"You're sure it's not an imaging artifact?" Jo said.

The fluorescent tubes in the light boxes hummed like bug zappers. Simioni crossed his arms and stared at the screen. Chakrabarti hadn't looked away. It was as if the Warhol images were hypnotizing him.

"It's not an imaging error," Chakrabarti said. "The same thing emerges on both sets of MRIs. I don't know what it is."

Jo looked at Simioni. "Rick?"

Simioni focused on the screen. "A natural neurotoxin? A tropical parasite? Something they both came in contact with on the airplane?"

"An industrial pollutant?" she said. "A contaminant from high-tech manufacturing?"

"That's an interesting possibility."

"Kanan works for a nanotechnology company."

Both men turned to her. Simioni said, "Really?"

"Really."

With a knock, Amy Tang opened the door and stuck her head in. "Got something going on at the marina. It may relate. I'm heading over."

Jo nodded, and Tang disappeared. Jo turned back to the MRI images.

"Thoughts?" she said.

Simioni turned pensive. "Nanotech is being investigated as a treatment for brain tumors. Treating brain cancers is notoriously difficult, because many anticancer drugs consist of molecules too large to cross the blood-brain barrier and reach the tumor site. The barrier keeps most agents out. Only very small substances can breach it."

"Are nanoparticles small enough?"

"Some are. But nanoparticle chemotherapy is problematic. If the wrong agents cross the barrier they can cause serious brain infections, which are tenacious and difficult to treat. And some nanoparticles deliver anticancer drugs but don't target only tumors-they acc.u.mulate in surrounding healthy tissue."

"You're saying nanoparticles can be a Trojan horse," Jo said. "They could slip past the brain's natural defenses and cause havoc."

"Precisely."

All three of them stared at the images on the screen.

Simioni pointed at the images of Gingrich's brain. "What could cross the blood-brain barrier and lodge so specifically in this one area, I'm not sure."

"Where's Mr. Gingrich now?" Jo asked.

"Upstairs. We admitted him." Simioni continued gazing at the screen.

"Is it contagious?" Jo said.

He looked at her. "I hope not."

* 15 *

Standing aboard the crowded AirTrain, Stef Nivesen watched the clouds above the coastal mountains. They were so bright they seemed to amplify the sunlight. They looked like klieg lights in the sky.

The AirTrain rattled along the elevated track toward the terminal at San Francisco International Airport. Stef was stuffed in a corner, holding the handle of her roller case. She kept her balance as the train rounded a curve. She pretended to ignore the looks from men on the train. She knew her red Virgin Atlantic uniform fit her to perfection. She was twenty-six, she worked out, she wore heels that made her legs look great. The Virgin uniforms were retro-styled, giving off the aura of jet-set glamour. And she knew she could take down any of these guys in a judo bout. She flew the SFO-Heathrow route, and she loved her job. Loved flying to London, loved British men, and knew they regarded a long-haul flight as a twelve-hour party with an open bar. At times she wished the 747 carried a fire hose, so she could blast sloshed and grabby pa.s.sengers straight back to their seats.

She scratched her arm. The train was hot. She felt tired but wide awake.

The train stopped, doors opened, and people streamed out. Stef looked around in surprise. What was she doing at the car rental stop? She'd been going the other way, from the garage to the international terminal.

How had she missed her stop?

She checked her watch and relaxed. She had plenty of time.

People streamed aboard, hauling luggage, and the train pulled out. Stef stared at the clouds in the sky above the coastal mountains. They were as bright as klieg lights.

At least it was sunny today. Not like yesterday when her flight came in with the lunatic on board. That had been weird. She scratched her arm again. She was glad those two men had stopped the nutball before he opened the emergency exit. She'd been strapped in her jump seat forty feet away. She would have had a h.e.l.l of a time reaching him, much less stopping him.

Why had Berserko tried to open the door? Did he need air? She sure did. The train was hot and close. And bright. Everybody seemed exceptionally bright and sharply defined.

"Miss? Are you all right?"

Stef blinked at the man standing in front of her. Forty-Niners cap and forty-nine pounds of pudge around his waist.

"Excuse me?" she said.

"Are you all right? You were turning around, like something was pushing you."

"I'm fine." What a weird thing for the man to say.

The train stopped and the doors opened. c.r.a.p, this was the international terminal. She rushed out as the doors closed.

She took the crew lane through security and headed straight for the gate. It was already crowded with pa.s.sengers waiting to board. She checked her watch.

Alarm rang through her. Thirty minutes to departure. Holy c.r.a.p, how had it gotten so late?

She picked up her pace. Her cell phone rang. She checked the display. It was Charlotte Thorne, one of her British colleagues.

Stef answered in a rush. "I'm on my way."

"You said that an hour ago. Where are you?"

"I'm coming down the concourse. What do you mean, I said that?"

Charlotte exhaled with annoyance. "Are you really here this time? You sure you haven't been skiving with your boyfriend?"

