She stared up at him, shook her head several times.

"I had nothing to do with . . . that."

He was about to describe to her what he was going to do to assist her memory when he heard a big boat engine, deep and powerful, muttering, burbling, closing in on the other side of the steel doors that opened onto the wharf-Levka and Mandy with the Subito Subito?

How did they know he'd be-he heard a big bolt racked back, a sound he knew too damned well-and hit the concrete just as whatever was on the other side of that steel wall opened up. There was a deep shuddering roar and a hail of large-caliber bullets that shredded the doors, the air full of the clatter and hammer of the rounds zipping and zinging around inside the warehouse like bees. He could feel the thudding chatter of the machine-gun rounds striking the concrete in a shower of red sparks, a row of rounds stitching sparks across the floor. The slugs found Gretel cowering on the cot, tearing her to bloody bits in a split second.

The weapon tracked on, sweeping back and forth, pouring hundreds of rounds into the side of the warehouse, ripping the building apart. Daylight was streaming in through hundreds of holes in the doors and walls. A spray of rounds caught the freezer and ripped it to shards, spilling the torn carcass of the young woman stiffly out onto the floor.

Another slicing ribbon of rounds caught her and chipped away at her like someone hammering a block of ice, parts of her skittered across the concrete, spinning crazily like ice cubes across a bar.

Dalton belly-crawled across the floor, feeling a ribbon of lead chattering up the floor inches from his hip, stinging pain as chips of concrete tore into his flesh, still crawling, ears ringing.

He could see the door into the parking lot, see the body of the man he had killed, dead but jumping and jerking as stray rounds and ricochets pumped into his corpse. Dalton grabbed the frozen girl, his hands slick, and shoved it in the line of fire between him and the machine gun out there, huddled behind it, feeling rounds chipping the ice, trying to make himself as small as what was left of her.

By now, the steel doors of the warehouse were hanging on their hinges, and he could see a large fishing trawler idling just beyond the wharf and a man in the cabin, gritting his teeth as he worked a Russian PK machine gun.

The machine gun chattered to a halt-a jam, time to change out a superheated barrel, or the end of the belt-and the silence was stunning, immense. The gunner took a moment to toss a satchel charge through a rent in the steel, and it skimmed across the floor and slammed into the far wall, its fuse hissing white smoke.

Dalton scooped up the KS shotgun, racking the slide as he got to his feet, charged at the hanging steel doors. The gunner looked up from the breech-he'd been trying to change out a hot barrel. Dalton raised the KS shotgun and blew the man's head into pink mist.

Behind Dalton, the satchel charge blew, and a white-hot flower of phosphorus opened up behind him, the sudden blast of heat scorching his neck and shoulders. Whoever was at the wheel shouted something in Russian, and the trawler heaved around and powered away, leaving a deep white wake as the props dug in. Dalton got a glimpse of the name painted across the stern:[image].

He ran out onto the wharf just as the warehouse caught fire, fired off five more slugs, the heavy shotgun bucking in his grip as splinters flew off the stern boards.

A navigation light shattered in a spray of red glass, and three ragged holes punched into the boards just at the waterline. The pilot pushed the throttle to max, and the stern buried itself deep into the Bosphorus, heading at speed for the open water of the Black Sea.

Dalton heard a klaxon horn sounding from the river on his right, saw the huge blue bow of the Subito Subito plowing directly toward him, white wings curling out on either side of the cutwater, Mandy out on the bow with a line, Levka's white face behind the helm in the cabin. plowing directly toward him, white wings curling out on either side of the cutwater, Mandy out on the bow with a line, Levka's white face behind the helm in the cabin.

Levka wheeled the boat into a sharp curve to starboard as the cruiser heeled dangerously and white water boiled up along her port side. Mandy staggered, caught herself on the railing, the Subito Subito rushing in past the wharf, her engines thudding, Mandy racing along the rail, her wide gray eyes fixed on Dalton. Levka reversed the motors, and Dalton, holding the shotgun in one hand, his eyes on Mandy, set himself . . . and jumped. rushing in past the wharf, her engines thudding, Mandy racing along the rail, her wide gray eyes fixed on Dalton. Levka reversed the motors, and Dalton, holding the shotgun in one hand, his eyes on Mandy, set himself . . . and jumped.

GARRISON.

THE TACONIC, NORTHBOUND.

Brocius, doing a hundred miles per hour northbound on the Taconic, hurtling through a blinding snow squall, caught a glimpse of the bright green I-84 exit sign and nearly put the rented Escalade in the ditch as he swerved across the lanes just in time to lean it into a long right-hand-curving loop and up onto the westbound lanes.

He had picked up the Escalade at La Guardia, intending to take Highway 6 westbound at Shrub Oak, which would put him on 9D, the highway that ran parallel to the Hudson just north of Peekskill, but when he reached the turnoff there was a New York State trooper patrol car parked across the ramp. Highway 6 was closed due to heavy snow coming down from the Hudson Highlands. He had been forced to take the long way around, going north to 84 and then west to connect with Route 9 north of Garrison.

