Harley just smiled. Asked and answered, I thought.

"Is she OK?" Villanueva said. "Because she better be."

"She's fine," Harley said. "Mint condition."

"You want me to go get the phone?" Duffy asked.

"We'll all go," Harley said. "After you put these crates back in order. You messed them up. You shouldn't have done that."

He stepped up next to Duffy and put the muzzle of his gun to her temple.

"I'll wait right here," he said. "And the woman can wait here with me. Like my own personal life insurance policy."

Villanueva glanced at me. I shrugged. I figured we were nominated to do the quartermaster work. I stepped forward and picked up the hammer from the floor.

Villanueva picked up the lid from the first Grail crate. Glanced at me again. I shook my head just enough for him to see. I would have loved to bury the hammer in Harley's head.

Or his mouth. I could have solved his dental problems permanently. But a hammer was no good against a guy with a gun to a hostage's head. And anyway, I had a better idea.

And it would depend on a show of compliance. So I just held the hammer and waited politely until Villanueva had the lid in place over the fat yellow missile tube. I b.u.t.ted it with the heel of my hand until the nails found their original holes. Then I hammered them in and stood back and waited again.

We did the second Grail crate the same way. Lifted it up and piled it back on top of the first one. Then we did the RPG-7s. Nailed down the lids and stacked them exactly like we had found them. Then we did the VAL Silent Snipers. Harley watched us carefully. But he was relaxing a little. We were compliant. Villanueva seemed to understand what we were aiming for. He had caught on fast. He found the lid for the Makarov crate. Paused with it halfway into position.

"People buy these things?" he said.

Perfect, I thought. His tone was conversational, and a little puzzled. And professionally interested, just like a real ATF guy might be.

"Why wouldn't they buy them?" Harley said.

"Because they're junk," I said. "You ever tried one?"

Harley shook his head.

"Let me show you something," I said. "OK?"

Harley kept the gun pressed hard against Duffy's temple. "Show me what?"

I put my hand in the crate and came out with one of the pistols. Blew wood shavings off it and held it up. It was old and scratched. Well used.

"Very crude mechanism," I said. "They simplified the original Walther design. Ruined it, really. Double-action, like the original, but the pull is a nightmare."

I pointed the gun at the ceiling and put my finger on the trigger and used just my thumb on the back of the b.u.t.t to exaggerate the effect. Pincered my hand and pulled the trigger.

The mechanism grated like a balky stick shift in an old car and the gun twisted awkwardly in my grip.

"Piece of junk," I said.

I did it again, listening to the bad sound and letting the gun twist and rock between my finger and thumb.

"Hopeless," I said. "No chance of hitting anything unless it's right next to you."

I tossed the gun back into the crate. Villanueva slid the lid into position.

"You should be worried, Harley," he said. "Your reputation won't be worth s.h.i.t if you put junk like this on the street."

"Not my problem," Harley said. "Not my reputation. I just work here."

I hammered the nails back in, slowly, like I was tired. Then we started on the AKSU-74 crate. The old submachine guns. Then we did the AK-74s.

"You could sell these to the movies," Villanueva said. "For historical dramas. That's about all they're good for."

I hammered the nails into position and we stacked the crate with the others until we had all of Bizarre Bazaar's imports back into a neat separate pile, just like we had found them. Harley was still watching us. He still had his gun at Duffy's head. But his wrist was tired and his finger wasn't hard on the trigger anymore. He had let it slide upward to the underside of the frame, where it was helping take the weight. Villanueva shoved the Mossberg crate across the floor toward me. Found the lid. We had only opened one.

"Nearly done," I said.

Villanueva slid the lid into position.

"Wait up," I said. "We left two of them on the table."

I stepped across and picked up the first Persuader. Stared at it.

"See this?" I said to Harley. I pointed at the safety catch. "They shipped it with the safety on. Shouldn't do that. It could damage the firing pin."

I snicked the safety to fire and wrapped the gun in its waxed paper and burrowed it deep down into the foam peanuts. Stepped back for the second one.

"This one's exactly the same," I said.

"You guys are going out of business for sure," Villanueva said. "Your quality control is all over the place."

I set the safety to fire and stepped back toward the crate. Pivoted off my right foot like a second baseman lining up a double play and pulled the trigger and shot Harley through the gut. The Brenneke round sounded like a bomb going off and the giant slug cut Harley in half, literally. He was there, and then suddenly he wasn't. He was in two large pieces on the floor and the warehouse was full of acrid smoke and the air was full of the hot stink of Harley's blood and his digestive system and Duffy was screaming because the man she had been standing next to had just exploded. My ears were ringing. Duffy kept on screaming and danced away from the spreading pool at her feet. Villanueva caught her and held on tight and I racked the Persuader's slide and watched the door in case there were any more surprises coming at us. But there weren't. The warehouse structure stopped resonating and my hearing came back and then there was nothing except silence and Duffy's fast loud breathing.