"Don't be ridiculous. I can see the gate."

She hung up, irked. Why would Charlotte claim she'd lied? She hadn't spoken to Charlotte an hour ago. She hadn't spoken to her since their last flight together. How daft, as Charlotte would put it.

She reached the gate. Throwing her shoulders back, she smiled and walked toward the plane.

Jo dropped her satchel on the kitchen table, turned on the coffeepot, and opened the French doors to the patio. It was chilly, but after seeing Ron Gingrich's MRI she wanted fresh air.

She got out her notes and checked e-mail. A message confirmed that Kanan had customs papers on the daggers and sword he'd brought back. They were cla.s.sed as museum pieces, purchased from an antiquities dealer in Jordan, destined for display. Kanan was transporting them on behalf of Chira-Sayf Inc.

Chira-Sayf. Where did that name come from?

Chira wasn't in her dictionary, but chiral was a chemistry term, relating to molecular structure and atomic mirror-imaging. Sayf was the transliterated spelling of the Arabic word for sword. Photos showed ancient scimitars whose blades shone with the l.u.s.ter of the knife Ian Kanan had flashed near her face.

She stared at the screen. Out back on the lawn, black wings fluttered and she heard a sharp caw.

Two crows were pecking at an object on the gra.s.s. She went outside, clapping her hands to shoo the birds away. They bustled into flight, leaving their prey limp and dismembered on the lawn.

She looked at it, puzzled.

They'd been tearing apart a little stuffed animal. It was a floppy emerald-green bear, about eight inches long. Its eyes hung by threads. The fabric was stained and slimy. Jo nudged it with the toe of her shoe. It looked as though it had been probed by aliens, with their most thorough tools and lubricants.

She heard the doorbell. Leaving the bear, she jogged inside to answer it. She opened the door and lowered her gaze six inches. Amy Tang looked like she had bitten into a sour green apple.

She handed Jo a photo. "From a CCTV camera at the marina."

It showed a man, sopping wet, unlocking the door of an SUV.

Jo's shoulders tightened. "It's Kanan."

"Thank you for the I.D. Now I can apply to a judge for a murder warrant."

Jo looked up sharply. "Come in. Tell me."

"A white male was found floating in the marina beside a yacht called Somebody's Baby. Pa.s.serby saw a slick of b.l.o.o.d.y water, thought it was Jaws, and called in the cavalry. Only the victim didn't have shark bites. He had a major abdominal stab wound."

Jo led Tang down the hall to the living room. "What makes you think Kanan is involved?"

"'Involved'? As in, stuck the victim like a pig?"

"Yes. As in."

"Witness saw a man fitting Kanan's description walking away from the slip, dressed in street clothes, soaking wet. He climbed into a red Navigator and pulled out like his hair was on fire."

"Fitting Kanan's description?" Jo said.

Tang handed her another photo. It showed Kanan standing at the open door of the SUV, bare-chested, tossing his wet shirt into the vehicle.

"And no," Tang said, "I have no proof that Kanan stabbed the victim. But when a man walks away after a knife fight, it generally means he's the winner."

Jo examined the photo. Kanan looked strong and alert.

Tang glanced around the living room. "Nice digs."

"Thanks. I inherited it."

"Lucky you."

"Tell it to my in-laws. The house was in Daniel's family for a hundred years."

Tang panned the room, taking in the red Egyptian rug, the j.a.panese watercolors, and the Sopranos box sets on the bookshelf.

"You have a Mafia fetish?"

"Psychiatrists all watch The Sopranos. It's the shrink's dream show." Jo continued examining the photos of Kanan.

Tang arched an eyebrow. "You don't believe Kanan could kill somebody? Want to see the body to compare the wound dimensions with the blade Kanan pulled on you?"

"I don't need to see the body."

"Right, you don't do blood and guts. You just rip the lid off the psyche and catch the screaming meemies that fly out."

"Didn't catch these, apparently."

Tang took the photos back. "Don't feel morose. You're a doctor. You're trained to see him as a sick man, not a killer."

Jo didn't feel morose. She felt a liquid silver fear that seemed to roll across her skin like mercury. "I believe it. But I want to know what's behind it. That might help us pinpoint his targets and shut him down." She brushed her hair back from her forehead. "Have you identified the victim?"

Tang took out her notepad. "Ken Meiring."

"Who was he?"

"We don't know his connection to Kanan, but he has a record. Fraud, receiving stolen goods, and illegal weapons sales." Tang's expression was astringent. "He was a thief and a lowlife thug. And he was Kanan's first target. Shall we connect the dots?"

"Was it his boat?"

"I doubt it. According to the records for the marina, Somebody's Baby is owned by Chira-Sayf Inc."

"What?"

"Yes. Curiouser and curiouser. It's-" Tang looked out the bay window. "Isn't that your neighbor?"

On the sidewalk outside, waving at them, stood Ferd.