All the queen's men [067-4.6]

By: Linda Howard

Synopsis:

Setting: contemporary Virginia, France, Iran Sensuality: CIA agent
John Medina and electronics expert Niemi Burdock share a violent past:
the two were part of a covert operation that went tragically wrong,
resulting in the death of several people.  Now, five years later, their
paths cross again and John, whose love for Niemi has only grown over
time, is determined to keep her in his life for good.  Having spent the
intervening five years living a solitary, staid existence--due to
feelings of guilt over the ill-fated operation--Niemi is somewhat
reluctant to reenter the shadowy world she once inhabited.  Still, she
can't resist the lure and excitement of danger when John asks her to
join him on his latest mission to discover the origins of a deadly new
explosive already in use by terrorists.

Concocting a plan to reveal the source of the explosive, the two enter
into a dangerous masquerade, walking a tightrope between safety and
death, while passion boils beneath the surface.  Unaware of John's
feelings, Niemi fights her physical response to the legendary agent as
her emotions, in frozen limbo for the last five years, thaw with
astonishing speed.

First introduced in Kill and Tell, agent John Medina is as intriguing
as the perilous world he operates in.  Watching him in action, la James
Bond, is exhilarating--as is the single-minded intensity of his
feelings for Niemi, whose ability to hold her own with John--on both a
personal and professional level--and with the host of terrorists,
spies, and double-dealers the pair encounter is impressive to say the
least.  Throw in a couple of chilling chase scenes, some romantic
interludes hot enough to peel paint from the walls, and one or two
bigger-than-life internationally connected characters, and you've got
the latest from Linda Howard--a romantic thriller that's sure to be
coming soon to a bestseller list near you.

Chapter ONE.

1994, Iran.

It was cold in the rough little hut.  Despite the blankets hung over
the one window and the > fitting door, to block the escape of any
telltale light, frigid air still seeped through.  Niema Burdock blew on
her fingers to warm them, her breath fogging slightly in the one dim
battery-operated light that was all Tucker, the team leader, allowed.

Her husband, Dallas, seemed perfectly comfortable in his T-shirt as he
calmly packed the Semtex blocks into secure sections of his web gear.
Niema watched him, trying to hide her anxiety.  It wasn't the explosive
she worried about, plastique was so stable soldiers in Vietnam had
burned it as fuel.  But Dallas and Sayyed had to plant the explosives
in the manufacturing facility, and that was the most dangerous part of
a job that was already hair-raising enough.  Though her husband was as
matter-of-fact about it as he would be about crossing the street, Niema
wasn't that blase about the job.  The radio detonator wasn't
state-of-the art, far from it.  This was deliberate, a precaution in
case any of their equipment fell into the wrong hands.

Nothing they were using could be traced to the United States, which was
why Dallas was using Semtex instead of C4.  But because their equipment
wasn't the best available, Niema had gone to great pains to make sure
it was reliable.  It was her husband's finger, after all, that would be
on the switch.

Dallas caught her gaze on him and winked at her, his strong face
relaxing from its normal impassive ness into a warm smile that he
reserved only for her.  "Hey, " he said mildly, "I'm good at this.

Don't worry.  " So much for trying to hide her anxiety.  The other
three men turned to look at her.  Not wanting them to think she
couldn't handle the stress of the job, she shrugged.  "So sue me.  I'm
new at this wife business.  I thought I was supposed to worry.  "
Sayyed laughed as he packed his own gean

"Heck of a way to spend your honeymoon.  " He was a native Iranian who
was now an American citizen, a tough, wiry man in his late forties.

He spoke English with a Midwestern accent, the result of both hard work
and almost thirty years in the United States.  "Personally, I'd have
picked Hawaii for my wedding trip.  At least it would be warm there.  "
"Or Australia, " Hadi said wistfully.  "It's summer there now.  " Hadi
Santana was of Arabic and Mexican heritage, but an American by birth.
He had grown up in the heat of southern Arizona and didn't like the
cold Iranian mountains in midwinter any better than did Niema.

He would stand guard while Dallas and Sayyed planted the charges and
was occupying himself by checking and rechecking his rifle and
ammunition.

"We spent two weeks in Aruba after we got married, " Dallas said.

"Great place.  " He winked at Niema again, and she had to smile. Unless
Dallas had been to Aruba another time, he hadn't seen much of it during
their honeymoon, three months before.  They had spent the entire two
weeks lost in each other's company making love, sleeping late. Bliss.

Tucker didn't join in the conversation, but his cool, dark eyes
lingered on Niema as if assessing her, wondering if he had made a
mistake including her on the team.  She wasn't as experienced as the
others, but neither was she a novice.  Not only that, she could put a
bug on a telephone line with her eyes closed.  If Tucker had any doubts
about her ability, she wished he would just come out and say so.

But if Tucker had doubts about her, then turnabout was fair play, she
thought wryly, because she sure as hell wasn't certain about him.

Not that he'd said or done anything wrong, the uneasiness that kept her
on edge around him was instinctive, without any concrete reason.  She
wished he was one of the three men going into the plant, rather than
remaining behind with her.  The thought of spending the hours alone
with him wasn't nearly as nerve-racking as knowing Dallas would be in
danger, but she didn't need the added tension when her nerves already
felt stretched and raw.

Tucker originally had planned to go in, but Dallas was the one who had
argued against it.  "Look, boss, " he had said in that calm way of his.
"It isn't that you can't do the job, because you're as good as I am,
but it isn't necessary that you take the risk.  If you had to, that
would be different, but you don't.  " An indecipherable look had
flashed between the two men, and Tucker had given a brief nod.

Dallas and Tucker had known each other before Tucker put this team
together, had worked together before.  The only thing that reassured
Niema about the team leader was that her husband trusted and respected
him, and Dallas Burdock was no one's pushover--to the contrary, in
fact.  Dallas was one of the toughest, most dangerous men she had ever
met.  She had thought he was the most dangerous, until she met
Tucker.

That in itself was scary, because Dallas was something else.

Until five months ago, she hadn't really believed men like him existed.
Now, she knew differently.  Her throat tightened as she watched her
husband, his dark head bent as he once again focused all his attention
on his supplies and equipment.  Just like that, he could tune out
everything but the job, his power of concentration was awesome.  She
had seen that level of concentration in only one other man, Tucker.

She felt a sudden little ping of disbelief, almost a suspension of
reality, that she was actually married, especially to a man like
Dallas.  She had known him for just five months, loved him for almost
as long, and in so many ways he was still a stranger to her.  They were
slowly learning each other, settling down into the routine of
marriage--well, as routine as it could get, given their jobs as
contract agents for various concerns, principally the CIA.

Dallas was calm and steady and capable.  Once she would have described
those characteristics as desirable, if you were the domestic suburban
type, but basically unexciting.  Not now.  There was nothing staid
about Dallas.  Need a cat out of a tree?  Dallas could climb that tree
as if he were a cat.  Need the plumbing fixed?  Dallas could fix it.
Need to be dragged out of the surf?  He was a superior swimmer.

Need someone to make a difficult shot?  He was an expert marksman.

Need to blow up a building in Iran?  Dallas was your man.

All sne queen's lvlen So it took some doing to be tougher and more
dangerous than Dallas, but Tucker.  . . somehow was.  She didn't know
why she was so certain.  It wasn't Tucker's physical appearance, he was
tall and lean, but not as muscular as Dallas.  He wasn't edgy, if
anything, he was even more low-key than Dallas.  But there was
something in his eyes, in his characteristic stillness, that told her
Tucker was lethal.

She kept her doubts about the team leader to herself.  She wanted to
trust Dallas's opinion of Tucker because she trusted her husband so
much.  Besides, she was the one who had really wanted to take this job,
while Dallas had been leaning toward a diving trip to Australia.  Maybe
she was just letting the tension of the situation get to her.  They
were, after all, on a job that would get them all killed if they were
discovered, but success was even more important than escaping
detection.

The small facility buried deep in these cold mountains was
manufacturing a biological agent scheduled to be shipped to a terrorist
base in Sudan.  An air strike would be the fastest, most efficient way
to destroy it, but that would also trigger an international crisis and
destroy the delicate balance of the Middle East along with the
factory.

A full-scale war wasn't what anyone wanted.

With an air strike ruled out, the plant had to be destroyed from the
ground, and that meant the explosives had to be hand-placed, as well as
powerful.  Dallas wasn't relying just on Semtex to do the job, there
were fuels and accelerants in the factory that he planned to use to
make certain the plant didn't just go boom, but that it burned to the
ground.

They had been in Iran five days, traveling openly, boldly.

She had worn the traditional Muslim robes, with only her eyes revealed,
and sometimes they had been veiled, too.  She didn't speak Farsi--she
had studied French, Spanish, and Russian, but not Farsi--but that
didn't matter because, as a woman, she wasn't expected to speak.

Sayyed was a native, but from what she could tell, Tucker was as fluent
as Sayyed, Dallas nearly so, and Hadi less than Dallas.  She was
sometimes amused by the fact that all five of them were dark-eyed and
dark-haired, and she wondered if her coloring hadn't played nearly as
large a part in her having been chosen to be a team member as had her
skill with electronics.

"Ready.  " Dallas hooked the radio transmitter to his web gear and
shouldered the knapsack of plastique.  He and Sayyed had identical
gear.  Niema had practically assembled the transmitters from spare
parts, because the transmitters they had acquired had all been damaged
in some way.  She had cannibalized them and built two she had tested
and retested, until she was certain they wouldn't fail.  She had also
tapped into the factory's phone lines, a dead-easy job because their
equipment was of early-seventies vintage.  They hadn't gotten much
information from that, but enough to know their intel was accurate, and
the small facility had developed a supply of anthrax for terrorists in
Sudan.  Anthrax wasn't exotic, but it was sure as hell effective.

Sayyed had slipped into the facility the night before and
reconnoitered, returning to draw a rough floor plan showing where the
testing and incubation was done, as well as the storage facility, where
he and Dallas would concentrate most of their explosives.  As soon as
the factory blew, Tucker and Niema would destroy their equipment--not
that much of it was worth anything--and be ready to move as soon as the
three men returned.  They would split up and each make their own way
out of the country, rendezvousing in Paris to debrief.

Niema, of course, would be traveling with Dallas.

Tucker extinguished the light, and the three men slipped silently out
the door and into the darkness.  Niema immediately wished she had at
least hugged Dallas, or kissed him good luck, no matter what the other
three thought.  She felt colder without his bracing presence.

After making certain the blankets were in place, Tucker switched on the
light again, then began swiftly packing the things they would take with
them.  There wasn't much, a few provisions, a change of clothes, some
money, nothing that would arouse suspicion if they were stopped.  Niema
moved to help him, and in silence they divided the provisions into five
equal packs.

Then there was nothing to do but wait.  She moved over to the radio and
checked the settings, though she had checked them before, there was
nothing coming over the single speaker because the men weren't talking.
She sat down in front of the radio and hugged herself against the
cold.

Nothing about this job had been a picnic, but the waiting was the
worst.  It always had been, but now that Dallas was in danger, the
anxiety was magnified tenfold.  It gnawed at her, that internal
demon.

She checked her cheap wristwatch, only fifteen minutes had lapsed.

They hadn't had time to reach the facility yet.

A thin blanket settled over her shoulders.  Startled, she looked up at
Tucker, who stood beside her

"You were shivering, " he said in explanation of his unusual act and
moved away agam.

"Thanks.  " She pulled the blanket around her, uncomfortable with the
gesture, considerate though it was.  She wished she could ignore her
uneasiness about Tucker, or at least figure out fivhy she was so wary
of him.  She had tried to hide her wariness and concentrate only on the
job, but Tucker was no one's fool, he knew she was uncomfortable with
him.  Sometimes she felt as if they were in a silent battle no one else
knew about, those rare times when their gazes would accidentally meet
and distrust would be plain in hers, a slightly mocking awareness in
his.

He never put a foot wrong, though, never did anything that would bring
their discord into the open.  His relationship with all three of the
other men was both easy and professional.

With her, he was unfailingly polite and impersonal, and even that was a
measure of his professionalism.  Tucker respected Dallas and certainly
wasn't going to disrupt the team or endanger the job by openly
antagonizing his wife.  That should have reassured Niema on a couple of
levels--but it didn't.

Until he put the blanket around her shoulders, there hadn't been a word
spoken between them since the others left.  She wished it had remained
that way, keeping Tucker at a distance, she thought, was the safest
place for him.

He sat down, as relaxed and graceful as a cat.  He seemed impervious to
the cold, comfortable in a black T-shirt and fatigue pants.  Dallas had
the same sort of internal furnace, because he seldom felt the cold
either.  What was it about men like them that made them burn so much
hotter than the rest of the human race?  Maybe it was their physical
conditioning, but she herself was in very good shape and she had been
cold the entire time they had been in Iran.  She didn't wish they were
cold, too, just that the damn anthrax facility had been built in the
warm desert, instead of these chilly mountains.

"You're afraid of me.  " The comment, coming out of the blue, startled
her more than it had when he put the blanket around her, but not enough
that she lost her composure.  His voice had been calm, as if he were
discussing the weather.  She gave him a cool look.

"Wary, " she corrected.  If he thought she would hasten to deny her
uneasiness, the way most people would do when cornered, he was
mistaken.  As Dallas had learned, to his amusement more often than not,
there wasn't much that could make Niema back down.

Tucker leaned his dark head back against the cold stone wall and drew
one leg up, draping his arm loosely over his knee.

Unreadable brown eyes studied her.  "Wary, then, " he conceded.

"Why?  " She shrugged.  "Feminine intuition?  " He began to laugh.
Laughter wasn't something she had associated with Tucker, but he did it
easily, his dark head tilted back against the wall.  The sound was
genuinely amused, as if he couldn't help himself.

Niema watched him, one eyebrow tilted as she waited for him to stop.
She didn't feel the least impulse to join in his laughter, or even to
smile.  Nothing about this situation was funny.  They were deep in Iran
on a job that could get them all killed, and oh, by the way, she didn't
trust the team leader one inch, ha ha ha.  Yeah, right.

"Jesus, " he groaned, wiping his eyes.  "All this because of feminine
intuition?  " A shade of in credulousness colored his tone.

Niema gave him a stony look.  "You make it sound as if I've been
attacking you left and right.  " "Not overtly, at least.  " He paused,
a smile still curving his mouth.  "Dallas and I have worked together
before, you know.

What does he say about your suspicions?  " He was utterly relaxed as he
waited for her answer, as if he already knew what Dallas would have
said--if she had mentioned her feelings to him, that is.  She hadn't
uttered a word of misgiving to him, though.  For one thing, she had
nothing concrete to offer, and she wasn't about to stir up trouble with
ll out proof other than her feminine intuition.  She didn't discount
her uneasiness, but Dallas was a man who dealt in hard realities, who
had learned to disconnect his emotions so he could function in the
dangerous field he had chosen.

Moreover, he obviously liked, trusted, and respected Tucker.

"I haven't talked to him about it.  " "No?  Why not?  " She shrugged.
Other than not having proof, her main reason for not talking to Dallas
about Tucker was that her husband hadn't been wild about her coming on
this job anyway, and she didn't want to give him an opportunity to say
I told you so.  She was good at what she did, but she didn't have the
field experience the others had, so she was reluctant to cause trouble.
And, she admitted, even had she known she wouldn't be comfortable with
Tucker, she would have come anyway.

Something primitive in her thrilled to the tension, the danger, the
utter importance of what she did.  She had never wanted a nine-to-five,
she wanted adventure, she wanted to work on the front line.  She wasn't
going to do anything to jeopardize a job she had worked hard to
attain.

"Why not?  " Tucker said again, and a hint of steel underlay the
easiness of his tone.  He wanted an answer, and she suspected he
usually got what he wanted.

Oddly, though, she wasn't intimidated.  Part of her even relished this
little showdown, getting their animosity out into the open and going
one-on-one with Tucker.

"What difference does it make?  " She returned his cool look with one
of her own.  "Regardless of my suspicions about you, I'm doing my job
and keeping my mouth shut.  My reasons aren't any of your business.

But I'd bet the farm your real name isn't Darrell Tucker.  " He grinned
suddenly, surprising her.  "Dallas said you were stubborn.  Not much of
a reverse gear, was the way he put it, " he said, settling his
shoulders more comfortably against the wall.

Because Niema had heard Dallas mutter something very close to that,
after one of the few times they had gone head to head about something,
she found herself smiling, too.

In that more relaxed atmosphere he said, "What makes you think my name
isn't Tucker?  " "I don't know.  Darrell Tucker is a good-old-boy Texas
name, and every so often I hear a little bit of Texas in your accent,
so the accent and the name fit--but you don't, somehow.  " "I've
traveled a bit since I left home, " he drawled.

She clapped her hands twice in mocking applause.  "That was very well
done.  A homey piece of phrasing, the accent a little heavier.  " "But
you don't buy it.  " "I bet you're very good with a lot of accents.  "
Amused, he said, "Okay, you aren't going to believe me.

That's fine.  I don't have any way of proving who I am.  But believe me
in this, My priorities are getting that building blown and all of us
safely home.  " "How can you get us home?  We're splitting up,
remember?  " "By doing all my preliminary work right, by anticipating
as many problems as I can and taking steps to counteract them.  " "You
can't anticipate everything, though.  " "I try.  That's why my hair is
going gray, I sit up nights worrying.  " His hair was as dark as her
own, without a silver thread showing.

His sense of humor was wry, tending toward the ironic, she wished he
hadn't shown it to her, wished he had maintained the silence between
them.  Why hadn't he?  Why now, of all times, had he suddenly breached
the armed truce?

"We're in.  " She whirled to the radio set as the whispered words came
plainly through the speaker.  Incredulously she checked the time,
thirty minutes had passed since she had last looked.  She had been so
focused on her confrontation with Tucker that she had forgotten to
fret.

Like a flash, she knew, That was why he had done it.  He had distracted
her, using the one subject he knew she wouldn't be able to ignore.

Tucker was already at the radio, slipping on a Motorola headset.

"Any problems?  " "Negative.  " That was all, just three whispered
words, but they were in her husband's voice and Niema knew that for
now, at least, he was all right.  She leaned back and focused on her
breathing, in, out, keeping the rhythm regular.

There was nothing Tucker could do now to distract her, short of
physical violence, so he left her alone.  She checked the radio
settings, though she knew they were right.  She wished she had checked
the radio detonator one more time, just to be certain.  No--she knew it
was working perfectly.  And Dallas knew what he was doing.

"Has Dallas ever told you about his training?  " She flicked an
impatient glance at Tucker.  "I don't need distracting.  Thanks for
doing it before, but not now, please.  " A faint quirk of his brows
betrayed his surprise.  "So you figured it out, " he said easily, and
she immediately wondered if distracting her had indeed been his
intention.  Tucker was so damn elusive that even when you thought you
had him read, it was possible you were reading only what he intended
you to read.  "But this is more in the way of reassurance.  Do you know
about his training?  "

I

"That he took BUDS?  Yes.  " BUDS was Basic Underwater Demolition/ SEAL
training, extensive, and so grueling only a tiny percentage of men who
tried actually completed the course.

"But has he told you what that training entailed?  " "No, not in
detail.  " "Then take my word for it, Dallas can do things no ordinary
man would ever dream of doing.  " "I know.  And--thanks.  But he's
still human, and plans can go wrong--" "He knows that.  They all do.
They're prepared.  " "Why didn't he want you to go in?  " There was an
infinitesimal pause, so brief she wasn't certain she had heard it.
"Despite what he said, Dallas doesn't think I'm as good as he is, "
Tucker said with wry humor.

She didn't believe him.  For one thing, Dallas respected him too much.
For another, that tiny pause before he spoke told her he had been
weighing his response, and his answer wasn't one that had required any
weighing.

Whoever he was, whatever he was hiding, Niema accepted that she wasn't
going to get any straight answers from him.

He was probably one of those paranoid spooks everyone read about, who
saw spies and enemies everywhere, and, if you asked him if it was
supposed to rain the next day, would wonder what you were planning that
required bad weather.

Sayyed's voice whispered over the radio.  "Trouble.  Activity in the
warehouse.  Looks like they're getting ready to make a shipment.

Tucker swore, his attention immediately focused on the situation.

It was imperative the warehoused store of bacteria be completely
destroyed before a shipment was made.  The warehouse was usually
deserted at night, with guards posted outside, but now there was
activity that prevented Sayyed from planting his charges.

"How many?  " Tucker asked.

"I make it .  . . eight .  . . no, nine.  I took cover behind some
barrels, but I can't move around any.  " They couldn't let that
shipment leave the warehouse.

"Dallas.  " Tucker spoke the name quietly into his headset.

"I'm on the way, Boss.  My charges are set.  " Niema's nails dug into
her palms.  Dallas was going to Sayyed's aid, but they would still be
badly outnumbered, and by moving, Dallas was risking exposure.  She
reached for the second headset, she didn't know what she was going to
say to her husband, but she didn't have the chance.  Tucker's hand shot
out, he jerked the plug out of the radio set and tossed the headset
aside, his dark gaze cool and hard as he met her stunned look.

She found herself on her feet, her shoulders braced, hands knotted into
fists.  "He's my husband, " she said fiercely.

Tucker put his hand over the tiny microphone.  "And he doesn't need the
distraction of hearing you now.  " He added deliberately, "If you try
anything, I'll tie and gag you.  " She wasn't without some training
herself, and Dallas, once he realized he couldn't convince her to play
it safe and sit home like a good little wife, had been teaching her how
to fight in ways her self-defense class had never covered.  Still, her
level of expertise in no way matched his, or Tucker's.  The only way
she could take him, she thought, was to catch him totally by surprise,
from behind.

But he was right.  Damn it, he was right.  She didn't dare say anything
that could break Dallas's concentration.

She held up her hands in a brief gesture of surrender and moved three
steps away.  The hut was so small she couldn't go much farther anyway.
She sat down on a pack of provisions and tried to beat down the
suffocating waves of anxiety The minutes crawled by.  She knew Dallas
was creeping toward the warehouse section, using every bit of cover
available to him, trying not to take chances.  She also knew that every
passing second put the terrorists that much closer to leaving with the
shipment of bacteria.  Dallas would be balancing caution with
expediency.

Tucker spoke into the headset.  "Sayyed.  Report.  " "I can't budge an
inch.  The truck is almost loaded.  " "Two minutes, " Dallas said.

Two minutes.  Niema closed her eyes.  Cold sweat trickled down her
back.  Please, she found herself praying.  Please.  She couldn't form
any words other than that.

Two minutes could be a lifetime.  Time itself could be strangely
elastic, stretching until every second was ponderous, until the second
hand on her watch seemed almost motionless.

"I'm in position.  " The words almost broke her control.  She bit her
lip until the taste of blood filled her mouth.

"How does it look?  " "Sayyed's got his ass in a crack, all right. Hey,
buddy, how many charges did you get set?  " "One.  " "Shit.  " One
wasn't enough.  Niema had listened to them, knew how many charges
Dallas estimated it would take to completely destroy the facility.

"Hadi?  " 'sIn position.  Can't help you much.  " "Start pulling back.
" Dallas's voice was even.  "Sayyed, arm all the charges.  " There was
another silence, then Sayyed's, "Done.  " "Get ready.  Throw the pack
under the truck, then run like hell.