Settling back into a steady seventy-the highway was oddly empty at this midmorning hour, and a major snowpack was building up in the outside lanes, leaving him just one bare lane to follow-Brocius picked his cell phone up again and flipped it open. His thumb hovered over the 911 button for six long seconds while he thought it over-the signal was very weak, barely one bar, this damned damned storm-and flipped the phone shut again. storm-and flipped the phone shut again.

Briony was in trouble, that was clear enough, and the fact that she had worked pretty hard to keep the frog prince from understanding their exchange on the phone had set off serious alarms for him, although they had been ringing faintly in his subconscious for days.

But what kind kind of trouble was she in? of trouble was she in?

Brocius figured it had something to do with Morgan's disappearance, and, if it did, would dragging in the New York State patrol guys make the situation better or worse? Worse, he decided.

And when he thought about it, what could he really say that would justify sending a couple of cruisers out into this nasty winter storm? Assuming they had any to spare on a miserable day like this.

Hi, I'm Hank Brocius of the NSA, and I think one of my people is getting . . . nervous . . . about her . . . houseguest? Can you send a car?

Oh hell, sure thing, Mr. Brocius, we're on it like lawyers on a widow. Look for us in the springtime with the darling buds of May.

Briony had the Sig, and she had her fallback position. She knew the drill in an emergency-the Agency trained them all for this kind of event-and the Glass Cutters had all been put on official warning right after Mildred Durant's murder. He didn't know what Morgan's disappearance meant from a tactical point of view, and, until he did, he was going to keep the problem inside the Agency where it could be controlled. But his chest was tight and his mouth was dry as he hammered the Escalade down through the driving snow, watching the exits. A few miles west, there was the sign.

ROUTE 9 9 SOUTH SOUTH.

NELSONVILLE, COLD SPRING, GARRISON.

Garrison was ten miles south, but at Nelson's Corners he'd have to cut west toward the river on Indian Brook and then fork to the left on Avery, which would take him eventually to 9D, known in Garrison as Bear Mountain Beacon Highway. Briony's house was on the bluffs above the Hudson, number 15000.

That depended on whether or not he could use Indian Brook and Avery at all, both narrow, two-lane roads that switchbacked and twisted over the Hudson Highlands separating Route 9 from the towns of Cold Spring and Garrison. Huge flakes of snow were tumbling down in a mad spiral of driving fleece, and his visibility was down to fifty feet. And the weather was getting steadily worse as he came south on 9, until he was plowing through the blizzard at twenty miles an hour.

Even if he didn't lose it on a curve or simply get bogged down in a drift, he was sixty minutes away at least. Maybe more.

A hell of a lot could happen in sixty minutes.

AS A PRECAUTION, Duhamel went to the main board where the phone lines came into the house-he had already established its location, in the pantry off the kitchen-and disconnected the panel, cutting off both the house line and the work line, as well as the high-speed wireless Internet connection that ran throughout the property. Then he walked over to the bottom of the stairs and looked up into the warm light of the second-floor landing. The stillness was profound, as if the old house was literally holding its breath. Duhamel went to the main board where the phone lines came into the house-he had already established its location, in the pantry off the kitchen-and disconnected the panel, cutting off both the house line and the work line, as well as the high-speed wireless Internet connection that ran throughout the property. Then he walked over to the bottom of the stairs and looked up into the warm light of the second-floor landing. The stillness was profound, as if the old house was literally holding its breath.

"Briony?" Duhamel called her name as he came up the stairs, the blade tucked into his belt in the small of his back, his hands empty and innocent, his tone worried, puzzled-exactly how a human would sound.

He reached the top of the stairs, paused at the landing, looking down the corridor that led to the master bedroom. Although the hallway was in darkness, there was a sliver of light at the far end, a soft yellow glow where the bedroom door was open a few inches.

"Briony?"

No answer.

He stepped onto the carpet and began to walk down the hall toward the bedroom door. He was not afraid-if he was feeling anything, it was anger at the unexpected way this thing was playing out-and a strong sense that he had better have Anton and whoever was with him under control before he settled down to his long-delayed exploration of Briony Keating.

He wondered, idly, who Piotr would have sent.

Bukovac?

Would Piotr risk sending someone like Bukovac to America?

Yes, Duhamel decided.

To win this game, he would risk that.

Well, first things first: locate Briony if possible, then deal with Bukovac when and if he turned up.

Moving lightly but not so lightly as to seem to be stalking her, Duhamel came down the hall, checking the cupboard door on his left as he did so-clear-and then looking into the guest bathroom on the right-also clear. "Briony, sweet, where are you?"

He reached the bedroom door, put out a hand, gently pushed it open. It was a large, low-ceilinged room, done in pale green, with thick wooden beams across the ceiling and a stone fireplace. The heavy mahogany sleigh bed, which had withstood a lot of punishment, was empty, the bedding still tossed and warm from their last-final?-encounter. The room was in shadowy darkness, the curtains still drawn against the cold light of this last morning together, one bedside lamp burning low.

He saw that her cell phone was still lying beside the charger. He picked it up, checked the battery: RECHARGE NOW. This might explain why she hadn't taken it with her, wherever she had gone.

