"And no more problems with my weapons, I a.s.sume?" Eileen asked without a smile.

"No problems," Blaine said.

They came up to the tiny building full of scanners, and Blaine took out his piece of paper again.

"Seven eight nine three," he reminded Eileen. "You just swipe your badge through the slot, like a credit card, and key in the number. You don't need to scan on the way out, only on the way in."

Eileen felt the same claustrophobic feeling as before when the gla.s.s door clicked and locked behind her. She swiped her badge through and keyed in the numbers. There was a pause, and a click. She pushed the door open and stepped through. Blaine was already through and waiting for her.

"Everything set? Keep the badge. If I think of anything, I'll call the station." Blaine balanced his briefcase on one knee, opened it, and rummaged around for a moment before pulling out a business card. "I never use these things," he said. He closed the case and put it under his arm, dug in his pocket for a pen, and wrote a number on the card. "My home phone," he said, holding out the card to Eileen.

"Thanks."

"Tomorrow morning, eight o'clock," Blaine said, and turned away. Eileen nodded, and dug into her pocket for her own car keys.

There was a phone in the little retinal-scan building. She called in to the station and told Harben she would be in after she'd gotten some supper. She asked Harben if he wanted anything, and Harben said no. No one ever saw Harben eat. Peter O'Brien swore that Harben was a vampire and drank only human blood. Since there were never blood-drained bodies found in Colorado Springs, O'Brien had come up with the theory that Harben must have a deal with Memorial Hospital. O'Brien had even pa.s.sed around a rendition of a blood-bank savings account made out in Harben's name. Eileen and O'Brien laughed until they were leaking tears. Harben got a look at it and never cracked a smile, which made O'Brien and Eileen laugh all the harder. A new detective, Stan Jabowski, was too nervous to laugh. He didn't know Harben yet and was afraid that Harben was offended.

"Vampires don't laugh," O'Brien had said, trying and failing to keep a serious face.

Eileen smiled at the memory, and flicked on her lights as she pulled her Jeep out of the parking slot. Then she felt sad, remembering Stan Jabowski hadn't had much of a chance to get dry behind the ears. He'd been killed on Nevada Avenue less than a month later.

Eileen waved to the guard at the gate and accelerated into the curve.

12.

Colorado Springs Investigations Bureau.

"... So that's the wrap," Eileen finished comfortably. She wiped her fingers on a napkin and took a big sip of her soda. The sc.r.a.ps from a sub sandwich lay on waxed paper. A few shreds of lettuce had fallen onto Harben's immaculate desk. Behind Harben the blinds were drawn against the dark.

"Use the scanner, get those notes onto your machine," Harben said. He never referred to a computer as anything but a machine.

"Okay," Eileen said. She picked up the lettuce shreds and ate them slowly. "I didn't get any feel for who the murderer is. This Procell file worries me too. I'm going to have to call up the traffic-accident reports from those other scientists."

"The ones who were killed commuting to work?" Harben asked.

"Yeah. Harriet Sullivan. Um ... John Richmond, I think."

"Do you know how many people are killed every year on that stretch of highway, Eileen?" Harben asked coldly. "We sc.r.a.pe up bodies every month from that road. I'm sure Procell-is that his name?-has some interesting statistics, but if the government hasn't taken an interest, I'm not so sure you should waste your time."

"The government doesn't always know what they're doing," Eileen said quietly.

"Bernie crashed in a very expensive plane. There's a greater desire for a cover-up."

Eileen winced.

"A secret murder campaign against scientists in the military would be great tabloid material," Harben continued. "Why wasn't this made public? You said Procell's first notes started years ago."

"I haven't read the whole file."

"I suggest you skim the file. Procell's entire intent may be to divert attention from himself or from someone he's trying to protect."

"Okay," Eileen said, and stretched. "What a day."

"Don't make it too late," Harben said to her. "Oh, and you still have to start on the Pendleton file. I sent Rosen out to do the prelim work, but I want you to check it."

Eileen nodded, and reached out to crumple up the sandwich wrapper and drop it in the trash.

"All right, all right," she said, and hoisted herself to her feet. "You are no fun sometimes, boss."

Harben didn't reply. He had already turned, and was keying in the pa.s.sword to his computer.

"It was a good sandwich," Eileen said to Harben's back. "You shoulda had one."

Central Intelligence Agency, Langley, Virginia.

Lucy was deep. She was getting to know George Tabor from a hundred different traces left within the Web. Her office chair squeaked as she stretched, putting her hands to the small of her back. The building was darkened but not quiet. It rustled like a haystack full of mice. Someone had burned a bag of microwave popcorn, and the stench drifted everywhere. Lucy had an open cup of coffee in front of her. For some reason, that killed the burnt popcorn smell. She hated being here at night. She wanted to be home, nestled up to Ted and watching something mindless on the television.