I'll lay down covering fire.  I'm gonna give us f've seconds to get
outta here before I hit the button.  " "Damn.  Maybe you should make it
six, " Sayyed said.

"Ready.  " Dallas was still utterly calm.  "Go!  " t.

Chapter two.

the staccato thunder of gunfire blasted | from the radio speaker.

Niema jerked as if some of the bullets had hit her, her hands pressed
hard to her mouth to hold back the scream that clogged her throat.

Tucker swung around to face her, as if he didn't trust her to keep
silent.  He needn't have worried, she was frozen in place.

There was an animal-like sound, cut short.

"Son of a bitch!  Sayyed bought it.  " "Pull out, " Tucker said, but
there was a renewed burst of gunfire that drowned out his words.

And from the tinny speaker came a sound that made the hair on Niema's
neck stand on end, a kind of hollowed-out grunt, underlaid by gunfire
and a thudding sound.

'bh.  . . shit.  " The words were strained, thin, she could barely
recognize Dallas's voice.

"Hadi!  " Tucker barked.  "Dallas is down.  Get him--" "No.  " The word
came on an exhalation, long and deep.

"Hang on, buddy, I can be there--" Urgency was plain in Hadi's voice.

"Save yourself .  . . the trouble.  I'm gut shot.  " The world went
gray around her.  Niema fought back the shock, fought back the
sensation of her entire body falling apart as the bottom dropped out of
her stomach and her lungs seized, unable to pump.

Gut shot.  Even if he had been in the States, with a trauma unit
nearby, the injury was critical.  Here in these cold, isolated
mountains, with safety and cutting-edge medical help days away, it was
a death sentence.  She knew this, her mind knew it.  But she rejected
it anyway, recoiling from the knowledge.

There were more shots, very close.  Dallas was still shooting, still
holding them off.

"Boss .  . . " The whisper floated around the hut.

"I'm here.  " Tucker was still facing Niema, his gaze locked on her.

"Is .  . . Can Niema hear?  " Dallas had to be going into shock, or he
would never have asked, would have realized she could hear everything.
She had wired the switch open.

Tucker's gaze never wavered from her.  "No, " he said.

More shots.  The sound of Dallas's breathing, shallow and quick.

"Good.  I .  . . I've still got the detonator.  Can't let them leave
with .  . . that shit.  " "No, " Tucker said again.  "You can't.  " His
voice was almost gentle.

"Take .  . . take care of her.  " Tucker's face was a mask, his gaze
locked on her face.  "I will.  " He paused, and said, "Do it.  " The
explosion shook the hut, sending dirt cascading down from the cracks in
the ceiling, rattling the door on its frame.

The blast wave hadn't passed before Tucker was moving, ripping the
headset from his ears and tossing it down.  He picked up a hammer and
began methodically destroying the radio, even though it was old and
obsolete, it was functional, and their plan was to leave nothing that
could be used.  Reducing the radio to rubble took half a minute.

That done, he pulled Niema away from the packs of provisions and
swiftly began repacking them, redistributing what they would carry.

She stood numbly in the middle of the hut, unable to move, her brain
frozen with shock.  She was aware of pain, there was a great, clawing
pain in her chest, as if her heart were exploding, and even that was
somehow felt as if from a distance.

Tucker thrust a heavy coat at her.  Niema stared at it, unable to
comprehend what he wanted her to do with it.  Silently he bundled her
into it, putting her arms into the sleeves as if she were a toddler,
zipping it up, tucking her hair under the collar as an extra buffer for
her neck.  He tugged gloves on her hands, and put a warm fur hat on her
head.

He pulled a heavy sweater on over his head, then shrugged into his own
coat.  As he was pulling on his gloves, a low whistle sounded outside
the hut, and he extinguished the light.

Hadi slid in the door, and Tucker turned the light on again.

Even in the weakness of the single light, Hadi's face was drawn and
white.  He looked immediately at Niema.  "God--" he began, only to be
silenced by a quick motion from Tucker.

"Not now.  We have to move.  " He shoved one of the consolidated packs
into Hadi's arms, and slung the other two onto his own shoulders.

He picked up a rifle, took Niema's arm, and led her into the night.

Their transportation, an old Renault, had died on them the first night,
and all of Tucker's mechanical expertise could not repair a broken
axle.  Hadi glanced worriedly at Niema.  She hadn't faltered during the
two days they had been moving, she was like a robot, keeping pace with
them no matter how hard Tucker pushed them.  She spoke when they asked
her a direct question, she ate when Tucker gave her food, drank when he
gave her water.  What she hadn't done was sleep.  She would lie down
when he told her to, but she hadn't slept, and her eyes were swollen
with fatigue.  Both men knew she couldn't go on much longer.

"What are you going to do?  " Hadi asked Tucker, keeping his voice low.
"Do we split up as originally planned, or stay together?  You may need
help getting her out.  " "We split up, " Tucker said.  "It's safer that
way.  A woman traveling with two men would attract more attention than
a man and his wife.  " They were traveling northwest, through Iran's
most populated area, but that was the only way to get to Turkey, and
safety.  Iraq was due west, Afghanistan and Pakistan were to the east,
the splinter nations left by the breakup of the Soviet Union to the
northeast, the Caspian Sea to the north and the Persian Gulf to the
south, through very inhospitable desert.

Turkey was their only feasible destination.  From here on out, Niema
would have to wear the traditional Muslim chad or.

They had traveled at night at first, the better to avoid detection if
there was any pursuit, though it was possible Sayyed and Dallas were
thought to be the only saboteurs.  It was even possible, Tucker
thought, that no word of intruders had gotten out.  The facility had
been remote, with only one phone line going in.  Dallas could well have
pushed the button before anyone got to the phone, assuming any of the
workers thought to make a call anyway.

The building was charred rubble.  Tucker himself had reconnoitered,
leaving Niema under Hadi's worried and watchful eye.  As always, Dallas
had been thorough, what the plastique hadn't destroyed, the fire had.

That was the one time Niema had spoken without first being asked
something.  When Tucker returned she stared at him, her dark eyes
fathomless, haunted, somehow hopeful.

"Did you find him?  " she asked.

Startled, keeping it hidden, he said, "No.  " "But--his body .  . . "
She wasn't clinging to an irrational hope that Dallas was still alive.
She wanted his body for burial.

"Niema .  . . there's nothing left.  " He said it as gently as he
could, knowing there was nothing he could do to cushion the blow but
trying anyway.  She had been a trooper all through the job, but now she
looked so damn fragile.

Nothing left.  He saw the words hit her, saw her reel with the shock.
She hadn't asked anything since, not even for water.

His own stamina was so great he could go for long periods before he was
aware of thirst, so he couldn't rely on his own needs to remind him of
hers.  He set a time limit, Every two hours, he made her drink.

Every four, he made her eat.  Not that there was any making to it, she
accepted whatever he gave her, without protest.

Now it was time for them to split up, as planned, but instead of Niema
going with Dallas she would now be staying with him, while Hadi made
his own way out of the country.

Tomorrow they would be in Tehran, where they would blend in with the
population.  Tucker would then make secure contact and, if there was no
trouble, acquire transportation.

Another day after that, and they would be just across the border from
Turkey.  He would abandon' the vehicle and they would walk across
during the night, in a remote location he had already scouted.  Hadi
would cross over at another point.  Hadi scratched his beard.  Neither
of them had shaved for two weeks, so they were decidedly scruffy.

"Maybe I could scrounge around tomorrow when we get to Tehran, find a
pharmacy, buy some sleeping pills or something.  She's got to sleep.  "
They had stopped for a brief rest, sheltered by the lone remaining wall
of a small mud house that had long since been abandoned.  Niema sat a
little way off to the side, alone in a way that went far beyond the
slight distance between her and them.  She didn't fidget.  She just
sat.  Maybe if she cried, Tucker thought.  Maybe if she let some of it
out, exhausted herself, she would be able to sleep.  But she hadn't
cried, the shock had gone too deep, and she hadn't yet recovered from
that enough for tears.  The time for crying would come later.

He considered Hadi's suggestion, but didn't like the idea of drugging
her, in case they had to move fast.  Still .  . . "Maybe, " he said,
and left it at that.

They had rested long enough.  Tucker stood, signaling that the break
was over.  Niema stood too, and Hadi moved forward to help her over
some loose, unbaked mud bricks.  She didn't need the help, but Hadi had
become as protective of her as a mother hen.

He stepped on a loose board.  It tilted up and dislodged some of the
bricks just as Niema stepped on them, shifting them out from under her
feet.  She staggered off balance, slipped, and landed on her right
shoulder in the rubble.

She didn't cry out, her training not to make any unnecessary noise
still holding.  Hadi swore softly, apologizing as he helped her to her
feet.  "Damn, I'm sorry!  Are you all right?  " She nodded, brushing at
her clothes, her shoulder.  Tucker saw the slight frown knit her brows
as she brushed her shoulder again, and even that much expression was so
alien to her face these past two days that he knew immediately
something was wrong.

"You're hurt.  " He was beside her before he stopped speaking, pulling
her away from the rubble.

"Did you jam your shoulder?  " Hadi asked, frowning with concern.

"No.  " She sounded puzzled, no more, but she twisted her neck to look
at the back of her shoulder.  Tucker turned her around.  There was a
small tear in her shirt, and blood was welling from it.

"You must have fallen on something sharp, " he said, and thought maybe
the damage had been done by a shard of brick, but then he saw the rusty
nail protruding about an inch out of a rotten board.

"It was a nail.  Good thing you had a tetanus booster.  " He
efficiently unbuttoned her shirt as he spoke.  She wasn't wearing a
bra, so he only undid the first few buttons, then pulled the shirt off
the injured shoulder.

The puncture wound was purplish and already swelling, sullenly oozing
blood.  The nail had gone in high and right of her shoulder blade, in
the fleshy part just beside her arm.  He pressed on it to make the
blood run more freely.  Hadi had already opened their meager first-aid
kit and extracted some gauze pads, which he used to mop up the blood as
it ran down.

Niema stood motionless, letting them tend to the wound, which Tucker
supposed was minor in relation to the concern both he and Hadi were
showing.  Any wound or injury that i, caused a delay was dangerous,
because it would force them to stay in Iran even longer, so their
concern was based in logic, but the biggest part of it, Tucker
admitted, was the male instinct to protect the female.  Not only was
she the only woman with them, but she was already wounded, emotionally
if not physically.  Add in the fact that she was a lovely young woman
who had quickly endeared herself to the team with her guts and wit, and
of course they were jumping to protect her.

Mentally, he knew all the reasons, instinctive as well as personal.  On
a gut level, he knew he would move mountains to prevent anything from
adding to the load of pain she already carried.  He had promised Dallas
he would take care of her, and no matter what it cost, he would keep
that promise.

Sunlight gleamed on her bare shoulder, turning her skin to pearl.

She had a pale complexion, despite the darkness of her hair and eyes.

The elegant slant of her collarbone was exposed, and even as he applied
an antibiotic ointment to the wound, Tucker couldn't help admiring the
graceful structure of her body.  She was remarkably feminine, despite
her rough clothing and the fact that she wore no makeup, her hair
wasn't combed, and all of them really, really needed a bath.  She
looked so female and elegant, he had constantly been surprised by her
toughness.

"She looks like someone you want to put on a pedestal and keep from
ever getting dirty or hurt, " Dallas had said, before Tucker had ever
met Niema, when he was putting the team together.  "But she'd kick you
in the teeth if you tried.  " He'd said it with intense male
satisfaction, because she was his, and Tucker had shaken his head in
wonder at seeing Dallas Burdock so obviously, unabashedly in love.

Tucker plastered a large adhesive bandage over the wound, then drew her
shirt back up onto her shoulder.  He would have buttoned the garment
for her but she did it herself, her head bent over the task, her
fingers slow.

Her reaction time was way off, dulled by shock and fatigue.

If anything happened that necessitated quick action, he didn't think
she could function.  She had to get some sleep, he thought, one way or
another.

He motioned for Hadi to step aside with him.  "I'm not going to push
her any further.  According to the map, there's a small village about
fifteen miles north of here.  Think you can liberate some wheels for
us?  " "Is the Pope Catholic?  " "Don't take any chances.  We can't
risk any pursuit.  Wait until late at night, if necessary.  " Hadi
nodded his assent.

"If you aren't back by dawn, we'll move on.  " Hadi nodded again.
"Don't worry about me.  If I don't make it back, just get her out.  "
"I plan to.  " Hadi took some food and water with him and soon was out
of sight.

Niema didn't ask where he was going, she simply sat down and stared
emptily at nothing.  No, not emptily, Tucker thought.  That would be
easier to bear than the bottomless well of suffering reflected in her
eyes.

The day wore on.  He spent the time constructing a meager shelter for
them, something to block the sun during the day and the wind at night.
As they worked their way out of the mountains, the temperature had
risen, but the nights were still damn cold.  They ate, or at least he
did, Niema refused more than a couple of bites.  She drank a good bit
of water, though, more than usual.

By nightfall, her cheeks were a little flushed.  Tucker felt her face
and wasn't surprised to find it hot.  "You're feverish, " he told her.
"From the nail.  " The fever wasn't especially high, so he wasn't
worried on that account, but her body didn't need this fresh assault.

He ate by flashlight.  The fever robbed her of what little appetite she
had, and she didn't eat anything that night, again, she drank a lot of
water.  "Try to get some sleep, " he said, and obediently she lay down
on the blanket he had spread out for her, but he watched her breathing
for a while and knew she didn't sleep.  She was lying there staring
into the shadows, aching for the husband who wasn't there and never
would be again.

Tucker stared at her back.  She and Dallas had been circumspect in
their behavior, refraining from public displays of affection, but at
night they had slept next to each other, with Dallas spooned
protectively around her and his big arm draped around her waist.  She
had slept like a baby then, utterly secure.

Perhaps she couldn't sleep now because she was alone and could feel the
chill on her back.  It was a simple thing, the kind of routine married
couples seemed to develop so easily, the comfort of human warmth in the
night, the sound of a loved one's breathing.  Perhaps it was the trust,
the intimacy, that meant so much.  Intimacy didn't come easily to
Tucker, trust even less so, but he knew it had existed between Niema
and Dallas.  Dallas's death had left her bereft, and she no longer
found comfort in the night.

Tucker sighed inwardly.  The sigh was for himself, because he knew what
he had to do, and knew the cost.

He got a bottle of water and silently went to her, lying down behind
her on the blanket and placing the water nearby.

"Shhh, " he murmured when she stiffened.  "Just go to sleep.  " He
curved his body around her, giving her his heat, his strength.

Pulling a second blanket over them to keep out the cold, he anchored
her to him with his arm around her waist.

He could feel the fever inside her, the heat emanating from her body
wrapping around them both like a third blanket.

Still, she shivered a little, and he pulled her closer She lay on her
uninjured left shoulder and held her right arm very still so as not to
jar it.

"The fever's fighting the infection, " he said, keeping his voice low
and soothing.  "There's aspirin in the first-aid kit, if you get too
uncomfortable, but unless the fever gets a lot higher I suggest letting
it do its job.  " "Yes.  " Her voice was thin with fatigue, listless.

He stroked her hair, his touch gentle and tried to think of some way to
occupy her mind.  Maybe if she could just stop thinking she could
sleep.  "I saw a solar eclipse once.  I was in South America.  " He
didn't get any more specific than that.  "The weather was so hot the
air felt sticky.  Cold showers didn't do any good, I was sweaty again
as soon as I got toweled off.  Every one wore as little clothing as
possible.  " He didn't know if she was listening, he didn't much care.
He kept that soothing, gently monotonous tone, his voice just barely
above a whisper.  If he could bore her to sleep, so much the better.

"It had been on the radio that there would be a solar eclipse that day,
but the heat was so miserable no one much cared.  It was just a little
village, not the type to attract any eclipse chasers.  I had forgotten
about it myself.  It was a sunny day, so bright the light hurt my eyes,
and I was wearing sunglasses.  The eclipse slipped up on me.  The sun
was still shining, the sky was blue, but all of a sudden it was as if a
cloud had passed over the sun.  The birds all stopped singing, and the
village pets hid.

"One of the villagers looked up and said, Look at the sun, and I
remembered about the eclipse.  I told them not to stare, that it would
blind them if they looked too long.  The light was eerie, if you can
imagine dark sunshine.  The sky turned a really deep shade of blue, and
the temperature dropped at least twenty degrees.  It kept getting
darker and darker, but the sky was still blue.  Finally the sun was
completely covered, and-the solar halo around the moon was .  . .

spectacular.  . On the ground we were in a strange, deep twilight, and
everything was quiet, but overhead the sky glowed.  The twilight lasted
for a couple of minutes, and during that time the entire village stood
still.

Men, women, and children, none of them movedX or spoke.

"Then the light began to come back, and the birds started singing
again.  The chickens came off roost, and the dogs barked.  The moon
moved on, and it was as hot as it had been before, but no one bitched
about the weather anymore.  " Two days later everyone in that little
village was dead--massacred--but he kept that to himself.

He waited.  Her breathing was too shallow for sleep, but at least she
wasn't as stiff as she had been before.  If she relaxed, her body might
take over and let itself sleep.

Next he told her about a dog he'd had when he was a kid.

There was no dog, but she didn't know that.  The dog he made up was a
Heinz 57, with a long, skinny body like a dachshund and a curly coat
like a poodle.  "Ugly little bastard, " he said comfortably.

"What was his name?  " Her voice startled him.  It was low, almost
hesitant.  Something painful grabbed his chest and squeezed.  "She, "
he said.

"I named her Fifi, because I thought that was what poodles were named.
" He told her tale after tale of Fifi's exploits.  She'd been an
amazing dog.  She could climb trees, open most doors by her vUGGt a
lVlUn self, and her favorite meal had been--God, what was some kid's
cereal?  --Fruit Loops.  Fifi slept with the cat, hid shoes under the
couch, and once really did eat his homework.

Tucker embroidered on the fictional Fifi for half an hour, keeping his
voice to a melodic rhythm, pausing every so often to check Niema's
breathing.  It got slower, deeper, until finally she slept.

He let himself sleep, but lightly.  A part of him remained alert,
listening for Hadi's return, or for any suspicious sound.  He woke
completely several times, to check on Niema and make certain her fever
wasn't getting higher.  She was still too warm, but he was satisfied
there was nothing critical about the fever, just her body healing
itself.  Still, to be on the safe side, he roused her enough each time
that she could drink a little water.

As he had suspected, once she let herself go to sleep nature got the
upper hand, and though he woke her easily enough she went right back to
sleep the moment she closed her eyes.

The hours passed and Hadi didn't return.  Tucker was patient.

People slept sound est in the hours before dawn, and Hadi would
probably wait until then.  Still, every time he woke from his doze,
Tucker checked his watch and considered his options.  The longer he let
Niema sleep, the stronger she would be and the faster she would be able
to travel.  He couldn't, however, afford to wait too long.

At five o'clock he turned on the flashlight and drank some of the water
himself, then gently roused Niema.  She drank the water he held to her
mouth, then snuggled against him and sighed drowsily.  "Time to get up,
" he murmured.

She kept her eyes closed.  "Not yet.  " She turned to face him, and
slipped her arm around his neck.  "Mmm.  " She nestled closer, pressing
her face into his chest.

She thought he was Dallas.  She was still drowsy, her mind dulled by
the hard sleep, and perhaps she had been dreaming about him.  She was
accustomed to waking in her husband's arms, to cuddling even if they
didn't make love, and given the short time they had been married Tucker
bet there hadn't been many mornings when Dallas hadn't made love to
her.

He should shake her completely awake, get her fed, check her shoulder,
and have her ready to move whether or not Hadi returned.  He knew
exactly what he should do, but for once in his life Tucker ignored the
job.  He tightened his arms around her and held her, just for a moment,
something in him desperately hungry for the feel of her hugging him in
return.

No, not him.  It was Dallas she was holding, her husband she was
dreaming about.

It cost him more than he wanted, but he took a deep breath and eased
away from her.  "Niema, wake up, " he said softly.

"You're dreaming.  " Slumbrous dark eyes opened, as black as night in
the dim glow of the flashlight.  He saw the dawning of awareness, the
flare of shock in her eyes, followed by horror.  She pulled away from
him, her lips trembling.  "I--" she began, but no other words came.

The sob burst out of her as if it tore from her chest.  She rolled away
from him and lay on the blanket, her entire body heaving.  She made a
long, low, keening sound, chopped by the convulsive sobs that ripped
out of her throat.  The dam of her control, once breached, collapsed
entirely.  She cried until she gagged, until her throat closed and no
more sound came out.

She cried until he thought surely the spasm of grief had to ease, but
it didn't.  She was still weeping when he heard the sound of a vehicle
approaching in the dark, cold dawn, and he stepped out to meet Hadi.

II _ Y xYU Chapter three.

1999, Atlanta, Georgia Delta Flight 183, Atlanta to London, was ) full.
 The first-class passengers had already boarded and made themselves
comfortable, choice of reading material or drink, or both, in hand. 
The flight attendants had taken coats and hung them in the closet,
chatted with those passengers inclined to be friendly, checked with the
cockpit to see if the guys up there needed anything.

Congressman Donald Brookes and his wife, Elaine, were taking a
vacation, the first in so long Elaine could scarcely believe Donald had
agreed to the downtime.  He had regularly put in eighteen to twenty
hours a day on the job since first being elected fifteen years
before.

Even after all this time in government, there was a thread of idealism
in him that insisted he give the taxpayers their money's worth, and
more.

She had gotten accustomed to going to bed alone, but she always woke
when he came to bed, and they would hold hands and talk.  In the early
days they hadn't been on anyone's A list, so she had spent a lot of
evenings alone with the kids.

Things had changed somewhat.  Donald was chairman of the House
Committee on Foreign Relations, and now they were A list, as often as
not they were at some function somewhere, but at least they were
together.

Oh, there had been times when they had gone back home to Illinois, when
Congress was in recess, but though the pace slowed then, Donald had
used that time to catch up with his constituency.  They hadn't been on
a real vacation since he was first elected.

Elaine looked forward to days of sleeping late, ordering room service,
and leisurely exploring London.  Five days in London, then a short hop
to Paris for another five days, then Rome and Florence.  It was her
dream vacation.

Two rows behind them, Garvin Whittaker was already absorbed in the
papers from his briefcase.  He was CEO of a cutting-edge software firm
that had exploded in value over the past seven years, edging toward
fifty billion.  Not in Microsoft's league, but then, what was?  When
his current projects hit the market, Garvin figured the firm would
double in value within five years.  At least, he hoped it would, he
dreamed it would.  He was biding his time, building his market and
strength, taking care not to tread on any giant toes.  But when he
judged the time was right, he would unveil the operating system he had
developed, a system so streamlined and simplified--and so bug free--it
would leave everything else out there in the dust.

AlZ the Queen's Men In the first row was a UN delegate from Germany,
holding his icy drink against his head and hoping his headache would
abate enough that he would be able to sleep on the long flight.