"Briony, this is not funny. You're worrying worrying me. Where are you?" me. Where are you?"

He bent down to look under the bed, feeling slightly ridiculous-nothing. The door to the bathroom was open, and cool white light spilled out onto the dark green carpet on the bedroom floor.

He moved around the bed and walked across to the bathroom door, pushed it open carefully, half expecting to see Briony cowering behind it. This room was also empty.

He came back into the bedroom, stood for a while in the center, using his photographer's eye to see the dimensions of the floor, the room, in relation to the space outside it.

He held his breath for a time, listening carefully for her breathing. Nothing at all, other than the insectile hiss of his own blood in his ears. He walked back to the entrance to the bathroom and stood there, looking at the lines of the built-in closet-fairly recent construction, he thought-comparing the dimensions of the closet to other parts of the room. Then he walked to the leaded-glass windows, pulled back the curtain.

It was snowing-quite heavily now-but there was a pale silvery sun gliding through clouds, and it lit up the broad expanse of lawn that sloped down toward the river, a gray hillside with a glint of pale light here and there on the frozen drifts that lay on the river.

There were no tracks in the snow, no tracks leading across the lawn to the coach house where she kept her office, and he would have heard her trying to start the car-trying, because he had taken a moment to pull the cap off the distributor-he was grateful that she had an old old car, a large burgundy Cadillac Fleetwood that she had inherited from her father. car, a large burgundy Cadillac Fleetwood that she had inherited from her father.

Well, he knew one thing for certain: Briony was inside this house, and she wasn't going to get out without being seen. She had gone to ground-probably somewhere on this floor-and now she was waiting for . . . what?

For rescue rescue, of course.

The two o'clock caller with the Maryland cell phone number.

He turned back to consider the room and decided there was one way to clear up any ambiguity concerning the situation. He walked over to Briony's night table, pulled the drawer open. The indigo scarf was still there-he had once been very fond of indigo scarves but had not wanted to use this one on Briony because a short while ago an indigo scarf had almost gotten him killed-but there was nothing under it. Briony's lovely little Sig Sauer P-230 was gone. That clarified the nature of this game.

Duhamel-he paused for a blessed moment to shed that name as a snake sheds its skin-shuddered a little as Kiki Lujac came back up from a long way down and stood before him in the mirror next to the bed.

Lujac stared back at himself, running his hands through his short black hair. When this was over, he would grow it long again. He would find the Subito Subito and go somewhere warm and sunny. He felt he had lost much of his hard-earned tan in this frigid, sunless place. North Africa was beautiful this time of year, with some of the very best surfing in the world off Casablanca. Marcus Todorovich had told him that once-poor, sweet Marcus. He leaned into the mirror, squinting a little. There was something very wrong with his reflection. Yes, the brown contact lenses. and go somewhere warm and sunny. He felt he had lost much of his hard-earned tan in this frigid, sunless place. North Africa was beautiful this time of year, with some of the very best surfing in the world off Casablanca. Marcus Todorovich had told him that once-poor, sweet Marcus. He leaned into the mirror, squinting a little. There was something very wrong with his reflection. Yes, the brown contact lenses.

He leaned over and plucked them out of his eyes, one at a time, threw them onto the rug, where they lay like discarded scales. He leaned close into the mirror, admiring the jade green jewels of his own eyes, a color someone had once described as "Moroccan green."

"Hello, Kiki," he said, baring his perfect teeth. "I've missed missed you!" you!"

"And I've missed missed you," said Kiki Lujac. "Duhamel was such a bore, a complete cold fish." you," said Kiki Lujac. "Duhamel was such a bore, a complete cold fish."

Lujac agreed.

"And rutting around with that . . . cow . . ."

Lujac held up a hand, closed his eyes.

"Please, don't dwell. The gorge rises."

"On the whole," said Lujac, "I don't really like this work at all."

"Espionage, you mean?" said Lujac, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes. Why the hell did we get into it anyway?"

Lujac shrugged-a very Gallic shrug-his mouth pursing briefly.

"Let ourselves get talked into it, didn't we? By that fucking Piotr."

"The slug. slug. I mean, I swear that man leaves a trail." I mean, I swear that man leaves a trail."

"I wouldn't doubt it."

"And those lips, like a plate full of squirming earth-"

"Please, no similes on an empty stomach."

"I apologize, forgive me. But . . . now what?"

Lujac gave the matter some thought, raised a finger.

"First, we find that fucking cow-"

"And her little pistol?" put in Lujac.

He shook his head, frowned in mock disapproval.

"Such a hazard, lying there, and in an unlocked unlocked drawer." drawer."

"And loaded loaded."

"I mean, what if there had been children children?"

"Exactly. Handguns in the home are five times as likely to-"

"Kill the owner?"

Lujac nodded.

"Very responsible. We fully approve."

"So do we. Any sensible adult would have done the same-"

A low, melodious bong rippled through the silence of the house, paused, then sounded again, this time more urgently. Lujac smiled hugely at Lujac, his green eyes showing a deep-yellow spark.

"The doorbell?"

"The doorbell."

"Company?" he said, his face opening into a delighted smile.

"I believe it is," said Lujac, smiling back.