, her own father tried to kill her. And after that, her own husband did not love her, although he sometimes said that he did, as if words can cancel actions. Bah! Has she spoken about him?"

"No."

"I have asked around. The general agreement is that he is best forgotten. But to get the conversation back to your bride, you will have to teach her things about love that you cannot imagine that you would have to teach, I think. Especially, I should imagine, anything to do with trust. She has more reason to be afraid of this marriage than you, I think. No one, no one at all, has ever stood by Emma for any length of time, as far as I have found."

"It's Deborah now, remember?"

"I know. I know. And you are Henry. It is nearly the extent of the capability of my aging mind to keep up with your many changes in names and personalities and professions. And you are also avoiding talking to me, I think, about whatever it was I was trying to say."

"All right. All right. As far as I know, this is the last name change you'll have to remember for either of us, since we are both officially retired as of this afternoon."

"It is that 'officially' part which worries me."

"Technically, Deborah's job wasn't such that she would be charged with treason for going to work for another government, if strict guidelines were followed, but we thought it best not to press our luck, you know."

"The translation of that is that you and your beloved and the Prime Minister are still madly scrambling to find some supportable way of making proper use of Deborah's proven talents and thirst for justice, but in the meantime you intend, God willing, to enjoy a work-free honeymoon."

"Did I say that?"

"Of course not."

"When I decide on my new profession, I'll let you know. As for the rest, I promise you'll never have to flatten me for not taking proper care of your favorite American. There. Is that what you were leading up to?"

"In a word, yes."

"How have we ever managed to stay friends for this long?"

"I have no idea at all," Durand replied pleasantly.

"Any last minute advice?"

"Try to think of marriage as a dance. A wonderful dance. But like any dance, at times you will step on the lady's toes, and at times she will step on yours."

"You're a lot of help."

"I am a realist. A mostly very happy realist, who–"

"Paaa-paaa. Mama is beginning to pace the floor and to say things under her breath." The voice came earnestly from the top of the steps, and probably carried clearly down to the armed guards at the gate, if not over the fence to the neighbors.

"Now, I think, we should go inside," Durand said, "before the women begin to think that we might have turned into cowards."

"Can't have that," the groom said. He and Durand got out of the car.

Halfway to the building, Durand pulled his friend to a stop, searching his eyes. "I am sorry. I had thought I could get by without bringing this up. I am fairly sure I do not need to tell you this, _mon vieux_ , but for myself I must know. You understand, I hope, that marriage is a covenant. That is not the same as a contract. This is not something you do or renew only so long as it makes profit or makes sense. No, wait. That is not quite the best way to summarize it. I mean–"

Henry assumed an ironic smile. "Until death do us part, you mean?"

"Actually, yes," Durand said. "Literally so."

After a hard appraisal of the other man's eyes, Durand concluded that his friend's flippancy most likely covered an embarrassed agreement with the principle, at least. He decided it was probably the best that could be hoped for from a British man, or a non-Catholic of any nationality, at least at this stage of his development, considering how wrongheaded the culture was about what constituted an honest marriage, or, for that matter, what constituted true love.

Durand theatrically shook a stern finger at his friend. "While we are on the subject, though, Mr. Richard Henry Hugh-Rochester, I must ask you to promise me that you will not giggle when that particular phrase comes up in the ceremony. We all would be mortified, I think."

Henry considered pointing out that stating a combination of aliases out in the open air was hardly professional conduct. He quickly realized that for him to bring attention to the slip would only compound the error.

A look at Durand told him that his old friend had done it on purpose, to try to catch him out on it.

"I assure you it's hardly likely that I'll giggle anywhere in the proceedings," he said. He didn't add that he had been worried that he might choke up or otherwise wobble when the minister came to the "until death do you part" phrase.

"I am reassured," Durand said. He didn't add that he understood that certain parts of the marriage ceremony would have a special poignancy under the circumstances.

"You're a fine nuisance, is what you are," Henry said.

Durand assumed a look of over-pious innocence.

"Bah," Henry said, good-naturedly. He broke away and walked ahead.