In seat 2F was a World Bank official, her brow puckered as she studied
the Wall Street Journal.  Growing up, she had always dreamed of being
something romantic, like a brain surgeon or a movie star, but she had
learned that money was the most powerful kick available, far more
potent than any drug.  She traveled all over the world, she had dined
in Paris, bought clothes in Hong ICong, skied in Switzerland.  Life was
good, and she intended to make it even bet ten A career diplomat was in
seat 4D.  He had been ambassador to France in the Bush years, but since
was relegated to more minor roles.  He was newly married, to a Chicago
socialite whose family's wealth provided considerable clout, he
expected to be ambassador again soon, and not to any Podunk country no
one could find on a map.

In the coach section, Charles Lansky wiped sweat from his brow and
tried not to think of the impending takeoff.  He didn't mind flying,
once the plane was airborne, but he was sick with fear during takeoff
and landing.  After a brief stopover in London, he was flying on to
Frankfurt, which meant two takeoffs and two landings.  Only a vitally
important meeting could have induced him to endure so much.

College students on a tour of England, Scotland, and Ireland crowded
onto the plane, each of them carrying the ubiquitous backpack packed
with essentials, a bottle of Evian, a portable CD player, a collection
of rave CDs, makeup if the student was female, a handheld computer game
if male, perhaps an item or two of clothing.  They were tanned,
healthy, as alike as Teddy Roosevelt's teeth but still young enough to
be convinced they were unique.

The usual assortment of business people and holiday-goers filed in,
milled around, eventually took their seats.  One young lady anxiously
clasped an overnight bag on her lap, until the flight attendant told
her it needed to be stowed and offered to find a place in the overhead
bins for the bag.  The young lady shook her head and managed to stuff
the bag under the seat in front of her, though it was a tight fit and
she then had nowhere to put her feet.  Her complexion was pasty, and
she was sweating despite the air pouring out of the overhead vents.

Finally the giant L-101 1 pushed away from the gate and taxied out to
get in line for takeoff.  Seventeen other aircraft were ahead of them,
inching toward the runway.  One of the pilots came on the intercom
occasionally to give the passengers updates on their expected takeoff
time.  Most of the first-class passengers had already removed their
shoes and put on the black travel socks provided in the gift bag Delta
gave each first-class passenger on overseas flights.  Magazines were
thumbed through, books were hauled out, a few people already snored.

Finally it was Flight 183's turn.  The big engines roared and the plane
gathered speed and it rolled down the runway, faster and faster, until
finally lift exceeded drag and they were airborne.  There was some
mechanical rumbling as the wheels lifted and folded and tucked into the
belly of the aircraft.  Flight 183 arrowed into the blue sky, steadily
gaining altitude for the flight pattern that would take them up the
east coast until, somewhere near New York, they would swing out over
the Atlantic.

Thirty-three minutes into the flight, over the mountains of western
North Carolina, Flight 183 disintegrated into a fiery ball that spewed
flaming pieces of fuselage upward in a slow motion arc, before the
trajectory peaked and the pieces fell back to earth.

_z.

Chapter four.

Washington, D. C. t | fhe two men sat com panionably at a
nineteenth-century walnut desk, the wood X shone with a velvety sheen,
and the top was inlaid with rose Italian marble.  A handsome
chessboard, topped with hand-carved pieces, was between them.  The
library in which they sat was masculine, comfortable, slightly shabby,
not because Franklin Vi nay couldn't afford to spruce it up, but
because he liked it the way it was.  Mrs.  Vi nay had refurbished it
the year before she died, and he found comfort among these things she
had chosen for him.

She had also found the chess set at an estate sale in New Hampshire. Do
die had loved estate sales, Frank remembered fondly.  She had kept the
gift of enjoyment her entire life, finding pleasure in many small
things.  She had been gone ten years, and not a day passed that he
didn't think of her, sometimes with lingering sorrow but more often
with a smile, because they were good memories.

As always, he and John had flipped a coin to see who made the opening
move.  Frank drew white and had opened aggressively, if conventionally,
by moving the pawn in front of his king two spaces forward.  Sometimes
he preferred the more popular moves, because sometimes doing the
expected could be the most unexpected thing to do.

Frank knew he was a very good chess player.  That said, it was
difficult for him to best John at the game.  The younger man was as
analytical as a computer, as patient as Job, and, when the time was
right, as aggressive as George Patton ever dreamed of being.  In chess,
as well as in his chosen field, that made John Medina a dangerous
opponent.

ICaiser, an enormous German shepherd, snoozed contentedly at their
feet, occasionally emitting puppy like yelps incongruous with his size
as he chased rabbits in his dreams.

I<aiser's peacefulness was reassuring.

The house had been swept for eavesdropping devices that morning and
again that night when Frank arrived home.  Electronic noise prevented
their conversation from being picked up by a parabolic mike, should
anyone try to eavesdrop using that method.  The security system was
state of the art, the door locks the strongest available, the windows
protected by steel bars.

The house, which from the outside looked like the ordinary house of a
moderately prosperous man, was a fortress.  Even so, both men knew
fortresses could be breached.  Frank's 9mm was in his desk drawer.

John's weapon was in his belt holster, tucked into the small of his
back.  Frank's position as deputy director of operations, CIA, made him
a valuable commodity in the espionage community, for that reason, very
few people knew where he lived.  His name wasn't on any deed or any
utility record.  Any calls to or from his private number were routed
through several switching stations that made them untraceable.

For all that, Frank thought wryly, if any hostile government was given
the choice between snatching him or snatching John Medina, he would be
the one left behind.

John studied the board, idly stroking the rook while he pondered his
next move.  Making his decision, he lifted his fingers off the rook and
moved his queen's bishop.  "How are my friends in New Orleans?  " Frank
wasn't surprised by the question.  Months, even a year or more, might
go by without seeing John, but when he did, John always asked certain
questions.  "They're doing well.

They have a baby now, a little boy born last month.  And Detective
Chastain is no longer with the NOPD, or a detective, he's a lieutenant
with the state.  " ', And ICaren?  " "Working in a trauma unit, or she
was until the baby was born.

She's taken a leave of absence, for at least a year, I think, maybe
longer.  " "I don't expect she'll have any trouble returning to her job
when she's ready, " John said, his tone mild, but Frank knew him well
enough to read the request--or perhaps it was an order--underneath the
tone.

While he was formally John's superior, in truth John was pretty much
autonomous.

"Not at all, " Frank said, and it was a promise.

A couple of years before, both Karen's father and John's father had
been murdered in a plot to cover up Senator Stephen Lake's hired
killing of his own brother in Vietnam.  In the process of uncovering
the plot, John had become an admirer of both the plucky ICaren and her
tough-as-nails husband.  Though they never knew his name, since then he
had made a point of smoothing certain obstacles out of their way.

"And Mrs.  Burdock?  " That question too was expected.  "Niema's fine.
She's developed a new surveillance device that's almost impossible to
detect.  The NSA has borrowed her for a couple of projects, too.  "
John looked interested.  An undetectable bug?  When will it be
available?  " "Soon.  It piggybacks off existing wiring, but without
causing a drop in power.  Electronic sweeps can't find it.  " "How did
she manage that?  " John nudged a pawn onto another square.

Frank scowled at the board.  Such a small move, but it had moved the
game in a different direction.  "Something to do with frequency
modulation.  If I understood it, I could get a real job.  " John
laughed.  He was a surprisingly open man, during those rare times when
he could relax with people he could trust, and who knew who he was.  If
he liked you, then you were never in doubt of his friendship, perhaps
because the majority of his life was spent in danger, in deep shadows,
answering to different names and wearing different faces.  He treasured
what was real, and what was reliable.

"Has she remarried yet?  " "Niema?  No.  " The pawn's position had him
worried, and he continued frowning at the board, only half his
attention on his answer.

"She doesn't see anyone on a regular basis.  She dates occasionally,
but that's all.  " "It's been five years.  " Something in John's tone
alerted Frank.  He looked up to see the younger man frowning slightly,
as if he were unhappy to learn that Niema Burdock was still single.

"Does she seem happy?  " "Happy?  " Startled by the question, Frank
leaned back, the chess game forgotten.  "She's busy.  She likes her
work, she's very well paid, she has a nice home, drives a new car.  I
can take care of those things, but I can't direct or know her emotions.
" Of all the people for whom John was an anonymous guardian angel,
Niema Burdock was the one he followed the closest.  Since he brought
her out of Iran after her husband was killed, he had taken an almost
personal interest in her well being.

In a flash of intuition, a leap of reasoning that had made Frank Vi nay
so good at his job, he said, "You want her yourself.  " He seldom
blurted out his thoughts in such an unguarded way, but he was,
abruptly, as certain of this as he had ever been of anything.  He felt
faintly embarrassed at making such an observation.

John glanced up, eyebrows lifted quizzically.  "Of course, " he said,
as if it were a given.  "For all the good wanting does.  " "What do you
mean?  " "I'm scarcely in a position to become involved with anyone.

Not only am I gone for months at a time, there's always a good chance I
won't come back.  " He said it coolly, unemotionally.  He knew exactly
what the risks were in his profession, accepted them, perhaps even
sought them.

"That's true of other professions, the elite military teams, certain
construction workers.  They marry, have families.  I did.  " "Your
circumstances were different.  " Because Frank hadn't worked in black
ops, he meant.  John was a specialist in those missions that never saw
the light of day, financed by funds for which there was no accounting,
no records.  He took care of what needed to be handled without the
government becoming involved, to preserve deniability.

Frank had been considering broaching a subject with John, and now
seemed like a perfect time.  "Your circumstances can be different, too.
" "Can they.  " "I don't plan to die in harness, retirement is looking
more and more attractive.  You could step into my place without ever
losing a beat.  " "DDO?  " John shook his head.  "I operate in the
field, you know that.  " "And you know that you can operate wherever
you choose.

You're a natural for the job.  In fact, you're better suited for it
than I was when I took over.  Think about it for a while " The phone
rang, interrupting him, and he broke off.  The call wasn't
unexpected.

He lifted the receiver, spoke briefly, then hung up.  "An agent is
bringing the report over.  " The chess game was forgotten, the real
reason for their meeting taking over.  Since Flight 183 went down the
week before, the FBI and NTSB had been combing the rugged Carolina
mountains collecting fragments, trying to piece together what had
happened.  Two hundred sixty-three people had died, and they wanted to
know the reason.  There hadn't been any unusual radio traffic, the
flight had been routine, until the plane fell from the sky.  The flight
recorder had been found and preliminary reports said that the pilots
hadn't indicated anything was wrong.  Whatever had happened had been
instant, and catastrophic--and therefore suspicious.

From one of his untold shadowy sources, John had heard whispers there
was a new type of explosive device that airport X-ray machines couldn't
detect, not even the CTX-5000 machines such as were used in Atlanta. He
notified Frank, who quietly set about getting all the information
available on Flight 183 as soon as NTSB and the FBI gathered it.

The crash site was difficult to work.  The terrain was mountainous,
heavily wooded, without easy access.  The wreckage was strewn over an
enormous area.  Bits and pieces, both metal and human, had been found
in treetops.  Teams had been working nonstop for a week, first
gathering the human remains and turning them over to forensic
specialists for the almost impossible task of identification, then
searching for even the smallest piece of the aircraft.  The more pieces
they found, the more complete the puzzle would be, and the more likely
they were to discover what happened.

Fifteen minutes later an agent knocked on Vi nay's door, rousing
ICaiser.  John remained in the library, out of sight, while Frank, with
ICaiser beside him, collected the report.

Frank had requested two copies of the report, and on returning to the
library he gave one to John.  He sank back into his chair, his brow
furrowed as he read.  The report wasn't reassuring.

"Definitely an explosion.  That wasn't really in doubt.  " People in
the area had reported hearing an abrupt boom and seeing a bright flash.
Whether or not anyone actually had seen anything was open to
speculation, since the plane had gone down in the mountains where there
wasn't a good line of sight in any direction.  People generally didn't
go around staring at the sky, though if the afternoon sun had glinted
off the plane and caught someone's attention at just the right moment
it was possible to have seen the actual explosion.  More than likely,
though, on hearing the noise, people had looked around, seen the smoke
and arcing debris, and their imaginations took it from there and
convinced them they had seen one hell of a fireball.

Rumors had immediately started that Flight 183 had been shot down by a
missile.  Congressman Donald Brookes, the House chairman of Foreign
Relations, had been on Flight 183.

Someone had to have wanted him dead for some reason, though all the
reasons popping up on the Internet had been far-fetched, to say the
least.  Proof of the plot, the missile theorists said, was that
Congressman Brookes, who lived in Illinois, was reportedly going on
vacation but for some reason was on a flight originating in Atlanta,
instead of Chicago.  That was obviously suspicious.  Even after it was
revealed that the Brookes's oldest son lived in Atlanta and they had
visited him for a couple of days before leaving for Europe, the
bring-downa-plane-to-get-one-man theory persisted.

There was, however, no evidence of a missile.  The pattern of rupture
in the metal, plus the burn patterns and residue on the pieces of
fuselage, all gave evidence that Flight 183 had been brought down by an
internal explosion that had literally ripped the plane apart, blowing
out a huge section of the fuselage and all of the left wing.

Preliminary chemical analysis indicated plastique.  They had not,
however, found any evidence of a detonator.  Even in such a
catastrophic explosion, microscopic and chemical evidence would have
remained, if something existed, then it left its print.

"To have done this much damage, the bomb had to have been sizeable, the
machines in Atlanta should have detected it.  " Frank was deeply
worried, all luggage for the flight had been inspected, either by
machines or humans.  If, as John thought, the device was undetectable
by their current tech nology, then they had a big problem on their
hands.

Every piece of luggage, both checked and carry-ons, would have to be
hand searched, but airlines weren't the only ones vulnerable.  The
possible applications of such a device were staggering.  It could be
used in mail bombs, to destroy federal buildings--any public building,
actually--disrupt transportation and communication.  No one in America
paid much attention to the security of bridges, either, but let a few
of them come down and traffic would grind to a standstill.

The explosive could have been disguised as something else and slipped
through the machines in Atlanta.  The system failed occasionally,
nothing was foolproof.  There should still, however, have been evidence
of the detonator.  They should have found a radio, or a mercury switch,
or a simple timer-anything by which the explosion could be triggered.
The detonator was actually how most bombs were spotted, because they
were more easily detected when scanned.

John rubbed his lower lip and tossed the report onto Frank's desk.

He had been most interested in the chemical analysis.

The explosive found had some components in common with plastique, but
there were some anomalies.  "I'm thinking R. D. X. " R. D. X. was
cyclonite, or composition C-1.  By itself it was too sensitive to
handle, so it was usually mixed with a plasticiser, which would give it
some of the same chemical elements as plastique.  R. D. X. could be
molded into any shape including shoelaces.

Frank looked up.  "How?  You know how luggage and packages are thrown
around, an unstable explosive would have detonated on the ground.  "
"But what if it wasn't originally unstable?  What if the compound
deteriorates, and sets off a chemical reaction that causes it to
explode?  If you know the rate of deterioration, the explosion could
easily be timed.  " "Something that starts out as stable as plastique,
but deteriorates and becomes its own detonator?  Son of a bitch.  "
Frank closed his eyes.

"There's always the chance some lone sociopath in a lab somewhere
cooked this up, but what I'm hearing is that it came out of a
top-secret lab in Europe.  "

"IRA?  "

"I'm sure they would be standing in line to buy, but I haven't picked
up any hints that they bankrolled the development.  " "Who, then?  "
"Take your pick, we aren't short on candidates.  " Terrorist groups
proliferated all over the world.  There were at least twenty-five
hundred known organizations, some came and went, others had thousands
of members and had been around for decades.

"And they'll all have this new stuff.  " "Only if they have the money
to buy it.  " The terrorist organizations might cooperate with one
another, but it wasn't one big happy brotherhood.  A new explosive
would be a big moneymaker, closely controlled for as long as possible
so there would be only one producer of it.  Eventually, as happened to
all new tech nology, everyone would have it, by then the means of
detecting it would also have been developed.  It was like a chess game,
with moves and counter moves.

"If it's in Europe, and big money is behind it, then Louis Ron sard is
our man, " John said.

That in itself was a large problem.  Ron sard was a shadowy Frenchman
who gave his allegiance to no one group, he was the conduit, however,
for many, and he had made an enormous fortune providing what was
needed.  He probably wasn't behind the development of the explosive,
but he would be the logical person to approach as a middle man, one to
handle payments and shipments--for a fee, of course.

Ron sard could be picked up, or eliminated, he wasn't in hiding.

But his security was extremely tight, making a capture far more
difficult than an elimination.  Even if he were captured, John doubted
he would give up any useful information.

Sophisticated interrogation techniques could be countered by intensive
training and mind control.  Added to the problem of Ron sard was that
he had powerful friends in the French government.  He had been left
alone, for all of the above reasons, but also because he was neither
the source nor the user of all the nasty things he provided.

He was the conduit, the controller, the valve.  Eliminate him and
another conduit would take his place.

Finding the source was the key, but John also had to discover to whom
other shipments had already been delivered.  To do that, he had to get
to Ron sard.

Chapter five.

tohn Medina never stayed in the same place | twice when he came to D.
C. He had no home, literally.  A home base gave anyone looking for him
a starting point, and the thing about homes was that eventually, if you
had one, you went there.  So he lived in hotels and motels, condos, the
occasional rented house--or a hut, a tent, a cave, a hole in the
ground, whatever was available.

A condo was his preferred living quarters.  They were more private than
hotels, and, unlike a motel, had more than one exit.  He didn't like
sleeping in a place where he could be cornered.

The hotel he chose this time had wrought-iron balconies outside each
room, which was what had made him decide in the hotel's favor.  He had
checked in earlier, checked for bugs, studied the security, then gone
to meet Frank Vi nay.  Now, when he walked through the lobby to the
elevators, no one who saw him would recognize him as the man who had
checked in.

Disguise wasn't difficult.  When he checked in he had been wearing
glasses, had gray hair spray on his hair, cotton in his cheeks to fill
out his face, and he had walked with a definite limp.  He had also used
a nasal Rochester, New York accent.

His clothing had been the kind bought at a discount department store.
There was no sign of that man now, he had removed the glasses and
washed his hair, exchanged the gray polyester slacks for jeans, the
plaid shirt for a white oxford, and the green windbreaker for a black
jacket so exquisitely tailored it disguised the bulk of the weapon he
wore and still looked fashionable.

He had hung the DO NOT DISTURB sign on his door to keep hotel employees
out.  Most people would be surprised to find out how often during the
day, while they were gone, the hotel staff was in and out of their
rooms.  Housekeeping, maintenance, management--they all had a master
key and could get into any room.  Plus there were professional thieves
who hung around hotels and noticed the businesspeople--when they left,
how long they were gone, etc.  A good thief could always get into a
locked room, so getting into a room was nothing more than a matter of
picking out the target, hanging near the desk to find out how long
someone was staying, then discreetly following to see which room the
person entered.  Next morning, call the room to see if anyone answers.
Then go on up, and, to be on the safe side, knock on the door If
there's still no response, go in.

A DO NOT DISTURB sign at least gives the impression someI one was in
the room.  He had also dialed a certain untraceable number and left the
phone off the hook, so if anyone called, he--or she, thieves were not
gender specific--would get a busy signal.

Hanging on the inside door handle was a small battery operated alarm.
If anyone ignored the sign and opened the door anyway, an ear-piercing
siren sounded, which was certain to attract attention.

John turned off the alarm by pressing a button on the small remote he
carried in his pocket.  The alarm was just a gadget, but it amused him
and would startle the hell out of anyone trying to get in.  He wouldn't
have bothered with it if he hadn't left his computer in the room.

The room was as he had left it.  He scanned for bugs anyway, as a
matter of routine, and thought of Niema's undetectable device.

Technology was a leapfrog affair, something new was developed and for a
while that side--whatever side it was-had the advantage.  Then a
countermeasure was developed and the other side had the advantage.

Niema's bug would give them the advantage now, but tech nology couldn't
be kept secret forever and eventually the bad guys--the terrorists and
spies and hostile governments--would have the bug, too.  It could be
used against him, used to capture or kill him.  Niema would probably be
pleased if she knew her invention had led to his death.  She wouldn't
know, however, very few people would.  He had no family, no network of
friends or coworkers.

Those people who worked with him didn't know who he was.

He didn't have to hide his identity with Frank Vi nay, of course, or
with Jess McPherson, an old friend of his father's.  It was a relief to
be able to drop his guard, those rare times when he was with one of
them, and just be himself.

Sitting at the desk, he disconnected the call, then booted up the
laptop and hooked it to the phone line.  A few typed commands had him
inside one of the CIA's data banks.  He was one of the few people left
in the world who still used the MSDOS operating system, but when he was
working he vastly preferred it over any system that required a mouse.

A mouse was great for Net surfing or playing games, but he'd found
that, when he was working, a mouse slowed him down.  He could type in
the DOS commands much faster than he could take his hand off the
keyboard, guide the mouse, click, and go back to the keyboard.  In his
world, seconds shaved off operating time could mean the difference
between whether he got the information he needed and got out safely, or
if he was caught.

There was a wealth of personal information on Louis Ron sard--his
parents, where he lived growing up, his school records, his friends,
his extracurricular activities.  Louis hadn't been a deprived child,
his father had been a wealthy industrialist, his mother a well-born
beauty who had doted on her children--Louis, the oldest, and Mariette,
three years younger Louis was attending the Sorbonne when his mother
died of ovarian cancer His father was killed five years later in an
accident on the Autobahn while on a business trip to Germany.

Louis had taken over the reins of the family business, and, for reasons
unknown, gone renegade.  From that time to the present there was
precious little personal information to be had about him, though he was
far from a recluse.

Ron sard owned a heavily guarded estate in the south of France.  He
employed a small private army to ensure his security, to be hired, one
had to meet stringent standards.  The Company had planted one of their
own, to no avail, the agent hadn't been able to discover anything
useful, because his own activities were so regulated.  He was still in
place, though, John made a note of the agent's name and cover There was
a recent photo, Ron sard was a striking man, with slightly exotic
features and olive skin.  He wore his dark hair long, usually secured
at the nape, but for social occasions he left it loose.  In this
photograph he was emerging from some banquet, clad in a tuxedo, with a
glowing blonde on his arm.

She was smiling up at him with adoration in her eyes.  She was Sophie
Gerrard, briefly Ron sard's lover, but no longer in contact with him.

There was a long list of Ron sard's lovers.  Women found him very
attractive.  His liaisons never lasted long, but he was evidently
considerate and affectionate before his roving eye landed on some other
lady.

There was a diagram of the mansions' grounds, but nothing of the house
itself.  Ron sard entertained occasionally, but the affairs were very
exclusive, and the CIA hadn't yet been able to get anyone inside as
either a guest or domestic help.  True, Ron sard hadn't been at the top
of their to-do list, so little effort had been expended on doing so.

That was going to change, however.  Ron sard had just moved to the top
of the list.

John maneuvered his way through a few more files, checking on Ron
sard's known finances, who had designed and installed the mansion's
security system, if there were any existing wiring plans.  He found
little information, Ron sard had either wiped his records, or they had
never existed in the first place.

When he finished, it was two A. M. He stretched, suddenly aware of the
kinks in his shoulders.  He had another meeting with Frank the coming
night, and maybe they would have more information on the crash.

Until then, he could relax.

He showered and fell into bed.  He had the warrior's knack of quickly
and easily falling asleep, but tonight he found himself staring at the
ceiling where the tiny red light on the smoke alarm blinked on and off.
He didn't have to wonder about his sleeplessness, he knew the reason.

