No love lost between these two, Jack thought. And was that a hint of anxiety in Ramirez's cold dark eyes? Obviously they both had offices in the same building-that was the only way Sung could have seen the flyer.

And maybe they'd b.u.t.ted heads before in a real estate deal.

It hit Jack then that maybe he could stick this wild card in his own hand and play him against Ramirez.

"I'm glad you did, Mr. Sung. Mr. Ramirez was just leaving, so I'll be free to-"

"Wait one minute," Ramirez said. "I made an offer and it was accepted. We have a deal."

"But you said you never leave a cash deposit."

"I said that I never have have. I did not say that I never will." He pointed back to the sitting room. "Come. We will talk."

Sung folded his arms across his chest. "I will wait."

Jack stepped back into the makeshift office with Ramirez and closed the door behind them.

"I will give you a check," Ramirez said.

Gotcha, Jack thought.

Now he could play hard to get.

He shook his head. "Sorry. Mr. Gates stated that it must be cash."

"But I do not carry that sort of money with me. No one does. Why does he want it to be cash?"

"I can't explain Mr. Gates's reasoning," Jack said with a shrug. "He's on medication, and perhaps it's affecting him. But if that's what he wants, that's what he'll get."

"But what protection do I have?"

Jack straightened and looked down his nose at Ramirez. "Sir, you have the sterling reputation of the Hudak Realty Company behind any transaction. You will get a deposit receipt. And the money will be put in escrow, of course. But I wholeheartedly agree that these are highly unorthodox terms." He reached for the doork.n.o.b. "Thank you for coming."

Ramirez flew into a rage then, stomping around the sitting room and shouting about how they had a deal, how he'd made an offer and the buyer had agreed to it and Jack was not going to get rid of him because he thought he might have a better offer waiting in the front hall.

Amazing, Jack thought, fighting to keep a smile off his face. The harder I try to keep him from giving me the cash, the more he wants to pay it.

"You will have your twelve thousand in cash," Ramirez said, finally winding down. "I will return with it in one hour."

You d.a.m.n well better, otherwise I've gone to a lot of trouble for nothing.

Ramirez turned at the door. "But I warn you, Mr. Johns. If I return and find out that you have made another deal, there will be serious consequences."

"Threats are not necessary, Mr. Ramirez," Jack said softly. He glanced at his watch. "One hour it is."

Ramirez made a hasty exit, pausing only to snarl at the man waiting outside. "Might as well go home, Sung. It is sold."

Sung gave him a small bow. "Congratulations, Mr. Ramirez. But I wish to see the property anyway... in case you change your mind."

"That will not happen," Ramirez said, and then he was gone.

Jack turned to Sung.

"We have a deal," he told him. "No point in your waiting. And I'm afraid I don't have time to show you around."

He turned and stepped back into the sitting room. He didn't feel like playing real estate agent for anyone else. He wanted Sung gone.

But Sung followed him into the room.

"I do not need to see the rest to know that I will meet and exceed the terms you have arranged with Mr. Ramirez."

"How do you know...?"

He smiled. "One could not help overhearing such an excited man."

"Yes, well-"

"You will not have to wait an hour." Sung pulled a long wallet from the breast pocket of his suit. "I can give you the cash deposit right now."

"Those terms were for Mr. Ramirez only," he said as Sung counted out twelve one-thousand-dollar bills onto the table. "The owner is not well, and I fear he agreed too hastily to Mr. Ramirez's offer. If Mr. Ramirez does not return, then new terms will have to be set."

"Does the owner know the name of the man who made the offer?"

"No, but-"

"Then, he will not know that the money comes from someone else."

"But he's sick," Jack said, wondering if he could spark some sympathy in Sung. "And it's an unreasonably low price."

"Here is more," Sung said, and laid three more thousand-dollar bills on the table... but apart from the rest. "If you think the seller should have more, give him this."

Jack was about to laugh at him. An extra three thousand? What was that added to Ramirez's low-ball price? Nothing.

And then Sung added, "I will require a receipt for only twelve thousand, however."

And now the meaning was clear: Sung was another screwmeister, and this was an orgy. Screw the owner, screw Ramirez, let me have the place for the fire-sale price, and the three grand is yours.

If Ramirez and Sung had a slime-off, Jack wondered who'd win.

"Mr. Sung," Jack said. "You've got a deal."

Mr. Sung bowed. Jack bowed, and gathered up the bills.

"A pleasure doing business with you."

After Sung left with his deposit receipt, Jack still had half an hour to kill. He wandered down to the cellar. Something not quite right down there. He'd sensed it earlier when he had shown Ramirez around.

He'd paced off the upstairs floor, but now when he paced off the cellar, he found that the visible floor s.p.a.ce didn't match the measurements. After poking around, he discovered a secret room, walled off from the rest of the cellar. Strange.

Here he was in a house that someone had inherited from the late Dr. Gates... a house with secret. Just like the house Alicia Clayton had inherited. Did all old houses hold secrets? He'd discovered this one's-one that seemed innocent enough.

But what about the Clayton house?

He pushed the thought away. One thing at a time. He was almost done here. Then he could start thinking about the Clayton house again.

Ramirez returned with five minutes to spare. He seemed relieved that Sung was gone. He handed over his cash and a few minutes later walked out with his official Hudak receipt for his deposit.

