"No."

"Who did?"

"What makes you think I know?"

"For someone who is trying to win my confidence, you're not very forthright."

"I'd like to win your confidence. But to do that, you insist I confide in you, when I keep telling you I need to know if I can count on you. We're obviously bumping up against what people call a catch-22. One of us is going to have to make a good-faith gesture. I think it should be you."

"I disagree."

"I thought you would say that." She reaches for the TV control and raises the volume a notch. "They're talking about the tension in the Middle East. Some experts believe Iran already has the bomb, while others say they are still a year away from having enough purified uranium to build one or two nuclear weapons. What do you think the truth is?"

"I don't know. But I'm sure you do."

"Iran already has the bomb. Not one they built on their own, but a dozen they bought on the black market. Saudi Arabia also has the bomb. They have hydrogen bombs, a hundred of them. You might wonder how I know this when the president of the United States doesn't. The reason is simple. I can write a check for a hundred billion dollars and he can't. Not without the approval of the House and the Senate."

"You're saying these countries bought their bombs from Russia?"

"Saudi Arabia did. When the Soviet Union collapsed, the Saudi royal family looked north and figured the Russians couldn't possibly keep track of the thirty thousand warheads they were supposed to decommission. No doubt some smart nephew of the king figured that with a hundred billion euros he could buy an already-made nuclear arsenal. Of course, somewhere along the line the king must have agreed to the plan." She pauses. "You see my point?"

"You're saying money can buy anything."

"Yes."

"Where did Iran buy their bombs?"

"From North Korea. They charged a lot less. Then again, their bombs don't always work. Iran has to remember that if they go to war against Israel. Speaking of which, they have their own nuclear arsenal. One we sold them."

"Everyone who goes on the Internet knows that."

"Yes. But they don't know why we sold them the bombs."

"We did so out of guilt. Because we turned our heads during World War Two and let six million Jews die."

Brutran nods. "Very good. Spoken like a wise observer who lived through those turbulent years."

"What makes you think I'm so old?"

"Intensive research. For such a rich lady, you have no birth certificate. Nor do you have any death certificates. You'll laugh at that last remark and say, 'Of course, I'm still alive. Why should I have a death certificate?' But let me give you a taste of the advice I can pass on to you if we agree to work together. You should have let your old identities die. It would have covered your tracks better. None of your earlier aliases were ever buried. That's one of the main ways we were able to track you."

Her advice is sound. I have been careless at killing off my earlier incarnations. Before the computer age, it wasn't necessary. Now I see I'll have to adjust my lifestyle to include regular funerals.

Brutran has scored a point.

"How old do you think I am?" I ask.

She studies me. "Our data reaches back four centuries. You're at least that old. But sitting with you now, I sense we've barely scratched the surface of who you really are."

"Interesting."

"Now you sound like me. Good."

I shake my head. "I'm not like you. You may be right about certain worldly events, but I'll never believe money can buy everything. IIC can accumulate all they want, but when the public becomes aware of what you're up to, there will be such an outcry, your wealth will be useless."

"How is anyone going to know what we're up to?"

"No secret remains secret forever. Even now, there are cracks in your veil."

She brushes my words aside with her hand. "We own CNN and your beloved New York Times. Within five years we'll control all the major media outlets. Events don't make the news, the people who own the news companies do. Why, I could make you famous in less than a month, Alisa Perne. Or should I say Lara Adams? Talk about cracks in my veil. Your veil is paper thin. I don't have to physically touch you to destroy you. You have more secrets than any of us."

I play with the gun in my lap. "Are you sure you want to threaten me?"

"I'd rather reason with you. But threats have their place." She adds, "By the way, you can't harm me with that gun. Out of respect, I thought I should warn you."

"So a bullet through the brain won't bother you?"

"You'd never get that far."

"You sound pretty confident."

"I am." She slowly smiles. "Let's not fence. We have much to offer each other. We should form an alliance."

"So far I haven't heard what you can do for me."

"Let's say I know who sent that assassin after you. How would you feel if I told you I can stop your enemies from sending another?"

"Who are my enemies?"

"Don't answer a question with a question. How would you feel?"

"I can take care of myself."

"That man nearly killed you."

"How do you know how close he came?"

"To escape you had to blow up your house. He must have come damn close."

"And you promise to keep the bad guys away?"

"Yes. Among other things."

"Such as?"

She nods to the news on TV, where there are images of Arabs and Jews killing each other. "IIC has a greater goal than wealth and power. Our higher purpose is to save mankind. Yes, I know that sounds grandiose. But the truth is mankind needs saving. You'd be hard-pressed to find a scientist who wouldn't agree that we're destroying the earth with global warming, pollution, and overpopulation. You'd have trouble finding a politician who doesn't believe we're heading for a major war in the Middle East or with China."

"And you have a magic pill that will make people behave?"

"In a sense, yes."

"The Array?"

She blinks. "What do you know about the Array?"

I gamble to keep her talking. "I know it's begun to malfunction. You can no longer count on making your usual percentage in the stock market. I wonder. Has the magic gone out of the pill?"