Niema.

Dallas had been dead five years.  Why hadn't she remarried, or at least
dated someone steadily?  She was young--only twenty-five when Dallas
died--and pretty.  He hadn't let himself ask, these past five years,
hadn't let himself personally check on her, but this time he had
figured enough time had passed and it was safe to ask, to find out she
had a hubby and a kid or two, and had gone on with her life.

She hadn't.  She was still alone.

Had she changed?  Put on weight, maybe gotten a few strands of gray in
her hair?  A lot of people began to go gray in their twenties.

Did her big dark eyes still look so deep a man could drown in them, and
not care?

He could see her She would never know.  He could satisfy his curiosity,
smile a little at the physical pleasure seeing her gave him, and walk
away.  But he knew he wouldn't see her, some breaks were better made
cleanly.  He was still who he was and did what he did, so there was no
point in daydreams, no matter how pleasurable.

Knowing that was one thing, turning off those desires was another He
would do what he had to do, but what he wanted to do was hold her, just
once, and let her know it was him she was kissing, him making love to
her.  Just once he wanted to strip her naked and have her, and once
would have to be enough because he couldn't dare risk more.

But he had a snowball's chance in hell of having that "once, " so
finally he turned off the daydream, rolled over, and went to sleep.

* * * John arrived at Frank's house as he had the night before, in a
car with blacked-out windows.  He backed into the attached garage, the
doors of which slid up as he approached and down as soon as his car was
inside.  He had spent the day digging out more details about Ron sard,
trying to plot a course on getting inside Ron sard's mansion and
getting the information he needed, nothing had immediately presented
itself, but eventually it would.

Frank opened the door, an abstract expression on his face that was
evidently due to the sheaf of papers he still clutched in one hand.

Frank never quit working, it seemed, not even at home, he simply
changed locations.  While Do die was alive he had made a real effort to
put his job aside and just be with her, but more often than not he had
become lost in his thoughts and she would laughingly shoo him into his
office.  Now, with Do die gone, Frank often worked sixteen hours a
day.

"I was just getting coffee, " he said to John.  "Go on into the library
and I'll bring it in there.  " John stopped in his tracks and
quizzically regarded his old friend.  Frank wasn't a domestic person,
he tried, but he didn't have a coffee-making gene in his body.  John
had quickly learned, after Do die's death, that if he wanted coffee in
Frank's house he'd better make it himself if he wanted it to be
drinkable.

Seeing the look, Frank said irritably, "I didn't make it, Bridget did.
" Bridget was his housekeeper, an Agency employee who had looked after
Frank and Do die since Frank became DDO.  She went home after serving
Frank his supper and cleaning up the kitchen, assuming he was eating at
home that night, she must have made the coffee and put it in a thermos
to keep it hot.

"In that case, yes, I'd like a cup.  " Grinning, John strolled out of
the kitchen, with Frank's muttered

"Smart ass, " following him.

The door to the library was open.  John walked in and stopped just past
the threshold, his mind blank for a moment except for a silent, savage
curse.  Damn Frank and his meddling!

Niema Burdock rose slowly out of the chair where she had been sitting,
her face pale in the mellow lamplight.  Her eyes were as big and dark
as he remembered, darker, narrowing as she stared at him and said one
word, tight with disbelief, "Tucker" John forced himself to move, to
step inside the library as casually as if he had known she was going to
be there.  He closed the door, let Frank make of that what he pleased.
Actually, " he said, as if five years hadn't passed, "you were right.

Tucker isn't my name.  It's John Medina.  " He was never at a loss, he
had been trained not to panic, not to lose focus.  But this was a
shock, the impact of her sudden presence as powerful as if he had been
punched in the gut.  He hadn't realized, he thought, how hungry he had
been for the sight of her, otherwise why blurt out something he had
kept from her five years ago?

Almost no one who met him knew his real name.  It was safer that way,
for both parties.  So why had he told her, this woman who had every
reason, if not to actually hate him, to at least avoid him?  She had
heard him tell her husband to, in effect, kill himself.  She had been
standing there staring at him with her eyes black as night, her face
paper white with shock, when he told Dallas to press the button that
would end his life as well as complete the mission.  That wasn't
something a woman forgot, or forgave.

She was almost as pale now.  For a moment he hoped she hadn't heard of
him before.  It was possible, he was in black ops, his name whispered
among people in operations, but she worked on the technical side and
would seldom, if ever, come into contact with field operatives.

Her throat worked.  "John Medina is .  . . just a legend, " she said,
her voice strained, and he knew she had indeed heard of him.

"Thank you, " he replied casually, "though I don't know if I like the
word just.  I'm real enough.  Want to bite me to prove it?  " He sat
down on the edge of Frank's desk, one foot swinging, his posture
totally relaxed despite the tension screaming through him.

"I thought pinching was the proven method.  " "I prefer biting.  "
Color tinged her cheeks, but she didn't look away.  "Your eyes were
brown, " she accused.  "Now they're blue.  " "Colored contacts.  Blue
is the real color of my eyes.  " "Or you're wearing colored contacts
now.  " "Come look, " he invited.  As he had expected, though, she
didn't want to get that close to him.

She gathered her composure and sank back into her chain She crossed her
legs, her posture as relaxed as his.  Maybe more so, her movement
riveted his attention on her legs, on the few inches of thigh she had
revealed.  He hadn't seen her legs before, she had worn pants, and
often those had been modestly covered by the chad on They were very
nice legs, slender, shapely, lightly tanned.  She still looked to be in
very good shape, as if she worked out regularly.

Abruptly aware of the response of his body, John snapped himself back
under control.  He glanced up and found her watching him, and
automatically wondered if she had crossed her legs to distract him.  If
so, it had worked.  He was irritated at himself, because sex was one of
the oldest, most hackneyed distractions, and still he had let himself
slip.

Frank opened the door, breaking the silence between them.

He carried a tray on which there was a large thermos of coffee and
three cups, but no sugar or cream.  "Have you two introduced
yourselves?  " he asked smoothly, glancing at John so he could take the
lead in giving Niema whatever name he chose.

"He says his name is really John Medina, " Niema said.  Her voice was
cool and calm, and once again John had to admire her poise.  "Five
years ago I knew him as Darrell Tucker" Frank flashed John another
glance, this one full of surprise that he had so quickly revealed his
true identity.  "He goes by a lot of names, it's part of his job
description.  " "Then John Medina may be an alias, too.  " "I can't
give you any comfort there, " Frank said with wry humor "I've known him
most of his life, and he's the real McCoy--or Medina, in this case.  "
John watched her absorb that, saw the quick suspicion in her eyes that
Frank might be lying, as well.  She wasn't a naive, trusting little
soul, but neither was she experienced at completely hiding her thoughts
and emotions.

"Why am I here?  " she asked abruptly, switching her gaze to John.

Frank drew her attention back to him.  "We have a .  . .

situation.  " He poured a cup of coffee and handed it to her

"How does that involve me?  Could I have some cream and sugar, please?
" The simple question rattled Frank, unused as he was to domestic
duties.  He gave the tray a panicked glance, as if he hoped the
requested items would materialize.

"Ah .  . . I--" "Never mind, " she said, and composedly sipped her
black coffee.  "I can drink it like this.  What's this situation?  "
John restrained a bark of laugh ten As he remembered very well, she
always drank her coffee black.  This was just Niema needling Frank a
little, getting back at him for setting her up for such a shock.  She
had always been able to hold her own with the team, and the realization
was still as surprising now as it had been then, because she looked
like such a lady.

Frank looked at him as if asking for his help.  John shrugged.

This was Frank's little show, let him run it.  He had no idea why Niema
was there, except as Frank's heavy handed attempt at a little
matchmaking.  He probably thought John needed some R and R, and since
he had admitted being attracted to Niema--well, why not?  Except Frank
hadn't been in Iran, and he hadn't watched Niema's face while he
ordered her husband to kill himself, or he would have known why not.

"Ah .  . . we're very interested in the work you've been doing.

An undetectable surveillance device will be invaluable.  As it happens,
we have an urgent need for it now.  You know more about the device than
anyone, since you designed it.  You also have some field experience--"
"No, " she interrupted.  "I don't do fieldwork.  " She was pale again,
her jaw set.  She got to her feet.  "If that's the only reason you
wanted to talk to me, I'm sorry you wasted our mutual time.

A phone call would have sufficed, and you could have saved yourself the
trouble of bringing me here.  " She paused, then murmured ironically,
"Wherever here is.  " "You haven't heard all the details, " Frank said,
shooting another quick look at John.  "And you are, might I add, an
employee of the Agency, not a freelance contract agent.  " "Are you
going to fire her if she turns you down?  " John irs .  _> asked
interestedly, just to pin Frank down and make him squirm some more.

"No, of course not--" "Then we have nothing more to discuss, " she said
firmly.

"Please have me taken home.  " Frank sighed, and gave up.  "Of course.
I apologize for the inconvenience, Mrs.  Burdock.  " He wasn't a man
accustomed to apology, but he did it well.

John let him reach for the phone before he interrupted.

"Don't bother, " he said easily, abandoning his lazy sprawl against the
desk.  "I'll drive her home.  " Chapter SIX.

_L (c c, \ \ yiema got into the car and buckled her \ seat belt.

"Shouldn't I be blindfolded or \t something?  " she asked wryly, and
she was only half joking.  The garage door in front of them slid up and
he pulled out, then turned left onto the street.

Tucker--no, she had to get used to thinking of him as Medina--actually
smiled.  "Only if you want.  Don't tell me they blindfolded you to
bring you here.  " "No, but I kept my eyes closed.  " She wasn't
kidding.  She hadn't wanted to know where the deputy director of
operations lived.  She had lost her taste for adventure five years ago,
and knowing where Frank Vi nay lived came under the heading of
information that could be dangerous.

Medina's smile turned into a grin.  He was really a very good-looking
man, she thought, watching his face in the dim green glow of the dash
lights.  In the past five years when she remembered him it had been in
terms of what happened, not in how he looked, and his face had faded
from her memory.

Still, she had recognized him immediately, even without the heavy
stubble of beard.

Seeing him was a bigger shock than she had ever thought it would be,
but then again, she'd never imagined she would see him again, so there
was no way she could have prepared for it.

Tucker--no, Medina--was such an integral part of the worst thing that
had ever happened to her that just hearing his voice had thrown her
five years into the past.

"I should have known you were regular CIA, instead of a contract agent.
" In retrospect she felt like a gullible idiot, but then things were
always clearer in the mind's rearview mirror.

"Why would you?  " He sounded interested.  "My cover was as a contract
agent.  " Looking back, she realized that Dallas had known, which was
why he had urged Medina to stay behind rather than risk capture.  And
Dallas, an ex-SEAL accustomed to top security clearances and
need-to-know, had kept the information to himself, not even telling
her, his wife.  But she worked for the Agency now, and she knew that
was how things were.

You kept things to yourself, you didn't tell friends or neighbors what
you did for a living, discretion became second nature.

"Dallas knew, didn't he?  " she asked, just for affirmation.

"He knew I wasn't a contract agent.  He didn't know my real name,
though.  When I worked with him before, he knew me as Tucker.  " "Why
did you tell me?  It wasn't necessary.  " She wished he hadn't.  If
even half the rumors she had heard whispered about the elusive, shadowy
John Medina were true, then she didn't oz mr vurrn a ivlGrD want to
know who he really was.  Ignorance, in this case, was safer than
discretion.

"Perhaps it was.  " His voice was reflective, and he didn't explain
further.

"Why did you have a cover with us?  We were a team.  None of us were
out to get you.  " "If you didn't know my real name, then, if any of
you were captured, you couldn't reveal it.  And if you were captured? 
" "I wouldn't be.  " "Oh?  How would you prevent it?  " "Poison, " he
said matter-of-factly.

Niema recoiled.  She knew that some operatives, back in the tense Cold
War days, had carried a suicide pill, usually cyanide, that they were
to swallow rather than allow themselves to be captured.  To know that
John Medina did the same made her feel sick to her stomach.

"But--" "It's better than being tortured to death.  " He shrugged.

"Over the years, I've pissed off a lot of people.  They would all like
to have a turn removing my body parts.  " From what she had heard about
his exploits, he was understating the case.  It was even rumored he had
killed his own wife, because he discovered she was a double agent and
was about to expose a highly placed mole.  Niema didn't believe that
particular rumor, but then neither had she believed John Medina was a
real man.  Not one of the people who talked about him had ever met him,
seen him, or knew anyone who had.  She had thought him a kind of .  . .
urban myth, though one restricted to intelligence circles.

She couldn't quite take in that not only was he real, but she knew him.
And even more astounding was how accepting he was of everything
entailed in being who he was, as if his notoriety was simply the price
he had to pay to do what he wanted.

"Given your circumstances, " she said with asperity, "you shouldn't
have told me now, either.  " The fact that he had made her
suspicious.

"Actually, I was so surprised to see you that I blurted it out without
thinking.  " The idea of him being taken off guard was so out of
character that she snorted, and stretched out her left leg.  "Here,
pull this one, too.  " "It's true, " he murmured.  "I didn't know you
were going to be there.  " "You had no idea ML Vi nay wanted me to .  .
. whatever it was he wanted me to do?  And you just happened to show
up?

How likely is that?  " "Not very, but unlikely things happen every day.
" "Does he expect you to talk me into taking the job?  " "Maybe.  I
don't know what he was thinking.  " Irritation colored his voice now.
"I suspect, though, that he's working two angles.

You'll have to ask him what those angles are.  " "Since I'm not taking
the job, whatever it is, it doesn't matter what the angles are, does
it?  " He grinned suddenly.  "I don't think he was expecting to be
turned down, especially not so fast.  Not many people can tell him no.
" "Then he needed the experience.  " He said admiringly, "No wonder
Dallas was so crazy about you.  Not many people stood up to him,
either.  He looked as tough as he was.  " Yes, he had.  Dallas had been
almost six-four and weighed two hundred and thirty-five hard-muscled
pounds.  His biggest strength hadn't been his body, though, as superbly
conditioned as it was, his mind, his determination and focus, were what
had made him .  . .

extraordinary.

She had never been able to talk about Dallas to anyone.  For the past
five years her memories of him had stayed bottled up inside, they
hadn't been married very long, hadn't known each other very long, so
they hadn't had time to develop a circle of friends.  Because of their
jobs they had traveled a lot, they had gotten married in a hurry in
Reno, had that wonderful honeymoon in Aruba, then Dallas had been gone
for six weeks and she had been in Seattle working on surveillance for
Customs.

With one thing or another, they hadn't even met each other's
families.

After Dallas's death she had gone to Indiana and met his folks, held
hands, and cried with them, but they had been too shocked, still too
involved in the whys and hows to reminisce.

She had written to them occasionally, but they hadn't had time to
develop a relationship before Dallas's death, and after he was gone
neither party seemed to have the spirit to develop one now.

Her own family, her nice, normal suburban family in Council Bluffs,
Iowa, had been sympathe ic and caring, but neither were they completely
able to hide their disapproval of her and Dallas being in Iran in the
first place.  Her entire family, parents, brothers Mason and Sam,
sister ICiara, wanted nothing more than the familiar routine of
nine-to-five, marriage, kids, living in the same town from cradle to
grave, knowing everyone in the neighborhood, shopping at the same
grocery store every week.  They hadn't known what to do with the cuckoo
in their nest, hadn't had any idea of the restlessness to see more, the
urge to do more, that had driven Niema to leave her hometown and seek
out adventure.

She had paid penance for the last five years and lived alone .  J_ with
memories that no one else shared.  She might whisper Dallas's name in
her thoughts, or sometimes when she was alone the grief would well up
and she would say his name aloud, an aching, unanswered cry, but she
hadn't been able to talk about him with anyone.

But Medina had known him, had been there.  He would understand.

He was, of all people, the only one who would fully understand.

She hadn't resisted letting him drive her home, her guilt wasn't his
fault.  Maybe she needed to talk to him, to put this part of the past
behind her.  She might have already done it, had she known how to
contact him, but after they reached Paris he had vanished.

Lacing her hands in her lap, she stared out the windshield as the dark
streets wound by.  She wondered if Dallas would love her now, if he
would even recognize the woman she had become.  He had fallen in love
with a gutsy young woman who'd had a taste for adventure.  Those days
were over, though.  She was through taking risks.

"I never thanked you, " she murmured.  "For what you did.  " His
eyebrows lifted in surprise, and he slanted a quick look at her. "Thank
me?  " She got the impression he wasn't just surprised, but
astounded.

"For getting me out of Iran, " she explained and wondered why she
needed to.  "I know I was a liability coming out.  " Basket case was
actually a better description.  Long patches of those days were lost
from her memory, she couldn't remember leaving the hut at all.  She did
remember walking through the cold, dark mountains, her emotional misery
so intense that she hadn't felt any physical pain.

"I promised Dallas.  " The words were simple, and ironclad.

I.

All tne queen's Men It hurt to hear Dallas's name spoken aloud.

In five years, not a day had gone by that she hadn't thought about her
husband.  The terrible pain was gone, replaced sometimes by an ache, a
loneliness, but mostly she remembered the good times she'd had with
him.  She regretted that they hadn't had more time together, that they
hadn't had the chance to learn all the little things about each
other.

Hearing his name brought back the ache, but it was softened now,
gentled into something bearable, and she could hear the regret in Me
dina's voice.

What time hadn't softened was her own guilt, the knowledge that Dallas
wouldn't have been on that job if she hadn't wanted to take it.

And perhaps she wasn't the only one who felt guilty.  Medina, under
whatever guise, struck her as a man who would do what was expedient and
then forget about it, but he hadn't.

He had taken care of her, just as he had promised Dallas, when leaving
her to freeze to death in the mountains would have been much easier.
She couldn't imagine what had motivated him, but she was deeply
grateful all the same.  "Do you think I blamed you?  " she asked
softly. "No.  I never did.  " Again she had surprised him.  Looking at
him, she saw the way his jaw tightened.  "Maybe you should have, " he
replied.

"Why?  What could you have done?  " She had relived that night a
thousand times on the hard journey to accepting reality.  "We never
could have gotten him out of the plant alive, much less out of Iran.

You knew it.  He knew it too.  He chose to complete the mission and
chose a quick death over a slow, terrible one.  " She managed a crooked
smile.  "Like you with your cyanide pill.  " "I'm the one who told him
to push the button.  " "He would have done it no matter what you said.
He was my husband, and I knew when I married him that he was a damn
hero.  " She had known the type of man Dallas was, known that he would
feel he had to complete the job at all costs, and that cost had
included his life.

Medina fell silent, concentrating on his driving.  She gave him
directions on the next turn, she lived in McLean, on the same side of
the river as Langley, so the commute was easy.

Once before she had sat beside him as he drove through the night, and
he had been silent then, too.  It was after Hadi had "liberated" a 1968
Ford Fair lane from the Iranian village, and they had driven into
Tehran together.  Then Hadi had split off, and she and Medina had gone
on alone.  She had been feverish and aching, battered by grief and
guilt, barely functional.

Medina had taken care of her.  When the nail wound in her arm became
infected, from somewhere he procured a vial of antibiotic and gave her
an injection.  He made certain she ate and slept, and he got her across
the border into Turkey.  He had been there during the first awful
paroxysm of grief and hadn't tried to comfort her, knowing that weeping
was better than holding it in.

All in all, she owed this man her life.

Blaming Medina would have been easy, much easier than blaming herself.
But the inner steel that had attracted Dallas to her in the first place
made it impossible, after his death, for her to do anything but face
the truth, When Medina approached her and Dallas about the job, Dallas
wanted to decline.  She was the one who wanted to take it.

She could tell herself that the job had been important, and it had
been, but there had been others Medina could have recruited if she and
Dallas had turned him down.

Yes, Dallas had been very good at explosives.  She was very good with
electronics, whether it was putting together a functional radio or
detonator or bugging a phone line.  But other .  . people were also
good at those things, and they would have done the job just as well.

She had wanted to go, not because she was indispensable, but because
she craved the adventure.

As a child she had always been the one to climb highest in the tree, to
tie bed sheets together and use them to slide down from a second-story
window.  She loved roller coasters and white-water rafting and had even
toyed with the idea, during high school, of working on a bomb squad. To
her parents' relief she had instead begun studying electronics and
languages, only to find that her expertise took her farther away from
home and into more danger than she ever would have gone with the local
bomb squad.

Niema knew her own nature.  She loved the thrill, the adrenaline rush,
of danger.  She had been seeking that thrill, though in pursuit of a
legitimate goal, and she had gotten Dallas killed.  If not for her,
they would have been looking for a home on the North Carolina coast, as
Dallas had wanted.

If not for her, Dallas would still be alive.

So she had given it up, that high-voltage life she had so loved.

The cost was too high.  Dallas's last thought had been for her, and
that knowledge meant too much for her to carelessly put her life in
jeopardy again.

Medina pulled up to the curb just past her driveway, then reversed
into it so the car was heading out.  House key in hand, she got out of
the car.  Dallas had also parked so the car was heading out, too, a
simple precaution that allowed for faster movement and made it more
difficult to be blocked in.

Funny how she hadn't thought about that in years, she simply pulled
into the garage, as millions of other people did.  But Medina's method
of parking brought so many things back to her in a rush, the sudden
alertness, the clarity of her senses, the quickened pulse.  She found
herself looking around, examining shadows and searching with her
peripheral vision for movement.

Medina had done the same thing, his surveillance much faster and
routine.

"Damn it, " Niema said irritably and marched up the sidewalk to the
curved archway that sheltered her front door.  " Damn it, what?  " He
was beside her, moving silently, positioning himself so that he reached
the archway first.  No assailants lurked there, not that she had
expected any.  She just wished she hadn't noticed what he was doing.

"Damn it, I spend half an hour with you and already I'm looking for
assassins in the bushes.  " "There's nothing wrong with being alert and
aware of your surroundings.  " "Not if I were Secret Service, or even a
cop, but I'm not.  I just fiddle with gadgets.  The only thing likely
to be lurking in my bushes is a cat.  " He started to reach for her
house key, but she stopped him with a look.  "You're making me
paranoid.  Is there any reason for all this?  " she asked as she
unlocked the door herself and opened it.  Nothing sinister happened,
there were no shots, no explosions.

"Sorry.  It's just a habit.  " She had left a couple of lights on and
he looked inside, his expression interested.

"Would you like to come in?  We didn't get around to drinking any of
the coffee at Vi nay's house.  " Until she heard the words, she hadn't
known she was going to invite him in.  They weren't exactly on easy
terms, though to tell the truth she was surprised at how easy it had
been to talk to him.  Still, he was John Medina, not a steady,
reliable, respectable bureaucrat who had just taken her out to
dinner.

He stepped inside, his head up and alert, his gaze moving around,
absorbing details, watching as she opened the hall closet door and
disarmed the security system.  She had the sudden impression that he
could describe everything he had seen irl that brief sweep, and perhaps
even tell her the security code.

She started to close the closet door and he said, "Humor me.

Reset the alarm.  " Because he had good reason to be acutely security
conscious, she did.