But George Tabor, now. He was an interesting fellow. Lucy saw his face, plain and friendly, as her gopher sent the picture. George made it away clean. His flight landed on schedule in Paris, and from there he could have gone anywhere. Lucy knew his skills would be valuable. Where would he go? Tabor wasn't her problem now, although she thought their paths might cross sometime. She hoped they would.

She picked up the image of the map the FBI surveillance man had created, along with the routes he took when he walked his dog. Those walks were how he made his pickups and dropoffs.

Wait a minute. Lucy paused, trying to focus her thoughts. The drawer of food was empty, and her baby was clamoring for something hot. Something hot and preferably greasy, like a hamburger. But there was something there in the notes, something that snagged at her mind.

That was it. Did he take the dog on the flight? She pulled up the travel records. No, there was no dog checked on the flight. What did he do with the dog? She was an English springer spaniel named Fancy, and he evidently took good care of her, judging by the veterinarian record and the FBI reports.

Lucy thought, her fingers poised over the keyboard. Then she searched animal shelter listings in Colorado. In a few minutes Lucy had a possible listing. He might have dropped her off at a Denver animal shelter before flying out. The shelter listings tried to make the animals as appealing as possible, in hopes of an adoption before the relentless syringe.

"English springer spaniel," the note read. "Female, spayed, three years old. Beautiful dog, very well behaved. Good with children. Please adopt her! Left at 11:25 A.M."

Lucy leaned back in her chair and rubbed at her upset stomach. The baby was too small to be felt, but she imagined the tiny fetus floating inside her, eyes still unformed, with webbed fingers and little gill slits, listening quietly to her and the steady sound of her heart.

"Well, little fish," she said to her stomach. "I think Mr. George Tabor was a very careful person. He was well prepared. And he loved his dog. That's what the FBI report said, anyway. You can tell a happy dog. So if he knew he was going to be leaving town, would he have left his dog at an animal shelter? I don't think he would. He would have found a home for her. I'll call the shelter tomorrow and see if I can find out if that's her."

Lucy paused. Or was she being too sentimental? She sighed, and stretched, and started shutting down her computer links. It was time to go to bed and think this one over. There was a Taco Bell on the way home too.

Colorado Springs.

When Eileen slotted her key into her town-house lock it was nearly eleven o'clock. Her cat was waiting at the door, angrily meowing.

"Oh, Betty, you've got plenty of food," Eileen said, picking up the big orange tabby and stroking her fur. The cat settled in her arms and began to purr loudly, meowing occasionally through her purring as though she were not quite ready to stop being angry. Eileen kicked the door shut behind her and leaned against it, exhausted. "Are you fatter than usual, or am I just tired?"

Eileen had never thought herself a cat kind of person. She was a dog person. Cats were to keep the mice population down on her parents' ranch. Then Betty appeared on her doorstep, a scrawny fluff of orange, furiously hungry. She kept her. She always meant to get a dog, but she was away from home too much to have a dog.

"I'm away too much to have a cat too," she murmured, rubbing Betty's ears. "Time for a beer and the news and bed."

There was sometimes a man who shared the bed. Two, maybe three, and they hadn't lasted and Eileen wasn't sure why. She liked her solitude too much, perhaps, or she was too used to it. She wanted a man like her cat, self-reliant and self-entertaining. After a few weeks they wanted her to pick up their socks and cook their food and rub their feet after their hard day's work-in short, to turn into a wife. Eileen wasn't ready for that. Not now, maybe not ever.

She set Betty down and the cat stalked over to her dish, looking back at Eileen pointedly. One half of the double dish was full of dry cat food. The other side was licked clean. "And some of that wet stuff for you, too, Bets." Eileen yawned hugely. Maybe she would just forget the beer and the news. She had to be back out to Schriever at eight o'clock. Then she walked over and switched on the TV anyway, just to give herself some company.

Paris, France.

When George Tabor opened the door to his modest hotel room, the man standing outside was not familiar to him. That only made sense. George had never seen the face of his major contact. The man was not very rea.s.suring in looks or manner. He had curly black hair and olive skin pitted by acne. He could have been Italian or Spanish or Arab or Eastern European. His clothes were Paris rummage sale, wool turtleneck fraying at the collar and cuffs, st.u.r.dy no-color twill pants. He slumped in the doorway, hands shoved in his pockets, and his breath was bad. George immediately mistrusted him.