When he was gone, Jack laughed aloud and did a little victory dance around the foyer. Did it get any better than this? No, it most a.s.suredly did not not.

His only regret was that he couldn't be a fly on the wall at the Hudak Agency when both Ramirez and Sung showed up looking for Mr. David Johns.

SUNDAY.

Kemel called home first thing in the morning and spoke to his brother Jamal. It was mid-afternoon in Riyadh. His other four sons were fine. So were his wife and daughters, but he did not speak to them. The news about Ghali was not good.

"They are going to prosecute," Jamal said.

Kemel slammed his hand down on the table. The telephone's base jumped with the force of the blow.

"No! They cannot."

"He needs you here, brother. I've done what I can, but you know people in high places that I cannot reach."

And neither can I, Kemel thought.

He'd spent most of yesterday calling everyone he knew in Riyadh who had influence in the court or the royal family's ear. No one was leaping to Ghali's aid.

If only I were there there. I could go face-to-face with these people, make them listen, make them help.

"I will be coming home shortly."

"When?" Jamal said.

"As soon as I possibly can."

"I hope it is soon enough."

Kemel hung up and slumped back on the sofa. All his prayers on Friday had not helped.

He straightened as he realized with a start that perhaps his prayers were were being answered. Not with the lightning strike of a miracle, but in a more roundabout fashion. being answered. Not with the lightning strike of a miracle, but in a more roundabout fashion.

All day Friday, as he had prayed in the mosque, he had expected to hear that the Clayton woman had filed charges against Baker and her brother for attempted kidnapping. But no charges were filed.

And later in the day Kemel had learned from Iswid Nahr's law firm that Alicia Clayton's new lawyer had called for a Monday meeting, and had mentioned "settling this whole mess."

No criminal charges and an offer to settle. Surely he could see the hand of Allah in this.

Sudden elation pulled him from the sofa and dropped him to his knees in grateful prayer.

She wanted to settle. And Kemel would settle with her. Anything she wanted, just to be done with this irrational, contentious American woman. Once he had the house secured in Thomas Clayton's name, he would be within reach of protecting the future of the Arab world.

His work here would not be over, of course, but at least he would be free to travel back to Riyadh to save his family honor... and his son's right hand.

Alicia spent much of the morning with Hector in the hospital's PICU. The good news was, he hadn't had any more seizures. The bad news was that he wasn't gaining on the Candida infection. They were culturing it from his blood, urine, chest, esophagus, everywhere.

She was feeling down when she got to the Center with her Sunday Times Times and coffee, but a call from Will cheered her. He'd called yesterday about Hector and asked for a progress report today. He was so easy to talk to. and coffee, but a call from Will cheered her. He'd called yesterday about Hector and asked for a progress report today. He was so easy to talk to.

He wanted to get together tonight but she couldn't. She had a meeting scheduled with Jack and that new lawyer, Sean O'Neill, tonight. Will pressed her for Monday night-an Armenian place called Zov's with a super rack of lamb-and she gave in.

She was becoming more and more comfortable with him. She didn't know if that was a good thing.

Jack didn't return any of Jorge's three calls this morning. The man kept wanting to thank him for returning the full six thousand Ramirez had owed him, and kept asking why Jack hadn't taken his cut. Jack had told him once that his fee had come out of the "interest" he'd charged Ramirez. He didn't want to go over it again.

One call he did return was to his father in Florida, and they went round and round again-Dad urging him to come down and cash in on all the "fantastic opportunities" waiting for him in Florida, Jack dodging this way and that, finally promising to come down for a visit "real soon."

That done, he took a moment to send five hundred dollars in cash to Dolores, care of the Hudak Agency, with an unsigned note stating simply: "For your trouble."

And then it was out to pick up some of the equipment Milkdud had told him he'd need. After that he was looking forward to some time alone with Gia while Vicky was at her art lessons.

"Hi, Ma," Sam Baker said as he entered his mother's room.

"Stay away from the fence!" his mother shouted, looking past him.

She was a thin, angular woman, with glistening blue eyes. The nursing home staff had secured her into her chair with a nylon mesh vest they called a "posy." Her bony fingers worked incessantly at the hem of the blanket wrapped around her legs.

"I brought you flowers, Ma," he said, showing her the half dozen short-stemmed roses he'd picked up in the city.

"And get Janey away too!" she called.

Baker sighed and sat on the bed-gingerly. His back still throbbed like some giant G.o.dd.a.m.n infected tooth from that kidney punch on Thursday night. He unscrewed the cap from the bottle of seltzer he'd brought along. He hated seltzer, but it was better than drinking straight water.

He took a sip and stared at the woman who'd raised him. She'd be sixty-eight next February. Not so old in body, but her mind had begun to slip away about ten years ago. Now it was completely shot. He'd had to move her into this nursing home two years ago, and it was sucking him dry.

He'd heard Alzheimer's ran in families, and that scared the s.h.i.t out of him. Every time he forgot something he should have remembered, he wondered, Is this the start Is this the start?

Gave him the creeps. He hoped he'd have the wherewithal to swallow the business end of a Tec-9 before he got like her.

"I'm warning you, Janey!" she shouted.

"Who the h.e.l.l is Janey, Ma?" he said softly.

"It's her latest imaginary playmate," said a voice behind him.

Oh, s.h.i.t, Baker thought. Karen.