Niema had bought the house three years before, when a hefty raise had
given her the means to buy instead of rent, even with the outrageous
property values around D. C. It was too big for one person, with three
bedrooms and two-and-ahalf baths, but she had justified the size by
telling herself she would have space for her family to come visit,
though they never had, and that the three bedrooms would make it easier
to sell if she ever decided she wanted something else.

The house was vaguely Spanish in style, with arched doors and windows.
She had painted the interior walls herself, choosing a soft peach for
most of the house while her furnishings were dark green and turquoise.
The carpet was an undistinguished beige, but it had been in good shape,
so instead of replacing it she had covered it with a large rug in a
geometric pattern of greens, blues, and peaches.  The effect was cool
and welcoming, feminine without being fussy.

"Nice, " he said, and she wondered what conclusions he had drawn about
her by seeing the way she had furnished her house.

"The kitchen is this way.  " She led the way, turning on the overhead
light.  She loved her kitchen.  The room was long, with a bank of
windows on the right wall.  A long, narrow island topped with a mosaic
of blue and terra-cotta tiles pro.  w.

vided a wonderful work area for any cooking project, no matter how
ambitious.  Small pots of herbs grew on the window sills, lending their
fragrance to the air.  The far end of the room was a cozy breakfast
nook, the small table and two chairs flanked by lush ferns.

She began making coffee, while Medina went to the windows and closed
all the blinds.  "Doesn't it get old?  " she asked.

"Having to always be on guard?  " "I don't even think about it now,
I've done it for so long.

And you should close the blinds anyway.  " Hands in his pockets, he
strolled around the kitchen.  Pausing in front of the block of oak that
held her knife set, he pulled out the chef's knife and tested its edge
on his thumb, then returned it to its slot.  His next stop was the back
door, the top half of which was glass, he closed the blinds there too
and checked the lock.

"I usually do.  I don't believe in inviting trouble.  " As soon as the
words were out, she realized her own lie.  Trouble didn't come any
bigger than John Medina, and inviting him in was exactly what she had
done.

"You need a stronger lock here, " he said absently.  "In fact, you need
a new door.  All anyone has to do is pop out one of these panes of
glass, reach in, and unlock the door.  " "I'll see to it first thing in
the morning.  " The dryness of her tone must have reached him, because
he looked over at her and grinned.  "Sorry.  You already know all that,
right?  " "Right.  " She took down two cups from the cabinets.  "The
crime rate in this neighborhood is low, and I do have the security
system.  I figure if anyone wanted in, they could break any number of
windows and get in through them, not just the ones in the door.  " He
pulled one of the tall stools away from the island and propped one hip
on it.  He looked relaxed, she thought, though she wondered if he ever
truly was, given who he was and what he did.  She poured the coffee and
set one cup in front of him, then faced him across the tiled island
top.  "Okay, now tell me why you drove me home, and don't say it was
for old time's sake.  " "Then I won't.  " He seemed to be lost in
thought for a moment as he sipped his coffee, but whatever distracted
him was quickly gone.

"How undetectable is this new bug you've developed?  Tell me about it.
" She made a face.  "Nothing is totally undetectable, you know.  But it
doesn't cause a fluctuation in voltage, so an oscilloscope can't pick
it up.  If anyone swept with a metal detector, though, that's a
different story.  " "Frank seemed excited about it.  " Niema was
immediately wary.  "It isn't that big a deal, because like I said, it's
good only in certain situations.  If you know how someone routinely
sweeps for surveillance devices, then you can tailor the bug to fit.
Why would he even mention it to you?  " The bug had useful
applications, but it was far from being an earth-shattering discovery
that was going to change the face of intelligence gathering.

Why would the deputy director of operations even know about it, much
less call her to a meeting at his private residence?

"I asked how you were doing.  He told me what you've been .  . . .

wormng on.

Her wariness turned into outright suspicion.  Okay, it was feasible
that Medina would ask about her, but that didn't explain why Vi nay
would know anything at all about her, much less anything about her
current project.

"Why would the DDO know anything about me?  We work in totally
different departments.  " The vast majority of CIA ."s employees were
not the glamorous operatives of Hollywood fame, they were clerks and
analysts and tech no nerds.  Until Iran, Niema had craved the thrill of
fieldwork, but not now.

Now she was content to work on the electronics side of intelligence
gathering and come home to her own house every night.

"Because I asked him to keep tabs on you.  " The bald admission
astonished her.  "Why would you do that?  " She didn't like the idea of
someone constantly checking up on her.

"I wanted to know if you were all right, plus I never lose track of
someone whose expertise I might want to use again.  " A chill ran up
her spine.  Now she knew why he'd driven her home, he wanted to draw
her back into that world she had walked away from when Dallas died.  He
was going to figuratively wave a shot of whiskey under an alcoholic's
nose, lure her away from the straight and narrow.

He couldn't do it unless she still had the old urge to find that
adrenaline rush, she thought in growing panic.  If she had truly
changed, nothing he could say would entice her away from the safe life
she had built.

She thought she had changed.  She thought the hunger for excitement was
gone.  Why, then, did she feel so panicky, as if the smell of adventure
was going to make her fall off the wagon?

"Don't you dare ask--" she began.

"I need you, Niema.  " Chapter seven.

Damn it, why hadn't she remarried?  John ) thought savagely.  Or at
least gotten her self safely involved with some steady, nine-to-five
bureaucrat?

He had stayed away from her for a lot of very good reasons.  His job
wasn't conducive to relationships.  He had brief affairs, and nothing
resembling an emotional attachment.  He was away for months at a time,
with no communication during those times.  His life expectancy
sucked.

Moreover, he had thought he would be the last person on earth she'd
ever want to see.  He was staggered to realize she didn't blame him for
Dallas's death, had never blamed him.  Even though she had never
trusted him, she didn't lay that at his door.  It took a person of
excruciating fairness to absolve him of all blame as she had done.

He had learned not to agonize over the choices he had to make.

Some of them were hard decisions, and every one of them had left their
mark on his soul, or what was left of it.  But other people seldom saw
things the same way, and that, too, he'd learned to shrug off.  As his
father's old friend Jess McPherson once said, he was hell on people.

He used them, exploited them, and then either betrayed them or simply
disappeared from their lives.  The very nature of his job demanded that
he not let anyone get close enough to touch him emotionally.  He had
forgotten that once and let a woman get close to him, hell, he had even
married her.  Venetia had been a disaster, both professionally and
personally, and in the fourteen years since he had been strictly
solo.

Several times during the past five years he had been relieved that
Niema Burdock probably hated his guts.  That put her safely out of his
range and killed the occasional temptation to get in touch with her.

It was better that way.  He would just check on her now and then, make
certain she was all right-after all, he'd promised Dallas he would take
care of her--and that would be that.

He had expected her to find someone else.  She was young, only
twenty-five when she was widowed, and both smart and pretty.  He had
wanted her to find someone else, because that would put her forever out
of reach.  But she hadn't, and he was through with being noble.

He wasn't giving her any more chances.

But she would run like hell if he simply asked her out.  He would have
to play her gently, like taking a world-record trout on gossamer line,
never letting her feel the hook that was reeling her in until it was
too late for escape.  On his side was her =o own nature, the
adventurousness she seemed determined to bury, and a very real
situation that needed to be finessed.

Weighed against him was the fact that, despite the uneasy bond forged
between them in Iran, she didn't trust him, he'd always known she was
smart.

Frank had asked her to his house on a bogus excuse, in a well-meant but
awkward attempt to do a little matchmaking.

Well, maybe it had worked.  And maybe the excuse wasn't so bogus after
all.  John's mind raced, weighing risks and benefits.

He decided to go for it.

"Delta Flight 183 was sabotaged.  The FBI labs have turned up traces of
explosive, but no detonator.  The stuff seems to be a new,
self-detonating compound, probably based on RDX and developed in
Europe.  " She put her hands over her ears.  "I don't want to hear
this.  " John moved around the island and took her hands down, holding
her with his fingers wrapped around her slender wrists.  "Anything in
Europe goes through an arms dealer named Louis Ron sard.  He lives in
the south of France.  " "No, " she said.

"I need you to help me get into his files and find out where the stuff
is made and who has already gotten a shipment of it.  " "No, " she said
again, but with a touch of desperation in her voice.  She didn't try to
pull away from him.

"Ron sard is susceptible to a pretty face--" "Good God, you want me to
whore for you?  " she asked incredulously, dark eyes narrowing in
dangerous warning.

"Of course not, " he snapped.  No way in hell would he let Ron sard, or
anyone else, have her.  "I want you to get an invitation to his villa
so you can put a bug in his office.  " "There are probably a thousand
people in this city alone who could do that.  You don't need me.  " "I
need you.  Of those thousand people who could do the work, how many of
them are women, because I can guarantee you no guy is going to catch
Ron sard's interest and get invited to his villa.  How many?

Twenty, maybe?  Say a hundred.  Ron sard is thirty-five, how many women
out of that hundred are roughly his age?  And out of that number, how
many of them are as attractive as you?  " She jerked on her wrists.
John merely tightened his hold, while taking care not to hurt her.  She
was so close he could see the velvety texture of her skin.  "You speak
French--" "I'm rusty.  " "You'd pick it up again in no time.  I need
someone who's young, pretty, speaks the language, and has the skill.
You meet all the qualifications.  " "Get someone else!  " she said
furiously.  "Don't try to tell me you couldn't find a contract agent
who met all your criteria, someone who wouldn't know your real name.

You make it sound like I'm some Mata Hari, but I've never done any
undercover work at all.  I'd probably get us both killed--" "No you
wouldn't.  You've been on other ops--" "Five years ago.  And I just did
technical stuff, not any role playing.  " She added coldly, "That's
your forte.  " He let the slam roll off his back.  After all, she was
right. "I need you, " he repeated.  "Just this once.  " "This once
until something else comes up and you decide you need' me again.  "
"Niema . . . " He rubbed his thumbs over the insides of her wrists in a
subtle caress, then released her and stepped away to pick up his coffee
cup. He had pushed her enough physically, now was the time to back off
and give her back control of herself, so she wouldn't feel as
threatened. "I've seen you work.

You're fast, you're good, and you can build a transmitter from pieces
of junk.  You're perfect for the job.  " "I went to pieces on the last
job.  " "You had just heard your husband die.  " He didn't mince words
and saw her flinch.  "You're allowed to be a little shell shocked.  And
you kept up anyway, we didn't have to carry you.  " She turned away,
absently rubbing her wrists.

"Please.  " Of all the words he could have used, that was the least
expected.

He saw her spine stiffen.  "Don't try to sweet-talk me.  " "I wouldn't
dream of it, " he murmured.

"You're so damn sneaky.  I knew it the first time I saw you.

You maneuver and manipulate and--" She stopped, and turned back to face
him.  Her throat worked, and her big dark eyes looked haunted.

"Damn you, " she whispered.

He was silent, letting the lure entice her.  Danger was as addictive as
any drug.  Firemen, cops, special forces personnel, field operatives,
even the emergency department staff in hospitals--they all knew the
rush, the incredible thrill when your senses are heightened and your
skin feels as if it won't be able to contain all the energy pulsing
through your muscles.  SWAT teams, DEA agents--they were adrenaline
junkies.  So was he.

And so was Niema.

He did what he did partly because he loved his country, and someone had
to be in the sewers taking care of the shit, but also because he loved
walking on the knife edge of danger, continually poised on the brink of
disaster, with only his skill and his wits to keep him alive.  Niema
was no different.  She wanted to be, but she wasn't.

"Do you know how prevalent terrorism is?  " he asked conversationally.
"It isn't something that happens in other countries, it happens here,
all the time.  Flight 183 is just the latest episode.

In 1970, Orlando, Florida, was threatened with a nuclear device if it
didn't cough up a million bucks.  In 1977, Hanafi Muslims took hostages
in the D. C. City Council offices, and a couple of other places.  In
1985, the FBI caught three Sikh Indians sent over here with a list of
assassination targets.  There was the World Trade Center bombing.

Lockerbie, Scotland.  Hell, I could give you a list three feet long.  "
She bent her head, but he had her undivided attention.

"We catch most explosives because of the detonator, not the explosive
itself.  If the bastards have come up with an explosive that begins as
a stable compound, then degrades and becomes unstable and detonates, we
have a big problem.  One bridge taken out can foul shipping over the
entire eastern seaboard.  A blown dam threatens our entire power grid.
Airplanes are particularly vulnerable.  So I need to find out where the
stuff is being manufactured, and Ron sard is my best bet.  I'll find
out some other way, eventually, but how many people will die in the
meantime?  " She still didn't respond.  He said briskly, as if she had
already agreed to work with him, "I'll be there under a different
cover, using an identity I've been building for quite a while.  I would
take you in with me as an assistant or a girlfriend, but Ron sard
doesn't issue 'invitee and guest' invitations.  You have to get invited
in separately.  " "No.  I won't do it.  " "Once we're in, I'll have Ron
sard introduce us.  I'll pretend to be smitten.  That'll give us an
excuse to be together.  " She shook her head.  "I'm not going to do it.
" "You have to.  I've already told you too much.  " "And now you have
to kill me, right?  " He put his hands in his pockets, his blue eyes
alive with amusement.  "I wasn't thinking of anything quite that James
Bon dish.  " "That's what this whole thing sounds like, something out
of a James Bond movie.  You need someone trained in cloak-and dagger
stuff, not me.  " "You'll have time to brush up on basic handgun
skills.

That's all you'd need, though if everything goes right, you won't even
need that.  We get in, you place the bug, I get into his files and copy
them, and we get out.  That's it.  " "You make it sound as easy as
brushing your teeth.  If it were that easy, you would already have done
it.  He--what was his name?

Ron sard?  --Ron sard must have a pretty good security system.  " "Plus
a private army guarding the place, " John admitted.

"So the job would be a lot trickier than you're trying to make it
sound.  " "Not if it goes right.  " "And if it goes wrong?  " He
shrugged, smiling.  "Fireworks.  " She wavered.  He saw it, saw the
temptation in her eyes.

Then she shook her head.  "Get someone else.  " "There is no one else
with quite your qualifications.  The fact that you haven't been active
in five years is a plus, because no one is likely to know you.  The
intelligence community is a fairly small one.

I can build you an identity that will stand up under any investigation
Ron sard does.  " "What about you?  You haven't exactly been inactive.
" "No, but I go to a lot of trouble to make sure no one knows what I
look like, or who I am.  Trust me.  My cover is so deep sometimes I
don't know who I am myself.  " She gave a little laugh, shaking her
head, and John knew he had her.

"Okay, " she said.  "I know I'm going to regret it, but.  . .

Okay.  " "John, " Frank Vi nay said carefully, "do you know what you're
doing?  " "Probably not.  But I'm doing it anyway.  " "Ron sard isn't
anyone's fool.  " John was relaxed in one of the big leather chairs in
Frank's library.  He steepled his fingers under his chin while he
studied the chessboard.  They had resumed the game that had been
interrupted two days before, when an agent brought over the preliminary
report on the crash of Flight 183.  "You're the one who brought her
into it, " he pointed out.

Frank flushed.  "I was being an interfering fool, " he grumbled.

"And a sneaky one, or are you going to tell me you didn't have it in
mind that I'd be a lot more willing to step into your shoes if I had an
incentive to retire from field ops?  " He moved a knight.  "Check.  "
"Son of a bitch.  " Frank glared at the board for a minute, then looked
up at John.  "You have to retire some time, and I can't think of a
better place for you to use your expertise than in my office.  " " Some
time' isn't now.  Until I'm compromised, I can do more good in the
field.  " "Taking Niema Burdock into the field might make that sooner
rather than later.  For one thing, she knows who you are.  For
another"--Frank gave him a shrewd look--"could you leave her behind if
necessary?  " John's eyes went flat and cold.  "I can do whatever I
have to I do.  " How could Frank ask him that, after Venetia?  "And
Niema is probably the best choice I have available.  I wouldn't use her
if she wasn't.  I need someone else in there with me, and she's the one
most likely to get an invitation from Ron sard.  " "WhAt if he doesn't
fall for it?  What if he doesn't invite

"Then I'll have to do what I can, but the risks go up.  With her, I
have a good chance of getting in and out without being detected.  "
"All right.  I'll arrange for her to have an unspecified leave.  "
Frank nudged a bishop into place.

"That's what I thought you'd do, " John said, and moved a pawn.

"Check and mate.  " "Son of a bitch, " Frank muttered.

"I'm crazy, " Niema muttered to herself as she rolled out of bed before
dawn.  Yawning, she dressed, sweat pants and a T-shirt, then socks and
athletic shoes.  "Certified loony.  " How had she let herself be
convinced to help Medina on this job, when she had sworn she'd never
let herself be sucked back into that life?  Hadn't losing Dallas taught
her anything?

But Medina was right about terrorism, right about the applications of
such an explosive, right about the innocent people who would die.

He was nght, damn it.  So, if she could help, then she had to do it.

She went into the bathroom and washed her face, then brushed her teeth
and hair.  The face that looked back at her from the mirror was still
puffy from sleep, but there was color in her cheeks and a brightness to
her eyes that made her hate herself.  She was looking forward to this,
for God's sake.  Dallas had died, and she still hadn't learned
anything.

"Niema!  Get a move on.  " She went rigid.  Not quite believing what
she'd heard, she opened the bathroom door and looked out into her
bedroom.

No one was there.  She crossed over to the hall door and opened it.
Light, along with the smell of freshly brewed coffee, spilled down the
hall, coming from the direction of-the kitchen.

"What in the hell are you doing in my house?  " she snarled, stomping
toward the kitchen.  "And how did you get in?  " Medina sat at the
island, a cup of coffee in his hand.  He looked as if it were nine A.
M. instead of four-thirty, his eyes alert, his lean body relaxed in
black sweat pants and black T-shirt.  "I told you that you needed a new
lock on the back door.  " "What about the alarm?  I know I set the
alarm.  " "And I bypassed it.  With a pocketknife and six inches of
wire.

Have some coffee.  " "No thanks.  " Furious, she contemplated dumping
the coffee on him.

She had always felt safe in her house, and now, thanks to him, she
didn't.  "Do you know how much I paid for that alarm system?  " "Too
much.  Get a dog instead.  " He stood up from the stool.

"If you aren't going to have coffee, let's take a little run.  " Thirty
minutes later, she was still matching him stride for stride.  Talking
while jogging wasn't easy, but they hadn't even tried.

They had run down the street to the park half a mile from her house,
then along the silent path lit only by the occasional street light.

The mood she was in, she almost hoped someone tried to mug them, not
that muggings were a common occurrence in this neighborhood.

Gravel and dirt crunched under their pounding feet.  The early morning
air was cool and fragrant.  She was still breathing easily and there
was still plenty of spring in her legs.  She loved the feel of her
muscles bunching and relaxing, and gradually she began to cool down and
concentrate on nothing but the running.

Beside her, he ran as if they had just started.  His stride was
effortless, his breathing slow and even.  Dallas had run that way, she
remembered, as if he could go on at this pace for hours.

"You run like a SEAL, " she said, irritated that she was panting a
little.

"I should, " he said easily.  "If I don't, then I wasted the toughest
six months of my life.  " She was so surprised she almost stopped. "You
went through

BUDS?  "

"I lived through BUDS, " he corrected.

"Is that where you met Dallas?  " "No, I was a few classes ahead of
him.  But he .  . . ah, recognized some of the stuff I did the first
time we worked together.  " "Did you use your real name during
training?  " "No.  The Navy didn't do me any favors, either.  They
agreed to let me take the training only if I made the physical
conditioning cut, and then I was in only as long as I could make the .
, , graue.

"What was the criteria for being accepted into the class?  " "A five
hundred yard swim using a breast or side stroke, in twelve and a half
minutes or less, then a ten minute rest, then forty-two pushups in two
minutes.  There was a two minute rest after the pushups, then fifty
sit-ups in two minutes.

Another two minute rest, then eight pull-ups, with no time limit.

After a ten minute rest, then came a mile and a half run, wearing boots
and fatigues, in eleven and a half minutes.

Those were the minimum requirements.  If a guy wasn't in a lot better
shape than that, he didn't stand much chance making it through the real
thing.  " He had said all of that without gasping for breath. Impressed
despite herself, she asked, "Why did you do it?  " He was silent for
about fifty yards.  Then he said, "The better I was trained, the better
my chances were for staying alive.

There was a particular job where I needed every edge I could get.  "
"How old were you?  " He couldn't have been very old, not if he was a
few classes ahead of Dallas, which meant he had begun black ops work at
an early age.

"Twenty-one.  " Twenty-one.  Not long out of his teen years, and
already so dedicated to his job that he had put himself through BUDS, a
training program so tough only about 5 percent of the men who began it
made it all the way through.  Now she knew why he and Dallas had been
so much alike in so many ways.

"How much longer are we going to run?  " "We can stop whenever you
want.  You're in great shape, I don't have to worry about that.  " She
began slowing.  "Are we likely to have to run for our lives?  " He
dropped into step beside her.  "You never know.  " That was when she
knew she was crazy for real, because she wasn't scared.

-r Chapter eight.

How did you know I run every morning?  " she asked as they returned to
the house.

The run had mellowed her considerably, early morning was her favorite
time of the day.  The sky was beginning to turn shades of pearl and
pink, and the birds were awake and singing.  She felt tired but also
energized, the way she always did after a run.

"I told you, Frank kept tabs on you over the years.  " "Bullshit.  " He
burst out laughing.  She gave him an irritated look as she fished the
house key out of her pocket and unlocked the door.

"What's so funny?  " "Hearing you curse.  You look like such a
madonna--" "What!  " She stared at him in amazement.

"Angel, then.  It's that sweet face of yours.  " Grinning, he stroked
one finger down her cheek, then deftly maneuvered past and stepped into
the house ahead of her.  She hadn't seen him reach for it, but a pistol
was in his hand.  "You look as if you wouldn't understand most swear
words if you heard them.  " He was moving, examining the house, as he
spoke.

She rolled her eyes and followed him inside.  "I'll try to stick to
gosh' and darn, then, so I won't shock you.  And don't think you can
change the subject.  ML Vi nay hasn't just kept tabs' on me, has he?
I've been under pretty close surveillance.

Tell me why.  " "The surveillance isn't constant.  It was at first, to
establish your routine.  Now it's just often enough to make certain
you're okay and to see if anything's changed.  " "Tell me why you've
wasted Agency time and manpower like that.  " She had to raise her
voice because he was down the hall checking the bedrooms.

"I haven't.  Frank used a private agency.  " Before, she had been
irritated and disbelieving, now she was downright astounded.  She
slammed the door with a thud.

"You paid for a private agency to watch me?  For God's sake, Tucker, if
you wanted to know, why didn't you just pick up the phone and call?  "
He was coming back up the dark hall toward her.  Because he was wearing
black, he was difficult to see, only his face and bare arms and hands
made him visible.  Part of it was the way he moved, she thought
absently.  He was fluid, noiseless, you had to rely only on your eyes
to detect him, because he was utterly silent.

"John, " he said.

"What?  " "You called me Tucker.  My name is John.  " i_ .

He stood directly in front of her, so close she could feel the animal
heat generated by their run, smell the hot odors of sweat and man.  She
took a step back and tilted her head so she could look at his face.  "I
haven't quite adjusted yet.  You were Tucker to me for five years,
whether or not I ever saw you.  You've been Medina for less than
twelve hours.  " "Not Medina.  John.  Call me by my first name.  " He
seemed strangely intent on this name business, standing motionless, his
gaze fastened on her face.  "All right, John' it is.