"I was standing right next to him," she said.

"You aren't standing right next to him now," I said. "That's the bottom line."

Villanueva let go of her and stepped over and bent down and picked up our handguns from where Harley had kicked them. I took the second loaded Persuader out of the crate and unwrapped it again and clicked the safety on.

"I really like these," I said.

"They seem to work," Villanueva said.

I held both shotguns in one hand and put my Beretta in my pocket.

"Get the car, Terry," I said. "Somebody's probably calling the cops right now."

He left by the front door and I looked at the sky through the window. There was plenty of cloud, but there was still plenty of daylight, too.

"What now?" Duffy said.

"Now we go somewhere and wait," I said.

I waited more than an hour, sitting at my desk, looking at my telephone, expecting Kohl to call me. She had timed the drive out to MacLean at thirty-five minutes. Starting from the Georgetown University campus might have added five or ten, depending on traffic.

a.s.sessing the situation at Quinn's house could have added another ten. Taking him down should have taken less than one. Cuffing him and putting him in the car should have taken another three. Fifty-nine minutes, beginning to end. But a whole hour pa.s.sed and she didn't call.

I started to worry after seventy minutes. Started to worry badly after eighty. Dead on ninety minutes I scared up a pool car and hit the road myself.

Terry Villanueva parked the Taurus on the patch of broken blacktop outside the office door and left the engine running.

"Let's call Eliot," I said. "Find out where he went. We'll go wait with him."

"What are we waiting for?" Duffy said.

"Dark," I said.

She went out to the idling car and got her bag. Brought it back. Dug out her phone and hit the number. I timed it out in my head. One ring. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.

"No answer," Duffy said.

Then her face brightened. Then it fell again.

"Gone to voice mail," she said. "Something's wrong."

"Let's go," I said.

"Where to?"

I looked at my watch. Looked out the window at the sky. Too early.

"The coast road," I said.

We left the warehouse with the lights off and the doors locked. There was too much good stuff in it to leave it open and accessible. Villanueva drove. Duffy sat next to him in the front. I sat in the back with the Persuaders on the seat beside me. We threaded our way out of the harbor area. Past the lot where Beck parked his blue trucks. Onto the highway, past the airport, and south, away from the city.

We came off the highway and struck out east on the familiar coast road. There was no other traffic. The sky was low and gray and the wind off the sea was strong enough to set up a howling around the Taurus's windshield pillars. There were drops of water in the air.

Maybe they were raindrops. Maybe it was sea spray, lashed miles inland by the gale. It was still way too light. Too early.

"Try Eliot again," I said.

Duffy took her phone out. Speed-dialed the number. Put the phone to her ear. I heard six faint rings and the whisper of the voice mail announcement. She shook her head. Clicked the phone off again.

"OK," I said.

She twisted around in her seat.

"You sure they're all out at the house?" she said.

"Did you notice Harley's suit?" I said.

"Black," she said. "Cheap."

"It was as close as he could get to a tux. It was his idea of evening wear. And Emily Smith had a black c.o.c.ktail dress ready in her office. She was going to change. She already had her smart shoes on. I think there's going to be a banquet."

"Keast and Maden," Villanueva said. "The caterers."

"Exactly," I said. "Banquet food. Eighteen people at fifty-five dollars a head. Tonight.

And Emily Smith made a note on the order. Lamb, not pork. Who eats lamb and not pork?"

"People who keep kosher."

"And Arabs," I said. "Libyans, maybe."

"Their suppliers."

"Exactly," I said again. "I think they're about to cement their commercial relationship. I think all the Russian stuff in the crates was some kind of a token shipment. It was a gesture. Same with the Persuaders. They've demonstrated to each other that both sides can deliver. Now they're going to break bread together and go into business for real."

"At the house?"

I nodded. "It's an impressive location. Isolated, very dramatic. And it's got a big dining table."

He turned the windshield wipers on. The gla.s.s streaked and smeared. It was sea spray, whipping horizontally off the Atlantic. Full of salt.

"Something else," I said.

"What?"

"I think Teresa Daniel is part of the deal," I said.

"What?"

"I think they're selling her along with the shotguns. A cute blond American girl. I think she's the ten-thousand-dollar bonus item."

n.o.body spoke.

"Did you notice what Harley said about her? Mint condition."

n.o.body spoke.

"I think they've kept her fed and alive and untouched." I thought: Paulie wouldn't have bothered with Elizabeth Beck if Teresa had been available to him. With all due respect to Elizabeth.

n.o.body spoke.

"They're probably cleaning her up right now," I said.

n.o.body spoke.

"I think she's headed for Tripoli," I said. "Part of the deal. Like a sweetener."