Durand mentally patted himself on the back for getting the bridegroom into the proper frame of mind for the wedding, and moved to catch up.

He bit his lip to keep from laughing at his oh-so-cultivated friend, and then he batted away a wave of worry. (Weddings did tend to provoke see-sawing emotions, did they not? And rightfully so, too, if a man was properly thoughtful, Durand thought.) He considered his friend's match a good one, but the friend had been a bachelor for much too long, and was marrying a very independent, very resourceful woman – extraordinarily resourceful, actually. He'd give his eyeteeth to know how she'd managed to gift wrap and deliver Tommy Miffitt.

She'd made it clear she had no intention of admitting to having done much of anything. For that matter, as far as official reports went, she might have been off on holiday – or truly dead as reported by the Americans, who, for that matter, still publicly counted her as deceased.

Durand scanned his surroundings, reassuring himself that there were no probable Americans in sight. Not that he expected any. He suspected that the British Prime Minister had gone out of his way to encourage the notion that Emma Chapman was truly out of the picture, and that Deborah Rochester was someone who'd been in British employ for years.

He wondered if his friend and his friend's lady had been ordered to lay low until the Americans had a chance to get in the habit of forgetting Emma Chapman's existence?

Perhaps he could persuade the two of them to settle in Australia, at least for the time he was assigned there?

It would be a match to watch, he thought.

The End

By Kathryn Judson

_Almost Hopeless Horse_ \- A colt born on a ranch turns out to be afraid of cattle, and the rancher must decide what to do with him. Children's fiction.

_Joanne and I Burn Up_ \- On a blistering hot day, two friends in the school band accidentally cause a fuss during the mayor's speech, which sets in motion a chain of events that sends the band on a new, and scary, gig. Children's fiction.

_Why We Raise Belgian Horses_ \- A modern day American shares adventures and misadventures of some of his ancestors, with an emphasis on Lars and Torvald, who came to America from Norway to live with their Uncle Anders in Dakota Territory when Lars was 17 and Torvald was only five. Also featured prominently is the first horse Lars bought, Hans, who was (unknown to Lars when he bought him) famously afraid of the dark.

_Trouble Pug_ \- Two girls find a stray dog and adopt it, before finding out that it can travel through time and take them along. It's not as if life wasn't complicated enough already, with Kisa's parents and Morgan's mom not getting along, and Morgan and her brother being bounced between their father and mother and foster care.

_Not Exactly Dead (MI5 1/2, Book One)_ \- When America thinks that a notorious spy killer has his sights on Richard Hugh of the UK's little-known agency widely nicknamed MI5 1/2, they send maverick agent Emma Chapman to try to intercept. Chapman is middle-aged, gadget adverse, self-respecting, and very short - not at all the sort of person Triple-O Five thinks he'd like to have watching his back.

_Not Exactly Innocent (MI5 1/2, Book Two)_ \- When a modern-day wannabe Viking attempts to set up his own empire \- with the help of unscrupulous scientists, and a Russian missile expert - Triple-O Five and company are sent to America to help stop him. Meanwhile, there is more internal trouble inside MI5 1/2.

_Not Exactly Allies (MI5 1/2, Book Three)_ \- The Hughs and Leandre Durand are up against murderers, moles, communists, and other criminal mayhem - while theory-warped psychologists and love-struck family and colleagues aren't making life any easier.

_The Smolder_ \- Tyranny has been so widespread for so long that people who value freedom have gotten good at hiding from the government - and comfortable staying out of sight. That's about to change.

_The Birdwatcher (A Smolder Novel)_ \- Out west during the reign of Greenley the Third, Renzo dutifully counts birds for the government, and sometimes does population control on demand. When his fascinating female neighbor needs his help, life gets complicated - and full of mortal peril.

_The Unexpecteds (A Smolder Novel)_ \- Eleven-year-old Shayna Miller lives in the Subterran world inhabited by people hiding from the Topside government. But her dad keeps moving her family from place to place, almost like he's running from something inside Subterra itself. But what?