I'll probably slip, though, especially when I get pissed at you-which
so far is averaging at least once an hour.  " He grinned, and she
wondered if it was because he so easily irritated her or because she
had said pissed.  What did the man think she was, a nun?  He was going
to make her uncomfortable if he kept laughing every time she said
something the least bit blue.

She poked him in the chest with one finger.  It was like poking a steel
plate, with no give beneath the skin.  "Since you'll be using another
name when we get to France, shouldn't I be getting used to calling you
that?  What if I slip up then?  " "I'll be careful not to piss you off.
" "You aren't going to tell me?  " she asked incredulously.

"Not yet.  " She pushed past him.  "I'm going to take a shower.  Lock
the door behind you when you leave.  " She fumed as she showered. There
was no reason for him not to give her his cover name.  He just loved
being contrary and secretive, though it was such a habit for him now he
probably didn't realize--no, of course he realized.  He did everything
deliberately, she had noticed that about him in Iran.

It followed, then, that he had intentionally revealed his own , f name,
rather than being so surprised to see her that he blurted it out.

John Medina didn't blurt out anything.  He couldn't have lived this
long if he did.  The question was--why?  He could have posed as Tucker,
and she would never have known any differently.  Mentally shrugging,
she put the question aside.  Who knew why Medina did anything?

She took her time in the bathroom, indulging in her morning ritual of
moisturizing her skin, then smoothing on a body oil with a subtle scent
that lingered all day.  She didn't have to be at work until nine, so
she didn't have to hurry.  That was one reason she got up so early, she
didn't like rushing around and arriving at work already frazzled.

Of course, she usually got more sleep than she had last night, but Me
dina hadn't left until well past her normal bedtime.

Going into her bedroom, she took out a matching navy blue set of
underwear, but only put on the panties.  She wore a bra while she was
jogging and at work, but didn't bother while she was at home.  She put
on her terry-cloth robe and snugly belted it, pulled her wet hair out
from under the shawl collar, and walked barefoot down the hall to the
kitchen to see if the coffee Medina had made was still drinkable.

He was sitting at the island bar, drinking coffee, much as he had been
before.  She checked only briefly, then went to the coffee pot and
poured herself a cup.  "I thought you were leaving.  " "Why?  " She
turned to face him, leaning against the cabinet and cradling the cup in
her hand.  His hair was wet, she noticed.

"I used your other bathroom for a shower, " he said.  "Hope you don't
mind.  I had to put these clothes back on, though.  " "No, I don't
mind.  But I still thought you were leaving.  I have to go to work.  "
"No, you don't.  You're on indefinite leave.  " .  . = She sipped her
coffee, hiding her shock--and, yes, her irritation.  "That's news to
me.  " "Frank took care of it last night.  Until this job is finished,
you're mine.  " She didn't know if she liked the sound of that.  A
funny little pang tightened her stomach.  She took refuge in her coffee
again, hiding her expression.

He looked so pantherish and male, dressed all in black, lounging at his
ease in her cheerful kitchen.  The T-shirt he wore clung to him,
revealing the breadth of his shoulders and the flatness of his
stomach.

He was tall and lean, but more muscular than he looked when wearing
street clothes.  He had meant his words one way, but his physical
presence was so strong she couldn't stop herself from a brief sexual
speculation.  Did his stamina extend to lovemaking?  If so .  . .
wow.

Immediately she pulled her thoughts away from that direction, nothing
but trouble there.  "So what am I supposed to do with my time until
we're ready to leave?  When do we leave, anyway?  " she asked
briskly.

"About a week.  It takes time to set up a cover as foolproof as yours
will be.  In the meantime, we train.  How are you with a handgun and
self-defense?  " "Rusty.  " "Have you had any formal self-defense
training?  " "No.  Just a rape-prevention course, the usual
self-defense stuff.  " And the rudimentary training Dallas had begun
with her, but that was five years ago, and she hadn't kept it up.

"Okay.  We won't have time for anything in-depth, but in a week's time
I can have you at a level where you can hold your own with most men.
You're in good shape already, so that helps.  " Great.  It looked as if
she was going to be in his com pan nonstop for a week.  She sighed and
took a skillet out of the cabinet.  "I'm not doing anything else until
I eat.  What do you want for breakfast?  " "Take your pick, " Medina
said, indicating the small arsenal he had laid out on a bench.  They
were in a private firing range, used by CIA personnel.  The huge, barn
like building was empty except for the two of them.

It wasn't anything fancy, having been built more for use than looks.
The far wall of the range was stacked with sand bags and bales of hay,
so no rounds of ammunition went through the walls to do damage to
anything or anyone outside.  The walls themselves were lined with what
looked like pegboard, to contain the noise.  Big industrial lights hung
overhead, but they were individually controlled so that the lighting
conditions could be adjusted He indicated the first weapon.

"This is a Colt .  45.  It's a heavy-duty cannon, with a lot of
stopping power.  The next one is a Smith & Wesson .  357 revolver.
Again, it's pretty heavy.  But they're both as reliable as the sun, so
you might want to practice with them.  I wouldn't recommend them for
regular use, though, because of the weight.  You need something
lighter.  " He indicated the other weapons.  "The next one is a SIG
Sauer P226, 9mm.  It's my personal favorite.  The other automatic is an
H&IC P9S.  It's half a pound lighter than the Colt, and H&IC makes a
fine weapon.  You can't go wrong with either one.  " Niema studied the
handguns, then picked each one up in turn.  The two revolvers were so
heavy she could barely aim them.  The H&IC was more manageable, but for
sheer ease of handling the SIG suited her much better.

"Looks like the SIG is going to be my favorite, too.  " She wasn't an
expert with firearms, but neither was she a rank beginner.  Dallas had
been constitutionally unable to bear a wife who didn't know how to fire
a weapon, so he had taught her the basics and insisted she practice.
But that was five years ago, and she hadn't been on a firing range
since.

"The SIG doesn't have a thumb safety, " he said.  "That lever on the
left side of the frame is the de cocking lever.  Never, ever lower the
hammer except with the de cocking lever.  Some SIGs are double-action
and won't have the lever, but you need to get used to using it.  "
"It's awkward, " she said after a minute spent familiarizing herself
with the lever.  "I can't work it without shifting my grip.  " "Try
using your left thumb.  I learned to shoot it left-handed because I ran
into the same problem.  " She slid a glance at him.  "Accurately?  "
"Of course, " he said coolly.  "Or I wouldn't do it.  " "Pardon me for
insulting your manhood.  " "My manhood isn't connected to my weapon,
honey.  " She bit the inside of her lip to hold back any rejoinders.

That particular subject could rapidly get into dangerous waters.

A surprising amount of expertise returned as soon as she handled the
weapon.  She put a clip in the SIG, and Medina set the first
man-shaped target at ten yards.

"Is that all?  " she asked, wondering whether or not she should be
insulted.

"Most situations where you would use a handgun are fairly close
quarters, and things happen fast, in five seconds or less.

Work on your accuracy before you start worrying about distance.

Anything much over thirty yards and you'd be better off with a rifle or
shotgun, anyway.  " "How do we get our weapons on board the plane?  "
"We don't.  I could, but it would attract too much attention.

I'll get them once we're in France.  By the way, we won't be traveling
together.  " She nodded, put on her headset, and raised the pistol.
Dallas had taught her the point-and-shoot method, studies had found
that people were very accurate in pointing at something, but when they
tried to aim a weapon the mechanics of doing so somehow interfered with
that natural ability.  The idea was not to aim, but simply to point.

Medina's arms came around her from behind, his hands closing over hers
and making minute adjustments in her grip.

"Gently squeeze the trigger, " he murmured, his voice coming through
the headset.

She took a deep breath and slowly let it out, the way Dallas had taught
her.  When she had exhaled about half, she stopped and squeezed the
trigger.  The weapon jumped in her hands as if it was alive, the barrel
recoiling upward from the released energy.  With the headset protecting
her ears, the shot was a flattened crack, like a board popping.  Smoke
and cordite burned her nostrils.  Without a word she steadied the
weapon, took a breath, and shot again.

This time Medina braced her wrists with his own hands, but this time
she was more prepared for the recoil.  She didn't fight it, but let her
forearms absorb the shock.

"Good, " Medina said, and let his arms drop from around her.

Taking her time, not rushing her shots, she emptied the clip at the
target.  When the clip was empty, per Medina's previous instructions,
she removed the empty dip and slapped a new one in.

While she was doing that he called up a new target and set this one at
twenty yards.  She shot all the bullets in that clip, too.

Afterward he pulled the targets up for examination.

On the first target, out of a fifteen-shot clip, she had scored two
rounds in the head, one in the neck, and five in the chest.  "Only
eight, " she said in disgust.  "Barely over fifty percent.  " "This
isn't a marksmanship competition, so don't try to be Annie Oakley.  And
look at it this way, With the other seven bullets, you probably scared
the hell out of whoever was standing beside the target.  " She had to
laugh, even if it was ruefully.  "Thanks a lot.  " "You're welcome.
Take a look at the second target.  " The second target made her feel
better.  With both targets she had tried to divide her shots equally
between the head and chest.  It hadn't worked very well with the first
target, and in one way she didn't approve much, only three shots went
into the head.  But eight shots were clustered in the chest area,
meaning she had made all of those shots.

She told John what she'd been trying to do.  "Forget the head, " he
advised.  "In a tense situation, the chest is a much bigger target.

You don't have to kill someone, just stop him.

Now let's switch to another weapon.  " "Why?  " "Because you never know
what will be available.  You need to be able to use whatever is at
hand.  " He made it sound like she was going to make a career of this,
she thought grumpily.  But she moved to the H&IC as instructed and went
through the same exercise.  She ran into trouble with both the Colt and
Smith & Wesson, though.  The pistols were so heavy it took all her
strength, using both hands, to hold her wrists steady.  The first shot
with the .  357 jarred her teeth.

Medina stepped behind her then, wrapping his hands around her wrists
and adding his strength to hers.  "Unless .  , you're with me, I'm not
going to be much good with these, " she said between gritted teeth.

"You're doing okay.  Just take your time between shots.  " She not only
had to take her time, she had to work up her nerve.

Now she knew why the big pistols were called hand cannons.  She didn't
make all her shots with them, either, but the ones that hit tore
impressive holes in the cardboard targets.  Afterward she had to
massage her forearms to relax the muscles.

"That's enough for today, " he said, taking note of her action.

"Your arms will be sore if you keep on.  " "Stopping suits me fine, "
she muttered.  "I guess I'm not Rambo, either.  " "Who is?  " he asked
dryly.

She laughed as she worked the kinks out of her shoulders.

"What's next?  " "A workout, if you're up to it.  " She gave him a wary
look.  "What kind of workout?  " "The kind where I teach you how to
take care of yourself.  " "I'll have you know I already take vitamins
and moisturize my skin.  " "Smart ass.  " He chuckled as he looped a
companionable arm around her shoulders.  "We're going to make a great
team.  " "A great temporary team, " she corrected, ignoring the sudden
thumping of her heart.  No way was she going back into this full-time,
or even part-time.  This was a one-shot deal.

He let her have the last word, but she saw the self-satisfied quirk to
his mouth, quickly smoothe out, that told her he planned otherwise. And
that was almost as worrying as the job itself.

To her relief, he took it easy on her during the workout.  The gym he
took her to wasn't a gym at all, but an abandoned barn thirty miles
south of D. C. Nevertheless, it was equipped with both weight machines
and free weights, punching bags, what looked like g, vmnastic
equipment, and a big, blue, three-inch thick foam mat.

"That isn't thick enough, " she pronounced.

"It's thick enough.  I'm not going to be dropping you on your head.  "
He kicked off his shoes.

"It's my butt I'm worried about.  " Following his example, she took off
her own shoes.

"I promise I'll take good care of your butt.  " He was as good as his
word.  The workout didn't involve getting tossed around or twisted into
a pretzel.  "Rule one, Don't try to take anyone down, " he said.  "You
aren't good enough.

The best you can hope to do is get away, so that's what we'll
concentrate on.  You have the advantage of surprise on your side,
because you're small--" "I am not.  " He cast his eyes toward the
cavernous ceiling.  "You're smaller than most men, " he amended.

"But I'm wiry.  " He laughed then.  "Okay, you're wiry.  Where, I don't
know, but I'll take your word for it.  But you look--" This time she
was the one who rolled her eyes.  "I know, like an angel.  " "You don't
like that, huh?  Then let's say you look like a lady.

You look as if you've never been dirty, never sweated, never swore.  "
"Strike three, you're out, " she muttered.

"And you don't look nearly as contrary as you are.  " "I'm not
contrary, I'm accurate.  " .  = "As I was saying .  . . " He grinned
down at her.  "You look like a cream puff.  An angelic, ladylike cream
puff.  So any guy who grabs you isn't going to be expecting you to do
anything except maybe cry.  " Deciding she'd bedeviled him enough for
now, she shrugged her shoulders back and forth, loosening them.  "Okay,
so teach me how to make him cry.  " "I'll be satisfied with just
teaching you how to get away.  " Courtesy of the rape-prevention class
she'd taken, she already knew some of the basic stuff.  John refreshed
her on many of the moves, how to break the hold of someone who grabbed
you from the front--you brought your arms up hard and fast inside your
assailant's.  A quick, stiff-arm jab of the palm up and into someone's
nose might not kill him, though it could if done hard enough, but it
would certainly cause him pain.  So would slapping your cupped palms
over his ears, a move designed to rupture the ear drums.  A jab of
stiffened fingers into the eyes or throat was disabling.

He showed her the most vulnerable place on the throat for crushing the
trachea.  Without immediate help, someone with a crushed trachea would
die.  Even if she couldn't manage crushing power, the blow, done
properly, would disable.

They moved around on the mat, into different positions and scenarios.
By necessity, the drill was close contact.  Niema forced herself to
ignore the sensations generated by having John's tall, hard-muscled
body against hers, his arms wrapped around her in various holds as he
patiently instructed her on how to break those holds.

They both worked up a sweat, and he kept at it until she was panting
for breath.

"Would it help if I cried uncle?  " she finally asked.

"We can stop any time you want, " he said, surprised.

"Great.  Now you tell me.  " "I don't want to make you sore.  We need
to train every day, to build up your strength and stamina, and we can't
if your muscles are too sore to work.  " He actually looked worried, so
Niema said, "No, I don't think I'll be sore, but I'm still ready for a
break.  " "There's some water in the fridge over there.  I'm going to
work with the weights while you rest.  " She fetched a bottle of cold
water from the rusty refrigerator standing in the corner and settled
down on the mat to watch.

He stripped off his T-shirt and tossed it aside.  Quickly she looked
away and drank more water.  Seeing a man without his shirt was nothing
out of the ordinary, but still .  . . this was John Medina, and he
wasn't ordinary.

She stretched out on the mat and closed her eyes, so she wouldn't give
in to the temptation to stare at him.  There couldn't be anything
between them except the job.  He was black ops, she was nine-to-five,
two totally opposite lifestyles.

Still, for a dizzying moment she thought of indulging in a brief affair
with him.

What would it be like?  She had enjoyed being with him today, even when
he annoyed her.  He challenged her, just by being himself.  She was
tired, but she could feel life coursing through her veins in a way it
hadn't done in a long, long time.

Had he done that, or was it the prospect of being back in action?

Or was he irrevocably bound up in that action, so that she couldn't
separate the two?

Her entire body felt sensitized after that workout with him.

His forearms had brushed her nipples several times.  His hands had been
on her legs, her hips.  His body had slid against hers, and several
times, while they grappled, one of his legs had been between hers.

She rolled over onto her stomach and cradled her head on her arms.

John Medina had

"Danger Zone" written all over him, and for her own sake she should pay
attention to the sign.  She was already risking more than she could
afford to lose.

"Time to get back to work, cream puff, " he called from where he was
doing bench presses.

"Cream puff, my ass, " she snapped, and rolled to her feet.

Chapter nine.

Villa de Ron sard, the South of France Louis Ron sard trusted in
nothing he couldn't see, and very little that he could.  Trust, in Jhis
experience, was a commodity with too high a price.

Even when he trusted, there were degrees, He trusted his sister,
Mariette, to never deliberately do anything to hurt him, but she could
sometimes be as foolish as she was lovely, so he trusted her with
nothing that concerned his business.  By necessity, he trusted a select
few of his employees with some details of the business, but he made
frequent checks on their financial and personal lives to detect any
weakness that might pose a danger to him.  His employees were forbidden
to use drugs, for example, but Ron sard was under no delusion that
j_.

just because he said it, it was so.  So .  . . drug tests for all the
employees, from the lowest to the highest.

He was aware that he walked a knife edge of danger.  The people with
whom he dealt on a daily basis were not upstanding citizens.  In his
opinion, they were either fanatic or psychotic, or both.  He had yet to
be able to tell which was the most unstable.  I There was only one way
one could deal with such people, very cautiously.

He would not accept commissions from just anyone.  The maniac who
wanted to explode a bomb in a school as a protest for world peace was
not going to purchase that bomb or the materials through him.  Even in
the world of terrorists there must be standards, no?  Ron sard required
an established organization, which would need his services again and so
was not likely to turn on him.

For his part, he was absolutely scrupulous in delivering what he had
promised.  He took nothing for himself except the agreed payment.

His own value, he knew, depended on his reliability.  To that end, he
went to extraordinary lengths to make certain nothing went wrong with
any shipment, no matter how small.  His business had flourished as a
result, and his bank accounts in Switzerland and the Cayman Islands
were .  . .

healthy.

Because he was so careful, anything out of the ordinary made him wary.
Such was the phone call he received that morning on his private line,
the number only a very few people knew.

"So, " he murmured to himself as he leaned back in his chair and rolled
a fragrant cigar, taken from an inlaid sandalwood box on his desk, in
his fingers.

"So?  " Cara Smith, his secretary and aide--his first aide, as she
liked to call herself--looked up from the computer she was using to
track his various investments.  He had been surprised, when he had her
investigated, to discover her name really was Smith, and that she was
from the unlikely named Waterloo, ICansas, which had given her the
opportunity over the years to make some dreadful puns at his expense.

"We have a request from an .  . . unexpected party.  " Cara, of all
people, knew how much he disliked the unexpected.

But she also knew him, better than was sometimes comfortable, and
immediately saw his interest.  Something intrigued him, or he would
have immediately refused the commission.

She swiveled her chair toward him and crossed her long legs.

Since Cara was six feet tall, they were very long legs indeed.

"And the name is .  . . ?  " "Temple.  " Her cornflower blue eyes
widened.  "Wow.  " She was so American, he thought, so adept in the
inelegant phrase.

"Wow, indeed.  " Temple, known only by the one name, was a shadow in
the already murky world of terrorists.  His name had been whispered in
connection with some assassinations, with certain bombings.  He did not
choose his targets at random, for the sake of creating terror.  He
might bring down an airplane, but one person on that flight was his
specific target.  It was unknown whether he belonged to some even more
shadowy organization or if he worked for himself.  If for himself, no
one knew what his agenda was.  Temple was an enigma.

Ron sard didn't like enigmas.  He liked to know exactly with whom, and
what, he was dealing.

"What does he want?  " "The RDX-a.  " To his relief, she didn't say
"wow" again.  Nor did she ask the obvious, How did Temple even know
about RDX-a?  It had been tested only a week before, and though the
compound had performed as it was supposed to, its existence was still
known to only a few.  There were a few problems in production that were
currently being eliminated, such as the tendency of some batches to
decompose at an accelerated rate, with unpleasant results for the
handler.  It was a delicate balancing act, to stabilize an unstable
compound just enough to be able to predict its rate of decomposition,
without rendering it too stable to perform.

"Find every available bit of information on Temple, " he said.  "I want
to know what he looks like, where he was born-everything.  " "Are you
going to accept the commission?  " "It depends.  " Ron sard lit the
cigar, dedicating himself, for a few pleasurable seconds, to the
ritual.  When the end was glowing to his satisfaction he savored the
subtle vanilla taste on his tongue.  He would have to change his
clothing before seeing Laure, she loved the smell of his cigars, but
the smoke wasn't good for her.

Cara had already turned back to her computer and was rapidly typing in
commands.  Computers were something else he didn't trust, so none of
his records were on the one Cara used, which was connected to that
invisible electronic world the Americans called the Web.  There were
encryption programs, of course, but they were constantly being
broken.

Teenagers hacked into the Pentagon's most secure files, corporations
spent billions in computer security that leaked like a sieve.  The only
secure computer, in his opinion, was one that wasn't connected to
anything else--like the one on his desk, where he kept his records.  As
an added precaution he regularly changed his password, to a word chosen
at random from the dog-eared volume of Dickens's A Tale of Two Cities
that he always kept on his desk.  He actually read the thing from time
to time, though more to keep Cara from being suspicious about its
presence than from any actual interest in the book.

He would turn down the page from which he had chosen his password and
leave the book lying out in the open as if it were of no importance.

His system wasn't perfect.  He changed the password so often that
sometimes he forgot which word he had chosen, hence the turned-down
page.  He could always recognize the word once he saw it, if he was on
the correct page.

"Where's Temple from?  " Cara asked.  "I'm not finding anything on him
using a broad search.  I need a closer focus.  " "America, I think, but
I've heard rumors he had lived in Europe for at least ten years.  Try
Scotland Yard.  " She sighed as she tapped keys.  "This is going to get
me arrested some day, " she grumbled.

Ron sard smiled.  He did enjoy Cara, she knew exactly what his business
entailed but managed to maintain the same attitude as if she worked in
a corporate office somewhere.  Nor was she intimidated by him, and
though a certain amount of intimidation was necessary in his chosen
field, sometimes it was wearying.

Nor had she fallen in love with him, which was fortunate.

Ron sard knew women, knew the effect he had on them, but Cara had
bluntly told him that though she liked him she wasn't interested in
sleeping with him.  That, too, had been a relief.

She slept with other men, most recently his Egyptian bodyguard, Hossam,
who had been obsessed with the tall blonde woman from the day he first
saw her.  Ron sard only hoped Hossam wouldn't lose control of his
Middle-Eastern temperament when his American Norse goddess lost
interest in him.

"Damn, " she muttered and typed furiously.  The Scotland Yard computer
was giving her problems, he concluded.

"Damn!  " she shouted a minute later and slapped the monitor.  "The
bastards have added a wrinkle--" She began muttering to herself as she
tried to electronically wriggle into the Scotland Yard database.

Ron sard waited, puffing on his cigar.  Cara's mutterings were only
half intelligible, thank God, because as she worked her language
deteriorated alarmingly.

"Shitpissfuck--" His eyebrows rose as she got up and stalked around the
office, swearing under her breath and waving her hands in the air as
she appeared to be having a conversation with herself.

"Okay, what if I try this, " she finally muttered and resumed her seat
to pound out another series of commands.

Ten minutes later she sat back with a blissful expression on her face.
"Outsmarted the sons of bitches, " she crowed.  "Okay, let's see what
you have on Temple, first name unl<nown.  " A file popped on the
screen.  Cara hit the print button, and the printer whirred to life,
spitting out a single sheet of paper.