George mistrusted everything about this horrible adventure. He'd forgotten how clean and empty the American West was. George felt a horrible pang of homesickness.

"You're George?" the man asked.

"Yes, and you are?" George asked politely.

"Mr. Brown," the man said after a pause. "I'm married to Molly. She's unsinkable."

"Come in," George said grimly. This was his contact. He knew the pa.s.sword, specific to Colorado. The unsinkable Molly Brown was a famous Colorado heroine but virtually unknown in Europe. It was a hasty pa.s.sword but a good one.

"I'm to take you with me," the man said. He didn't shift his slumped position from the door frame. "Muallah would like to meet you."

"Muallah?"

"Muallah, the boss," the man said.

"I thought I was going to meet Mr. Wulff," George said in surprise. His major buyer was a polite German, Mr. Wulff. Who was Muallah?

"Wulff is one of his names," the man said impatiently. "But his real name is Fouad Muallah. And he doesn't like to be kept waiting. Let's go."

Colorado Springs.

Wednesday morning was breakfast day. Eileen hadn't missed a breakfast with Gary Hillyer in three years. They changed locations occasionally, to sample new restaurants, but they always met at 6:30 A.M., somewhere, on Wednesdays. This month was the Omelet Parlor on Fillmore Street, where Cathy the waitress already knew their favorite breakfast dishes and when to refill their cups of coffee. Eileen pulled into the dirt parking lot, feeling cheerful. The Procell file lay, still unread, on the pa.s.senger seat. The notes she took the day before were in a neatly typed stack underneath.

"Morning, Eileen." The waitress showed her to the corner booth she and Gary had decided was the best in the restaurant. The new day's sunlight shone through the windows but left the seat in enough shadow so reading the newspaper wasn't a painful experience. Gary Hillyer was buried behind the morning's Gazette, a steaming cup of coffee in front of him.

"Morning, Gary. Thanks, Cathy." Eileen slid into the booth and reached for the sugar.

"Why are you so happy this morning?" Hillyer asked grumpily. He put down the paper, revealing a ba.s.set-hound face and tired eyes. Gary Hillyer was tall, with brown hair and eyes and a perpetual stoop to his shoulders. The stoop was more p.r.o.nounced this morning.

"What kept you up all night?" Eileen asked, stirring sugar into her coffee.

"What makes you so happy?" Hillyer responded. They had met over a case four years earlier. Eileen wanted the information kept confidential. Reporter Gary Hillyer wanted the facts known. The cla.s.sic confrontation. Casual gossip linked them as lovers, but not to anyone who knew Gary Hillyer very well. Gary lived in a handsome Victorian on the west side of Colorado Springs with Frank, his lover of twenty years. Gary occasionally took Eileen home for dinner, a treat she appreciated. Frank was a gourmet chef, and his dinner parties were legendary.

"New case," Eileen said. She reached for the paper.

"The latest on Nevada Avenue? No? The body at Fort Carson, that Pendleton boy? Oh, no, that wouldn't put such an interested look on your ravishing face. He's a standard overdose, case already pretty much closed. Must be the death at Schriever? It was a murder, then?"

"Yes," Eileen said.

Hillyer nodded, and Eileen grinned at him. Hillyer would be able to use that.

"What shall it be this morning? Shall I just choose for you? What do you hate the most?"

Hillyer grinned up at Cathy. She smiled, expertly refilling their cups.

"Today's special," Eileen said absently. She'd found the column on Terry Guzman's death.

"Make that two," Hillyer said. "I'm starving."

Paris, France.

When George saw Fouad Muallah he felt an immediate sense of recognition. This man, like George, had style. He was dressed much the same as his deliveryman, in wool turtleneck and st.u.r.dy twill trousers. But Muallah wore them like a king's robes. He would look completely natural with a cloak waving behind his broad shoulders. His skin was olive and flushed with health. His eyes were brown and sparkling with good humor and intelligence. He shook George's hand with a grip that was rea.s.suring and intimate and friendly.

"Mr. Tabor," he said warmly. "At last." His hair was black and tightly curled and he smelled of sandalwood soap. His breath was clean and healthy. George realized with a sense of amus.e.m.e.nt that he was feeling a little jealous. George had always felt he had a great blend of sophistication and savoir faire. Fouad Muallah made him feel like an awkward adolescent.

"Mr. Wulff?"

"That's one of my names." Muallah laughed. His laugh was terrific, deep and full of delight. George found himself smiling and noticed the deliveryman. The deliveryman had a goofy, infatuated look on his face. Muallah noticed George's glance and turned to the other man. "Ali," he said gently. "We need to be undisturbed. Let no one enter."