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Page 81
figure in the front seat were Asian, but the voice was pure California Valley Boy.
Morgan leaned against the padded armor plate behind him and closed his eyes. He was thinking of a photograph of Anna Neville he had seen in the contributor's section of The Nature Conservancy Magazine. Hardly a femme fatale, but she had a good face, framed by windblown auburn hair, cut short. A spray of freckles across a small nose. A mouth that could be called broad or generous, depending on how one felt about the person in the photograph. Photo by Jacob Neville, no doubt. It was difficult to guess the color of her eyes, because they were narrowed against a mountain sun. The photo had been taken, the caption said, in the Rockies.
Jake Neville had devoted his talent to showing America's warts and scars to the world and won many prizes doing so. He had chronicled the plight of homeless people sleeping on the sidewalks in New York, or in the city parks of Santa Barbara, with an almost lascivious devotion. He made photographing the sins of corporate America into a fine art. There was little balance in it, no glimpses of the many good things he could have seen all around him had he been willing to recognize them. Only oil spills, mine cave-ins, nuclear accidents, the detritus on the streets: those were his obsessions. Well, Morgan thought, it took all kinds. But what kind was Anna Neville? A real chip off the old block?
For that matter, what kind am I, Morgan wondered. He was under no illusions. His task was to neutralize Anna Neville. Intimidate her, if necessary. Well, what the hellthere weren't any wars around just now. Great work for a citizen soldier, Morgan thought ironically. Semper fi, Mac.
Barely visible ahead and to the left, the Great Salt Lake was materializing out of the haze. The speed of the aircraft was daunting. Why was it, Morgan wondered, that men built their most ingenious machines for war. The Hornet strike fighter was nuclear-capable. It could deliver as much explosive

 
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