"That isn't much, " Ron sard murmured as she got up and brought the
sheet to him.  "Try the FBI, if he's American, they may have more on
him.  " He began reading.  Scotland Yard didn't have many hard facts on
Temple.  "Believed" to have worked with BaaderMeinhoff in Germany.

"Believed" to have been associated with Basque Fatherland in Spain.

"Believed" to have had contact with the IRA.  Evidently Scotland Yard
"believed" a lot of things about Temple and knew very little.

Temple was either American or Canadian, believed--that word again--to
be between the ages of thirty-five and forty five.  No known place of
residence.

As sketchy as the information was, at least it gave him a place to
begin, Ron sard thought.  He had contacts throughout Europe.  If anyone
in either of the three organizations mentioned had any knowledge of
Temple, he--Ron sard--would shortly be in possession of the same.

Cara was muttering and swearing her way through the process of gaining
access to the FBI's database.  When he heard the triumphant "Aha!  " he
knew she had succeeded.

"Well, kiss my ass, we got us a photo!  " she said in astonishment.

"Not a good one, his face is half-hidden, but it's something.  " Ron
sard left his desk to cross the room and lean over Cara's chair,
peering at the computer screen.  "Can you enhance it?  " he asked,
studying the grainy, blurred picture that showed a dark-haired man
about to get into a car.

"I can enhance what we have, but nothing will show what the camera
didn't get, which is half his face.  " "He's wearing a ring on his left
hand.  A wedding band?  " Interesting, Ron sard thought.  Not that
Temple might be married, things like that happened, even in the
terrorists' world.

But for him to wear such a conventional symbol as a wedding band was
amusing.

The photo showed a dark-haired man, fairly tall, given the scale of the
car beside him.  His face was turned partially away from the camera,
giving a good view of his left ear.  The photograph could have been
taken anywhere, no license plates were visible on any of the cars, even
the make of the car was impossible to tell.  The red brick building in
the background was equally anonymous, without any helpful lettering or
a convenient sign to give a hint of the location.

_.

"I'll print out the information for you to read while I work on
enhancing this, " Cara said and set the printer to working.

The FBI had more information than Scotland Yard, which illustrated
exactly how closely the two bureaus worked.  What information the FBI
had on an international terrorist, Interpol was supposed to have.  What
Interpol had, Scotland Yard should have.  That was the whole purpose of
Interpol.  The FBI had been holding back, and he wondered why.

"Temple, " he silently read.  "First name Josef, or Joseph.

Birthplace unknown.  First identified in Tucson, Arizona, in 1987.

Disappeared, resurfaced in 1992 in Berlin.  Brown hair, blue eyes.

Identifying marks or scars, left scapula, a diagonal scar approximately
four inches long, believed to have been made by a knife or other sharp
object.  " ICnifed in the back, Ron sard thought.  Mr.  Temple had
indeed lived an interesting life.

"Subject wanted for questioning regarding 1987 bombing of courthouse in
Tucson, Arizona, 1992 hijacking of NATO munitions truck in Italy--" Ron
sard's eyebrows rose.  He thought he had a sure finger on the pulse of
his chosen world, but he hadn't heard anything about the NATO
hijacking.  The list went on.  In all, the FBI wanted Temple for
questioning in fifteen separate incidents.

Temple was thought to be an independent, with no known affiliation with
any one organization.  He was a hired weapon, Ron sard thought, he
didn't kill for pleasure or for himself, but for whoever bought his
services, which would not be cheap.

From the list of incidents for which he was the main suspect, none of
the targets were "soft.  " All of them were difficult, and the more
difficult, the more expensive.

Who was paying him this time?  Who had heard of RDX-a and hired Temple
to procure it?  Why hadn't he--or they-S I simply approached him
themselves, instead of using Temple as a go-between?  It had to be
someone with a lot to lose if they became known.

"It isn't a wedding ring, " Cara announced, printing out the photo.

Ron sard picked up the sheet as soon as the printer spat it out.

She was correct, the ring seemed to have a peculiar braided design,
like a dozen tiny entwined gold ropes.  No, not ropes--snakes.  That
looked like a snake head on the ring.

And Mr.  Temple's left ear was pierced.  The gold hoop in it was
discreet, but the photo enhancement plainly revealed it.

The people or person behind Mr.  Temple were careful, sending him out
to do their work while they remained safely in the background.

But Ron sard was just as wary, just as cautious.  He didn't deal with
anyone he didn't know.

"I think I want to meet the elusive Mr.  Temple, " he murmured.

ES Chapter ten.

McLean, Virginia >' yiema hit the alarm on the clock before it \ could
go off, got up, and dressed in her Ss running outfit, did her usual
routine in the bathroom, and sauntered into the kitchen.  As she
expected, Medina was sitting at his usual place at the island bar,
sipping coffee.

"Very funny, " he growled, and she laughed.

"Don't pout.  You got in anyway, didn't you?  " "Yeah, but I had to
climb in through the laundry-room window.

Very undignified.  " And very silent, she thought, she was a light
sleeper, but she hadn't heard a thing.  "I suppose you bypassed the
alarm on the window, too.  " .  = "No, I disabled the entire thing. 
Get one that works off infrared or motion, not contact.  " She scowled
at him.  The alarm system had set her back over a thousand bucks, and
now he was proposing she spend another two thousand.  "Why don't I just
do the same thing to all my windows and doors that I did to the back
door? Low tech seems to work where high tech doesn't.  " "Both would be
good.  " He grinned and lifted his cup in salute.

"That was a good idea.  " "Low tech" was a good description of what she
had done to her back door.  She bought two ordinary hook and latch sets
at a hardware store, installed the first one in the usual manner with
the eye screwed into the frame while the hook was mounted on the door.
Then she had turned the second one upside down, butted it up against
the first one, and installed it with the eye screwed into the door and
the hook mounted on the frame.

With only a single hook latched, anyone with a credit card, knife, or
any other thin object could slip it in the crack and force the hook up,
freeing it from the eye.  With two hooks, one upside down, that method
wouldn't work.  If you slid the credit card up from the bottom, you hit
the upside down latch and pushed the hook into the eye, instead of out
of it.  If you came down from the top, you were pushing down on the
upper latch, with the same results.

Of course, someone who was very strong or who had a battering ram could
knock the door off its hinges, but that wasn't a very quiet way of
breaking and entering.  She was inordinately pleased that her simple
solution had stymied him.

When they left the house, instead of turning right, toward the park, Me
dina turned left.

"The park's in the other direction, " Niema said as she caught up and
fell into step beside him.

"We ran there yesterday.  " "Does this mean you never run the same
route twice, or just that you're easily bored?  " "Bored, " he said
easily.  "I have the attention span of a gnat.  " "Liar.  " His only
response was a grin, and they ran in silence then, down the deserted
street.  There were no stars visible overhead, and the weather felt
damp, as if it might rain.  Her forearms were a little sore from all
that shooting the day before, but other than that she felt great.  Her
thigh muscles stretched as they ran, and she felt her blood begin to
zing through her veins as her heartbeat increased.

They had been running for half an hour when a car turned a corner onto
their street, heading straight for them.  It was rolling slow, as if
looking for something.

John looped his right arm around her waist and whirled her behind a
tree.  She bit back her instinctive cry and barely got her hands out to
brace herself before he crushed her against the tree trunk, holding her
there with the hard pressure of his body.  She saw the dull glint of
metal in his left hand.  She held her breath and pressed her cheek even
harder into the rough bark of the tree.

'4Two men, " he said in an almost inaudible whisper, his breath
stirring the hair at her temple.  "They're probably from the private
agency Frank hired.  " "Probably?  Don't you know?  " "No, I don't know
your surveillance schedule, and they don't know I'm here.  They're
probably looking for you since you aren't on your usual route.  " The
thought of having a "surveillance schedule" was annoying.

Equally annoying was the realization of how many times over the past
few years cars had passed by her in the early morning hours and she
hadn't thought anything of it, except to watch, with a woman's natural
wariness, until the cars had f turned the corner and disappeared.  She
had been so oblivious she was embarrassed.  She should have been more
alert.  la The bark was scratching her cheek, and her breasts were
being crushed.  "Ease up, " she panted.  "You're squashing me.  " .

He moved about an inch, but it helped.  He remained behind the tree
until the car was a block away, then lifted himself away from her.

She grunted as she pushed away from the tree.  "If they're ours, why
don't we just let them see us?  " He resumed his steady stride, and she
took up her place beside him.  "Because I'm not positive they're ours,
for one thing.  For another, I don't want them to see me, much less see
me with you.  " "Some bodyguards they are anyway, " she grumbled,
"letting you break into my house two mornings in a row.  " "They
weren't there when I arrived.  They must be on a drive-by.  " "Why
don't you just tell Mr.  Vi nay to call off the surveillance for now?
That would be the most logical thing to do.

Then, if anyone drove by, we'd know they aren't ours.  " "I may do
that.  " The car must have just circled the block.  It turned onto the
street again.  "Pretend to chase me and let's see if they'll shoot you,
" Niema said, and put on a burst of speed, knowing the car's headlights
couldn't yet pick her out.  She barely contained a giggle at Medina's
soft curse behind her.  She had taken three steps when a heavy weight
hit her in the back and two arms wrapped around her, dragging her down.
They landed on the soft grass beside the sidewalk, with her on her
stomach and him on top of her.  In the pre-dawn darkness, no one was
likely to see them unless they were moving.

He held her down, despite her wriggles and erupting giggles, until the
car had passed by again.  "You little witch, " he said breathlessly, as
if he were trying to hold back his own laughter.

"Are you trying to get me killed?  " "Just keeping you on your toes, Me
dina.  " "On my belly is more like it, " he grumbled, climbing to his
feet and hauling her upright.  "What if someone looked out their window
and called the cops?  " "We'd be long gone.  And if we weren't, I'd
just say I stumbled and you tried to catch me.  No problem.  " "I hope
you're having fun, " he growled.

A little startled, she realized she was having fun.  For the first time
in a long while she felt as if there was some purpose to her life, as
if she had something important to do.  No matter how interesting her
work with surveillance devices was, bench testing circuits didn't give
her a kick.

But she felt alive now, rejuvenated, as if she had been existing in
some sort of half-life for the past five years.  She had kept up her
running all this time, but until yesterday she hadn't been aware of the
workings of her muscles, the pumping of her blood.  She enjoyed
sparring with Medina, both verbally and physically.  She wasn't a gun
fanatic, but she had also enjoyed learning about the different
handguns, learning how they felt in her hand, learning her own limits
and then stretching those limits.  She wanted to know more, do more, be
more.

This was the danger of fieldwork.  She had known the lure, resisted it
for five years, but now the excitement was flowing through her veins
like a potent drug.  She didn't know whether to hate Medina or thank
him for dragging her back into this.

Was five years' penance enough?  Would a hundred years be enough to
empty the guilt and anguish she felt over Dallas?

Her stride faltered as she thought of the times they had jogged
together, afterward they had showered together, then fallen into bed
and made love.

Would Dallas have been attracted to the woman she had been for those
five years, the woman she had made herself become?  Or would he have
been bored by the insistence on structure and security, the lack of
risk?  She was afraid she knew the answer.  Dallas had been a risk
taker, for all his low key persona, he'd been a man who thrived on
challenge and danger.  Why else would he have become a SEAL, then a
contract agent?  What had attracted him most to her, and she to him,
was the instinctive knowledge that they were alike.

Medina was the same type of man, only more so.  Alarm bells, suddenly
loud and clear, shrilled in her head.  It was one thing to allow
herself to be sucked back into the heady world of espionage and
contract work, but letting herself develop feelings for another man in
that same world was something else entirely.

She would have to keep her guard up, because emotions could boil over
in such high-stress situations.  And Medina was an attractive man,
more than attractive, really.  If he ever let his guard down, he'd be
devastating.  He seemed relaxed with her, but not once had he let any
personal details slip.  She knew nothing about him.

She had already felt warning twinges of physical attraction during the
close contact required by training.  A woman would have to be dead not
to notice that lean, rock-hard body, especially when he was pressed
against her.

Was that why she had teased him about making the surveillance team
think he was chasing her, so he would catch her and hold her?  In a
flash of self-awareness, she realized she had been flirting with him.

Uh-oh, she thought.  She'd have to be more careful in the future.

."s What future?  This was a one-time thing, wasn't it?  They would
work together briefly just this once, then she would return to her
safe, familiar job and he would disappear again.

"Are you ready to pack it in?  " She glanced at the luminous dial of
her wristwatch, they had already been running for over an hour. Luckily
they hadn't gone in a straight line, or it would have taken them
another hour to get back to her house, they had circled blocks and
backtracked several times, so they were no more than half a mile from
home.  Dawn was close, so close that details were clearly visible now.
"What if the surveillance team is still looking for me?  " "They had
better be, or--" He didn't finish the sentence, but she could guess
what he had meant to say, Or they would be looking for another job.

"They'll see you, " she pointed out.

"I'll split off and let you go home alone.  Once they see you're safely
home, they'll break off surveillance.  " "What else is on the agenda
today?  More target practice?  " "That and more self-defense training.
" With her new insight into herself, she didn't know if close contact
training with him was such a good idea.  "I thought only the basics
were necessary.  " "We might as well do something with our time.  Who
knows?  It may come in handy some day.  By the way, some boxes will be
delivered to you today.  It's a new wardrobe, jewelry, things you'll
need.  " "Why do I need a new wardrobe?  " "It's part of the cover.
You'll be attending embassy parties, posing as the daughter of old
friends of the ambassador.  " She would be playing dress-up, Niema
thought with amusement.  She looked forward to that part of the job.
Like most women, she liked good clothes and the thrill of knowing she
looked good.

"Try everything on, " he continued.  "The clothes have to fit
perfectly.  What doesn't will be replaced or altered.  " "They can't be
returned if they're altered.  " "Don't worry about it, you can keep
them.  " He looked around.

"This is where I leave you.  See you in five minutes.  " He peeled off
to the right, his stride lengthening as if he hadn't already been
running for over an hour.  He cut between two houses, jumped a fence,
and disappeared from view.

Niema turned on the afterburners.  Her thighs ached from the effort,
but she pushed harder, her feet pounding.  It was silly to compete with
him when they weren't racing, all she had to do was leisurely jog back
to her house and let the surveillance team see her, so they knew she
was all right.  She knew it was silly, she did it anyway.  She fought
to suck air deep into her lungs as she raced down the sidewalk.  Any
one seeing her would think she was running for her life, she thought,
except there was no one behind her.

Up ahead she saw the surveillance car, or at least she thought it was.
She hadn't gotten a good look at it in the dark, but the tail lights
looked the same, and there were two men in it.  The car was parked at
the curb, she blew by it in a dead run, without giving the men so much
as a glance.  When she was twenty yards past them, she heard the car
engine start.

She was two blocks from home.  She ignored the messages her thigh
muscles were screaming at her and forced herself to maintain her
speed.

When she reached her house she pounded across the small front yard and
to the front door.  Out of the corner of her eye she saw the car cruise
past.  She unlocked the door and practically fell inside, gulping in
huge breaths.

She leaned against the wall beside the door, wondering if the goal had
been worth the effort.  Her heart was pounding so hard there was a
roaring in her ears.

Or was there?  She forced herself to breathe regularly, her head tilted
as she listened.

The shower in the second bath was running.

Muttering to herself, she stomped off to take her own shower.

."s Niema faced Medina across the blue foam mat.  "Today I'm going to
show you some strike points, " he said.  "Done properly--and it takes a
lot of practice to do them properly--these are death blows.  " She drew
back and put her hands on her hips, eyeing him suspiciously.  "Why
would I need to know anything like that?

Am I going to be in hand-to-hand combat?  " "If I thought you were, I
wouldn't take you.  This is partly just in case and partly because I
have time on my hands.  " He motioned her forward.  "Come on.  " "You
want to turn me into a trained killer because you're bored?  " That
drew a flashing smile.  "You won't be a trained killer.  At most,
you'll be able to stun someone so you can get away.  I told you it
takes years of practice to do this properly.  The only way you'll kill
someone is if you accidentally get it right.  " Again he motioned for
her.

Warily she approached, but still remained out of his reach.

"Relax, there's no hitting in this session.  I'm just going to show you
some of the points and the striking motions.  " He took a quick step
forward, grabbed her wrist, and dragged her to the middle of the mat
before she could retreat.

"This is part of tai chi.  Actually, it's the basis.  Dim-Mak is
death-point striking, and it involves acupuncture points.

Never, never use it unless it's a life and death situation, because
like I said, you might accidentally get it right.  " He brought her
hand up and caught her fingers, then held them against the outside
corner of his eye.

"Here.  This exact spot.  Feel it.  " "I'm feeling.  " "Even a slight
blow here can do major damage--nausea, memory loss, sometimes death.  "
He showed her how to do the strike, using her fingertips.  Positioning
was important, to get the right angle.  He made her go through the
motion over and over, using himself as a dummy for her to aim at, she
actually hit him once, nothing more than a touch.  He whirled away from
her, bent over from the waist, gagging.

"Oh God, I'm sorry!  " She rushed over to him and put her arms around
his waist as if she could hold him up.  Panic surged in her as she
remembered what he'd said about a slight blow.  "Should I call 911?  "
He shook his head and waved off that suggestion.  He pressed under his
nose, and rubbed from the corner of his eye back toward his ear.

His eyes were watering a little.  "I'm okay, " he said,
straightening.

"Are you sure?  Maybe you should sit down.  " "I'm fine.  Things like
this happen all the time in training.  " "Let's do something else, "
she suggested uneasily.

"Okay, let's move on to the temple--" "I meant like judo.  " "Why, are
you going into professional wrestling?  " His blue eyes were like
lasers, pinning her to the spot.  He caught her hand and brought it to
his temple.  "Here.  Hit hard, straight in.  It's a knock-out point,
and if a vein is ruptured the attacker will die in a day or so.  CPR
might revive him, but he could still die from the hemorrhage.

"Here.  " He moved her hand to just under his nipple.  He showed her
the exact spot, and the positioning of her hands.

"This is instant death--" "I'm not doing it, " she said hotly.  "I am
not going to practice .  , , on you again.

"Good.  " He pressed her hand in the center of his chest, between the
nipples.  A blow here makes the lower body spasm and go stiff, and the
attacker falls down.  Here--" He pulled her hand lower, just below his
sternum.  A correct blow here stops the heart.  " He was relentless.
The gruesome lesson went on and on.  He made her perform the motions
until her hand positioning was correct, but she was adamant about not
using him as a dummy again.  She was still shaken that such a light
touch had been able to produce such a strong reaction, what if she
actually hit him?

Finally, he called a halt.  He had just shown her a couple of strikes
that caused instant diarrhea, and she thought she really should
practice those on a live target.  Medina stepped back, shaking his
head and grinning.

"No way.  You're mad enough at me to do it.  " "Damn right I am.  "
"You'll thank me if you're ever in a tight spot and need to know how to
bring someone down.  " "If that ever happens, I'll make it a point to
find you and let you say I told you so.  But I think I'll practice the
diarrhea strikes instead of the death strikes.  " He walked over to get
one of the bottles of water they had brought with them.  He twisted off
the cap and tilted it up, his strong throat working as he swallowed.
Helplessly, Niema watched him.  Even though she knew she should be wary
and keep a mental, if not a physical, distance, he was a fine specimen
of masculinity and everything in her that was female appreciated the
scenery.  His sweat pants were soft, clinging to his ass and thighs
like a second skin, and that black T-shirt didn't do a thing to hide
the muscular contours of his chest and arms.

Her nipples tingled an alert, and a wave of heat swept-over her.

Clearing her throat, she tore her gaze away from him and turned her
back to do some stretching exercises.  Her legs especially needed the
stretching, after that run this morning.  She would have stretched even
if they hadn't, just to give herself something to do besides think
about John Medina's body.

I have to be careful, she thought.  Very, very careful.

"Ready for target practice?  " he asked behind her.

She groaned and straightened.  What on earth had she gotten herself
into?

Later that night, after a stop at the hardware store where she
purchased their entire stock of hook and eye latches and spent a couple
of hours installing them except on the window in the second bathroom,
which was high and small and she wanted to see if he could get in that
way--she tried on the boxes of clothes that had been delivered.

Everything had a designer label.  The underwear sets were silk, the
hosiery was gossamer.  Each pair of shoes had to have cost upward of
two hundred dollars, and there were over a dozen pairs.  There were
cocktail dresses, evening gowns, smart little suits that showed more
leg than she normally revealed, shorts, camp shirts, lacy camisoles,
jeans, cashmere sweater sets, skirts.  And there was the jewelry, pearl
earrings and a matching necklace, a web of small diamonds that hung on
an illusion chain, gold bracelets and chains, and an enormous,
breathtakingly lovely black opal pendant with matching ear

rings.  She carefully put the opal set back in its box and reached for
a yellow diamond solitaire ring.

The phone rang.  She stretched to reach the receiver, holding the opal
pendant in her hand.  "Hello.  " "Have you looked at the clothes yet? "
"I'm going through them now.  " Funny how he didn't need to identify
himself, she thought.  Though she had never talked to him on the phone
before, she recognized his voice immediately.

"Do they fit?  " "Most of them.  " "I'll have that taken care of
tomorrow.  Have you gotten to the opal pendant yet?  " "I just put it
away.  It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.  " There was a
touch of awe in her voice.

"There's a transmitter behind the stone, hidden between the prongs of
the set.  Be careful and don't jostle it.  See you in the morning.  "
The phone clicked as he hung up.  Slowly she replaced the receiver. His
last words could be taken as a warning, considering his penchant for
breaking into her house.  She smiled, thinking of that small bathroom
window.

"Oh, yes, Mr.  Medina.  I'll definitely see you.  " Chapter eleven.

go, " John said softly, and hung up the % phone.  Ron sard had taken
the bait.  The _ message had gone to a computer in Brussels, as per his
instructions, the message had then been relayed to a computer in
Toronto, which he had accessed using a calling card.  Calling cards
were untraceable, assuming Ron sard would even make the effort.  He
wouldn't expect Temple's name and number to pop up on caller ID, or for
the number to be traceable.

Now he had to finesse the timing.  First he had to bring Niema to Ron
sard's notice and see if she was invited to the villa.  If not, he
would have to adjust his plan.  But if Niema bagged the invitation, he
didn't want to arrive at the villa until after she was already there.

Niema.  As much as he had enjoyed these past few days with her, she was
driving him crazy.  Teasing her, touching her during her self-defense
"lessons"--he had to have lost his mind to subject himself to such
torture.  But she delighted him on so many levels, he couldn't bring
himself to stop.  She was so quick to learn, and so competitive she
automatically rose to any challenge.  He had quietly laughed to himself
that morning while he showered in her guest bath, knowing she had raced
full out in an effort to beat him back to the house--after already
running for over an hour.

She was aware of him now, where she never had been before.

She hadn't had a clue, in Iran, how much he had envied Dallas.

But he had seen her watching him when he took off his T-shirt, seen the
effort she made not to stare.  It was still too soon to make a move,
though, so he'd had to fiercely concentrate to keep from getting an
erection every time he got close to her.  She had just today fully
realized her attraction to him, so she was nowhere ready for him to do
anything about it.

It wasn't as if they had just met and begun seeing each other.