I have hit a nerve. The woman's face darkens.

"It seems a part of your nature to taunt us mere mortals. Perhaps if I'd lived as long as you, I'd do likewise. But I must warn you, I find the quality annoying."

"That's the second warning you've given in two minutes. Has anyone told you it seems a part of your nature to threaten people when you're in the midst of asking for their help?"

Her expression remains flat, distant. "I'm asking you to join us in a great cause. To use your special abilities to help save mankind."

"And I can start by killing two innocent young women?"

"I explained to you why they must die."

"No, you haven't." I pause. "Not yet."

"Is that a threat?"

"Yes." I raise the gun and point it at her face. "I believe it is."

She shrugs. For some reason she uses her remote to lower the volume. I see her push the mute button, and the sound stops. For the first time I realize she hasn't let go of it since I entered her house. Indeed, she was holding the remote even before I entered the living room. If it's a weapon, I assume she would have to point it at me for it to work-something I won't allow. At the same time, the device looks harmless.

But she doesn't put it down. She stares at my gun without the slightest trace of fear. "Are you going to shoot me?" she asks.

"I will if you don't start answering my questions."

"You'd kill me knowing I can protect you?"

"I know nothing of the sort. Tell me about the Array."

Her smile widens, yet it's a joyless expression.

"Why tell you about it when you can have a demonstration?"

"Huh?" I manage to mutter before I feel a sudden pressure at the back of my head. The sensation distorts my balance. I try to stand, to get away from what's causing it, but I have no control over my legs. It's as if someone else has taken charge of my central nervous system. The pressure escalates rapidly until the pain itself almost blinds me. I feel as if a metal claw fresh from a furnace has clamped down on my skull at the top of my neck. My cervical vertebrae make loud popping sounds. They feel close to rupturing.

"I think you will shoot yourself before you shoot me," she says.

I shake my head, trying to shake free of the invisible but all too real vise that squeezes me. The internal pressure is so great, I fear my brain cells will explode.

"No!" I gasp.

"Shoot, Alisa. Shoot yourself in the head."

Fearing she has somehow hypnotized me, I tear my gaze away from her eyes and try blocking out her voice. My right arm shakes. The hand that holds the gun twitches. With each passing moment, it twists the gun closer to my head. I don't understand what's happening, I only know I'm unable to resist it.

"No!" I cry.

"It will stop if you shoot. Just shoot yourself, Alisa."

I force myself to focus on the TV, anything to drown out the wicked suggestions she continues to force-feed my agonized mind. But on the screen the rival Arabs and Jews no longer fight each other. Instead, I see close-ups of children pressing guns to their temples and firing. As their innocent skulls shatter, their brains splatter the screen, and three-dimensional images of gross gray matter drip from the TV. I smell it, the bloody pulp, and I, who have killed thousands, feel sick to my stomach.

The next child who appears on the screen is Shanti. Beautiful Shanti-it's an image of her before her fiance threw acid in her face. I'm confused. Where did such a picture come from? Is it real? Holding a gun beside her mouth, she begs for me to save her life.

"Shoot yourself and I'll live," she cries.

"No!" I shout back.

"Please, Alisa?"

"Shanti!" How does she know my name?

"I don't want to die," she pleads, before she puts the gun in her mouth. I cannot help her any more than I can help myself. My hand keeps twitching, and soon my gun is pointed at my face the same way hers is. Only I won't open my mouth, I refuse to open my mouth.

"Save me!" Shanti mouths a mumbled cry as the barrel of the gun slides past her lips.

"Don't do it!" I cry back.

"Sita!" she moans, calling me by my childhood name.

"Shanti!"

She pulls the trigger. The impact of the bullet hurts me as badly as if the bullet entered my own skull. The bullet ricochets around inside the girl's mouth, ripping out her right eye, tearing off her right nostril, bursting through her cheek and leaving a gaping hole. It's like the acid all over again.

Incredibly, the Shanti on the screen doesn't die. Her face covered with blood, she calmly puts down the gun and speaks to me in the hissing tone I'm familiar with, only amplified tenfold.

"You promised to protect me," she says.

I feel myself weep. "I'm sorry."

Shanti is suddenly bitter. "Why, you can't even protect yourself. Go ahead, pull the trigger and get it over with."

"No!"

"Put the gun in your mouth and do it!" She stops to grin as blood leaks from the hole in her face. "Who knows, you might survive and look like me. It's not so bad."

"Please, no," I beg like a frightened child.

"In the mouth," she insists.

I cannot resist her command. No matter how much my will strives to say no, my mouth begins to open, and my hand steers the barrel of the Glock into my mouth. I feel the cold steel scratch the top of my teeth. My tongue tastes the residue of the gunpowder inside the barrel from the last time I fired the weapon. I don't remember when that was, who I killed, but I know with a sickening certainty that this will be the last time I fire any gun. How ironic my long life should end in suicide.

"Oh, God!" I cry.