Under those circumstances, he would have felt free to move at his own
pace, or at least as free as he ever felt with a woman.  But they had
baggage in common, the two of them, the manner of Dallas's death was
something that both linked them and stood between them.  No other man
had been able to scale that wall because no other man had been able to
understand it, he was the one who had been in that cold, dirty little
hut with her, the one who watched her white, still face as she listened
to her husband's last words, saw the screaming in her eyes.  He was the
one who held her when she at last was able to cry.

And he was the one who was going to break down that barrier of
disinterest she had installed between herself and the male sex.  He
could do it because he understood her, because he knew that beneath her
ladylike exterior beat the heart of an adventuress.  He could give her
the excitement she needed, both professionally and personally.  God,
the way she had come alive these past few days!  She literally
glowed.

It took all his willpower not to grab her and let her know exactly how
he felt.

But there was a time for that, and it wasn't now.  She still wasn't
comfortable with the idea of wanting anyone who wasn't Dallas, in
general, and him in particular.  But she would be, he would see to
it.

Restlessly he got up and paced the room, automatically avoiding the
window.  He couldn't remember any woman's response being so important
to him, not even Venetia's-He stopped and stared sightlessly at the
unremarkable framed print on the wall.  After what had happened with
Venetia, maybe he didn't deserve Niema.  And maybe Niema wouldn't want
anything to do with him, if she knew about Venetia.  Maybe, hell, it
was almost guaranteed.  If he were honorable, he'd tell her about his
dead wife.

His mouth quirked in a humorless smile.  If he were honorable, he
wouldn't have done a lot of the things he'd done in his life.  He
wanted Niema, wanted her with an intensity that continually took him
off guard.  And he was going to have her.

Ville de Ron sard

"Could you trace the message?  " Ron sard asked Cara, who was staring
at her monitor while she tapped out commands on the keyboard.

Absently she shook her head, her attention focused on the monitor.

"Only to the first relay, after that, it disappeared into the ether.

Temple has a damn good encryption and switch system.  " Ron sard
strolled around the office.  The hour was early, very early, but he
didn't need much sleep, and Cara adjusted her hours to his.  "I thought
you told me that everything on a computer leaves its print.  " "It
does, but the print may be a dead end.  He could have programmed the
first relay with a self-destroy code after the message went through.
The first relay may not even be a relay, it could be the destination,
but you don't seem to think Temple would be that easy to find.  " "No,
he wouldn't be, " Ron sard murmured.  "Where was the first relay, by
the way?  " [ "Brussels.  " "Then he is likely in Europe?  " "Not
necessarily.  He could be anywhere there's a phone Ron sard tilted his
head, considering the situation.  "Could you tell anything if you had
the actual computer in your pos.  a session f Her eyes gleamed with
interest.  "You betcha.  Unless the hard drive is destroyed.  " "If
this is his usual means of contact, then he wouldn't destroy the link.
He would safeguard it with encryption, but not destroy it.

If you can discover the location of the computer, I will have it
brought here.  " She turned back to the monitor and began typing
furiously.

Satisfied that he would soon have the computer in his possession--or
rather, in Cara's possession--Ron sard returned to his desk.  Laure had
had a difficult night, and he was tired.  He had staff who saw to her
care, of course, but when she was upset or didn't feel well she wanted
her papa with her.  No matter where he was or what he was doing, if
Laure needed him he dropped everything and went to her.

He hadn't yet gone through the mail from the day before, though Cara
had opened it and put the stack on his desk.  He began leafing through
the bills and invitations, as usual, the latter outnumbered the former.
He was invited everywhere, connections were everything in the world of
business, even when that business was not of the approved sort.  A
great many hostesses were thrilled to have him at their functions, he
was single, handsome, and carried an air of danger about him.

Ron sard was cynically aware of his own attractions, and of the use
they could be to him.

"Ah, " he said, taking a cream-colored vellum invitation from the
stack.  The prime minister cordially invited him to .  . . He didn't
bother reading what function was involved, merely checked the date.

Such social gatherings were invaluable.  He had ceased being amazed at
how many of the world's business, social, and political leaders found a
need for his services.  They felt free to approach him at a charity
ball or political dinner, for after all that was their world, and they
felt safe and comfortable there.  Once that had been his world too, he
was still comfortable there, but now he knew that nowhere was safe, not
really.

"Got it, " Cara said and gave him the address.

Brussels The middle-aged man looked like any other in Brussels, he was
average in height, weight, coloring, there was nothing about him to
cause interest.  He walked at a normal pace, seemingly paying more
attention to the newspaper in his hand than to where he was going,
until he came to a certain apartment building.  He mounted the two
stone steps and let himself in the door, then took the stairs instead
of the creaky elevator, so he wasn't likely to meet anyone.

On the top floor, the third one, he unlocked the door to a certain
room.  It was empty except for the computer humming quietly on a wooden
crate, cables hooking it to the electrical outlet and phone jack.

There was no printer.

The lights were programmed to go off and.  on at random times.  The
window was covered with shutters.  Sometimes he came in the mornings
and opened the shutters, then returned in the afternoon to shut them,
so it looked as if someone was living there.  He didn't think anyone
ever had, there was only the computer.

Per that morning's instructions, he walked quickly over to the computer
and tapped a few keys on the keyboard, entering the program called
Norton Utilities.  On that program was a feature called "government
wipe.  " He pressed a few keys, waited a moment, then pressed another
one.  He watched briefly as the computer performed as instructed.

He took his handleerchief and wiped off the computer keyboard, then the
doorknob as he was leaving.  He wouldn't be back to this empty room
with its electronic inhabitant.

No one saw him arrive or leave, but then, he was so very average
looking.

Later that afternoon, a white van stopped down the street from the
apartment building.  Two men got out and walked up the narrow street,
they were dressed as laborers, in paint stained coveralls, though their
van bore none of the accouterments of painters.

They went into the apartment building and took the stairs up to the
third floor.  Once in the narrow, dingy hallway, they each took heavy
automatic pistols from inside their coveralls A ne qurcn z lvlrn and
quietly approached the closed door to one of the apartments.  One
positioned himself to the side of the door, his pistol held ready.  He
nodded to his companion who cautiously reached out and tried the
knob.

Surprise etched both their faces when the door swung open.

Quickly they peeked around the frame, automatically jerked back, then
relaxed, the room was empty.  Still, they held their pistols ready as
they entered the room and quickly searched it.

Nothing.  Not only was the room uninhabited, it showed no signs that
anyone had lived there in quite some time.

On the other hand, there was that computer.  It sat on the crate,
quietly humming.  The screen was a pure blue.

The two men were professionals, they got down on their knees and
inspected the computer, following the power and telephone cords to
their outlets, looking for anything unusual.

Not finding anything, one of them finally reached out and turned off
the computer.  The screen went blank and the quiet hum died.

They briskly unplugged the computer and carried it downstairs to their
van.  They didn't bother closing the door behind them when they left.

Ville de Ron sard Cara was swimming when Ron sard sent word the
computer had arrived.  She hauled herself out of the pool and bent over
from the waist to wring the water from her hair.  She knew Hossam was
watching her, his dark eyes hot with excitement.

She ignored him and wrapped a towel around her head and another around
her torso.

Poor Hossam.  All that jealous lust was getting tiresome.

Hossam was getting tiresome.  Cara was quickly bored with her lovers,
because once they got her in bed they all seemed to get possessive and
territorial.  Why couldn't they just be satisfied with good sex, the
way she was?  She didn't like hurting them because she cared for them
all, just not the way they wanted.  On the other hand, she wasn't going
to spend her life with a man she didn't want just because she felt
sorry for him.

Extricating herself from the relationship with Hossam could be tricky.
She was well aware of the cultural differences, in the beginning, they
had even been exciting.  Now she felt stifled whenever she was with
him.

What she needed, she supposed, was a nice boy toy for her to keep,
someone who knew she was the boss, at least of herself.  She wasn't
into dominance, just independence.  [ The truth was, no man she had
ever met, with the exception of Ron sard, was as interesting as her
computers--and she was smart enough to know Ron sard wasn't the
settling-down type.

Not ever.  She liked him, but he wasn't for her.  Maybe no one was.
Maybe she was going to end up one of those eccentric, world-traveling
old ladies.  She kinda liked the image that brought to mind.

Hossam approached and laid his hand on her arm.  "You will come to my
room tonight?  " "Not tonight, " she said, moving away as casually as
possible.

"Mr.  Ron sard has brought in a computer he wants me to investigate, so
I'll be working all night.  " "Tomorrow, then.  " "You know I can't
promise that when I don't know what my schedule is.  " "Marry me, and
you will not have to work.  " "I like working, " she said.  "Good
night.  " She hurried away before he could stop her again.  Yes, this
situation with Hossam was definitely getting tricky.  Perhaps she would
ask Ron sard to reassign Hossam, though she hated to do that, after
all, Hossam was only being himself.  He shouldn't be punished for
that.

She stopped in her room to get dressed and pin up her hair.

In the States she would have hurried to the office in her bathing suit,
but Ron sard was very European in his dress standards.  She liked that,
actually.  It was nice to have standards.

He was waiting for her, his long dark hair pulled back in its usual
style, giving his lean face a more exotic slant.  He was dressed in
black trousers and a white shirt, which was as informal as he got.

"Your gift, " he said, nodding to the unit that now occupied her
desktop.

Quickly she hooked up the machine and sat down in front of it.

She turned it on and waited for it to boot.  Nothing happened.  She
tried it again.  The screen still remained a blank blue.

"Uh-oh.  " "Is something wrong?  " Ron sard asked as he approached.

"It's been wiped.  " "Erased?  " "Yeah.  Maybe he just used a C-prompt
command.  If he did, there should still be some information on the hard
drive.  " "And if he didn't?  " "If he used a government wipe, then
there's nothing left.  " "A government wipe .  . . " "It's just what it
sounds like.  If there's anything you don't want the government to see,
you use a government wipe.  It's in Norton Utilities--" He held up a
hand.  "Details aren't necessary.  How long will it take you to find
out which type of erasure he used?  " "Not long.  " He waited patiently
while she got into the hard drive and began searching for bits of data.
There was nothing.  The drive was as pristine as the day it came off
the assembly line.

"Nothing, " she said in disgust.

Ron sard put a comforting hand on her shoulder.  "That is what I
expected, really.  " "Then why get the computer?  " "Because I want to
know Mr.  Temple.  If he were careless enough to leave data on the
computer, then perhaps I shouldn't deal with him.

As it is--" Ron sard hesitated and gave a thin smile.  "I've learned
that he is almost as careful as I. " "Almost.  " "I'm not going to him,
" Ron sard said gently.  "He is coming to me.  " Chapter twelve.

Your name is Niema Jamie son, " Medina y said, handing over a
passport, driver's license, and social security card.

She looked down at them in both interest and disbelief.

"Niema?  " she questioned.

"Your name is so unusual you'd probably slip up if you had to answer to
anything else.  It's always best to stay close to your real name.  "
"Is that so, Mr.  Darrell Tucker?  " she murmured.

He gave a faint smile in acknowledgment of the hit.  "I've used so many
names, I ran out of similars.  " She opened the passport.  Her photo
was there, as well as several pages of stamps.  According to her
passport, within just the past year she had been to Great Britain
twice, once to Italy, once to Switzerland, and once to Australia. Niema
Jamie son was certainly well-traveled.

The driver's license looked just as authentic.  She was a resident of
New Hampshire, evidently.  Niema Price Jamie son.

"My middle name is Price?  " she asked in disbelief.

"That's your maiden name.  Your family is old friends with the
ambassador's wife's family.  " "So I'm married?  " "Widowed.  " He gave
her a steady, unyielding look, as if expecting her to object to a cover
line so close to her own life.

"Your husband, Craig, was killed in a boating accident two years ago.
The ambassador's wife--her name is Eleanor, by the way--persuaded you
to join them in Paris for a vacation.  " She was silent.  Of course so
many of the details paralleled her own life, that way the story was
easy to remember.

"And if Ron sard does invite me to his home and does a background check
on me, he'll find .  . . what?  " "He'll find that you're exactly who
you say you are.  He'll find society page articles mentioning you.
He'll find an article on Craig Jamie son's death that mentions his
grief-stricken widow, Niema.  Don't worry, your cover will stand up to
any scrutiny.  " "But what about the ambassador and his wife?  They
obviously know I'm not an old family friend.  " "Yes, but they're
accustomed to covers.  You know how many Agency personnel are in our
embassies.  It's standard.  " "Then why won't Ron sard suspect me?  "
"Because you aren't staff.  Believe me, they know, or have a good idea,
who is Agency and who isn't.  " She took a deep breath.  "When do I
leave?  " He pulled a ticket folder from the inside pocket of his
jacket.

"Tomorrow, on the Concord.  " "Cool.  " Her eyes lit.  She had always
wanted to fly on the supersonic jet.  "When will you get there?  " "You
won't see me until we're both at Ron sard's villa.  If he doesn't
invite you--" He broke off and shrugged.

"Then I won't see you again.  " She tried to keep her tone matter-of,
fact, but inside she didn't feel that way.  In just a few days he
seemed to have become the central element of the excitement she felt.
But she had known from the beginning how things would be, known that he
would leave as abruptly as he had appeared.

"I didn't say that.  " "No, but I've worked with you before, remember?
When the job's finished, you disappear.  And now that I know who you
are, I know why.  " "Niema .  . . " He put his hands in his pockets,
looking oddly ill at ease.  Medina was always in such control of
himself that his expression diverted her.  "I'll be back.  That's all I
can say now.  " She was immediately intrigued, and alarmed.  Did he
mean he wanted to use her on another job?  Part of her wanted to
shout

"Hell, no!  " but deep inside was a yearning, a craving for more.

Common sense took the upper hand.  "This is a one-time deal, Medina,
don't bank on sucking me into another job.  I don't get hazardous-duty
pay, you know.  " "Of course you do.  " Taken aback, she warily eyed
him.  "What do you mean?  " "I mean you get a hefty bonus for this.  "
"Oh, great!  That means anyone in payroll--" "Nope.  This is black ops,
remember?  Everything comes out of an off-books account.  And try to
call me John, instead of Medina.  John's a fairly common name, but
there are a lot of .  s_ people in this town who would perk up their
ears if they heard you call me Medina.  " Reluctantly she said, "John.
" She preferred thinking of him and referring to him as Medina, that
kept him at a certain distance, at least in her mind.  She was having a
difficult enough time battling her attraction to him as it was.  "Back
to my original statement, This is a one-time deal.  It has to be.  "
Hands still in his pockets, he wandered over to the kitchen window and
absently fingered the hook and eye latches she had installed.  For the
past two mornings he had been reduced to wriggling through a damn small
bathroom window, and the fit was so tight he had to do some major
contortions to get in.

She was so pleased with those little latches that he didn't tell her
he'd figured out a way to unlatch them.  The average burglar wouldn't
have the means of doing it, and anyone who really, really wanted to get
into the house would simply break a window anyway.  The ordinary
citizen usually couldn't afford the safety measures that would make a
house truly burglarproof, but then the ordinary citizen didn't need to
go to that effort and expense.

"Don't think you can ignore me, " she warned.

He gave her a brief, warm smile as he turned away from the window.

"I've never thought that.  " Both the smile and the statement rattled
her.  Deciding to change the subject, she took a deep breath.  "Let's
get back to the plan.

What happens when--if--I wrangle and invitation to Ron sard's home?

What if you aren't invited for the same time?  " "I've already received
an invitation.  Ron sard is hosting a formal party in ten days.  He
does it annually, as sort of a repayment to all the people who look the
other way when delicate situations arise concerning his occupation. The
security is LH extremely tight, even tighter than normal, because of so
many people in the house.  He would consider the meeting with me more
controlled.  If Ron sard invites you to the party, accept.  If he
merely invites you to his house for a visit, decline.  That will only
whet his interest.  " "What I know about whetting interest would rattle
around in a peanut shell, " she muttered.

He grinned.  "Don't worry, Mother Nature took care of that.

We men are easy.  We don't require much more than that a woman be
breathing, and we're interested.  " She tried to take umbrage, but
instead found herself laughing.

"That simple, huh?  " "Compared to women, we're amoebas.  Our brains
only have one cell, but it's dedicated.  " So said the most complicated
man she'd ever met.  She shook her head.  "I think we need to get to
work, before your one cell goes completely haywire.  What's on the
agenda for today?  " "Nothing, " he said.  "Get some rest, pack, brush
up on your French.  I just came by to give you your papers.  " She had
become so accustomed to working out with him that the prospect of a day
without that challenge seemed flat.

"So this is it, huh?  If I don't get that invitation, I won't see .  ,
, you agam.

He hesitated, then reached out and lightly touched her cheek with his
fingertips.  He started to say something and stopped.  Something like
regret, only more complex, flickered briefly in his blue eyes.

Without a word he turned and left, letting himself out the back door,
his movements so silent she wouldn't have known he was there if she
hadn't been looking at him.

She stood in the kitchen, fighting the chill that raced over w I .

her at his touch.  No, she wasn't cold.  She was shivering, but she
wasn't cold.  Just that light touch of his fingertips had set her nerve
endings to tingling.  Holy cow.  What would it be like to
actually--"No, " she ordered herself aloud.  "Don't go there.  " Don't
imagine what it would be like to make love with him.

Men like John Medina didn't make love, they had sex, they didn't have
relationships, just encounters.

Though one couldn't tell it from the way she had lived her life for the
past five years, she had sometimes thought, in a vague way, of
remarrying and having children.  That was always in the nebulous
future, and even though there hadn't been any candidates for the
position of husband, still she had expected her life to eventually take
that route.  If she became involved with John, though, she could kiss
that dream goodbye.  She wouldn't be able to settle for an ordinary Joe
if she ever let herself indulge in an affair with him.

He might pass himself off as a sheep to most of the world, but she knew
him for the wolf he was.  And she knew her own nature, knew her craving
for excitement.  She'd never be able to get herself back, because
sleeping with John would be going one step too far.  That was the
ultimate kick, and nothing else would ever equal it.  But if she didn't
let herself taste him, she would never know what she missed.

She might suspect, but she wouldn't know, and she would still be
capable of happiness with that ordinary Joe who had to be somewhere in
her future.

What difference did it make?  she wondered, pressing a fist to the pit
of her stomach in an effort to squash the butterflies that were
fluttering there.  He was gone.  If this plan didn't work, she probably
wouldn't see him again.  Though he'd said he would be back, she didn't
quite believe him.  She couldn't let herself believe him, because if
she did, she might start dreaming he was coming back for her, and that
was the most dangerous fantasy of all.

Niema packed in the battered Vuitton luggage that had been delivered
the day before.  The luggage was a nice touch, she thought, it was
expensive and fit with her supposedly well heeled background, but still
looked far from new.  It looked, in fact, as if it had been around the
world several times.  The name tags carried her fictitious name and
address.

She dressed in a stylish linen and cotton blend sage green dress for
travel, a simple chemise style that she topped with a lightweight
cardigan.  On her feet were sensible taupe flats.  For all its
simplicity, or perhaps because of it, the ensemble shrieked "money.  "
Old money, at that.

The day was bright and sunny, there wouldn't be any bad weather delays.
She felt jittery and couldn't tell if it was due to anticipation or
dread.  But she felt ready, she wanted to be in Paris right now.  She
wanted to meet this Louis Ron sard and see if breathing was, indeed,
all she had to do to be comehitherish.  John needed her inside Ron
sard's villa, he would continue on his own, but the job was less risky
if he had backup.  She had to get that invitation.

Uneasily she thought of a precaution John had insisted she take, birth
control pills.  It was standard for female operatives, he'd told her.
Did he expect her to sleep with Ron sard?  She knew that sex was often
the route women used to get to the men they targeted, in real life as
well as in espionage.  Well, her devotion to the job didn't go that
deep, she would not, could not, sleep with the arms dealer, no matter
how good-looking he supposedly was.

The cab arrived on time, and the driver came to the door to carry her
bags.  As he went back down the sidewalk she loolked around at her
comfortable home, wondering at the weird sense of disconnection, as if
she would never see it again.  This wasn't much different from going on
vacation.  A week, two weeks at the most, and she would be home again,
once more settled into the routine of work and chores.  This episode
wouldn't be repeated.

She carefully locked the door and set the alarm which John had
reactivated.  He had definitely made her more safety conscious, though,
even with the alarm, she found herself going around to every window and
door and hooking the latches.

She had bought a timer for the lamps and television, to give the house
at least the appearance of being lived in.  And John had promised that
Agency people would keep an eye on the house for her, so she wasn't
really worried.

The cab driver was looking impatient, so she hurried down the walk, and
with every step her spirits lifted.  She was finally in action again!

She was met in Paris by a uniformed chauffeur who loaded her luggage
and solicitously handed her into a large MercedesBenz.  She sank into
the leather seats and closed her eyes with a sigh.  Did the Concord
eliminate jet lag, she wondered, or did the body automatically note the
position of the sun and know something was wrong?  The supersonic
flight was much faster than a regular jet, but she was still as
exhausted as if the flight had taken the normal length of time.  All
she wanted was a long bath and a quiet place to lie down.

The Marine guards at the embassy checked the car and her passport
before allowing her into the embassy grounds.  As the car stopped out
front, a tall, slender woman in her early sixties, with striking
silver-white hair, came down the steps, her hands outstretched and her
face wreathe in smiles.

"Niema!  " she cried.  "It's so good to see you!  " This must be
Ambassador The riot's wife, Eleanor, the old family friend.  The
chauffeur opened the door, and Niema climbed out, going straight to
Mrs.  The riot with a warm hug.

"You look exhausted, " Mrs.  The riot said, patting her cheek in a
motherly way.  "Jet lag is terrible, isn't it?  Supposedly it's worse
going west--or perhaps that's east, I can never remember which it is,
but it doesn't matter because I get jet lag no matter what direction
I'm traveling.  " Mrs.  The riot was giving her recovery time by
chattering, Niema realized.  She managed a smile.  "I am tired, but I
don't want to waste my visit lying around.  " "Don't worry about that,
" Mrs.  The riot cooed as she led her up the steps into the embassy. 
"A nap will do you a world of good.

There's nothing you have to do, nowhere you have to go.  " From that,
Niema deduced that her presence not only wasn't expected at dinner that
night, but for some reason would be a definite problem.  "In that case,
I would love a nap.  " Still smiling, still chatting as if they had
known each other for years, Eleanor The riot led Niema to an elevator.
They exited on the third floor.  "This is your room, " she said,
opening the door to a spacious bedchamber decorated in a gorgeous
combination of antique and modern pieces, and in a soothing pale
turquoise color with touches of peach and white.  The bed was so high
there was a footstool beside it, and the mattress looked thick enough
for her to sink out of sight.

"There's a private bath through here, " Mrs.  The riot continued,
opening a white paneled door and giving Niema a glimpse of gleaming
brass bathroom fixtures--or were they gold?  "Your bags will be brought
up, and if you'd like a maid will unpack for you.  " Niema started to
say that wasn't necessary, then realized that Niema Price Jamie son was
probably accustomed to such help, even if Niema Burdock wasn't.  "A nap
first, please, " she said.  "My bags can be unpacked later.  " "Of
course, dear.  I'll tell everyone you're not to be disturbed.  " As she
talked, Mrs.  The riot walked over to the desk and scribbled a brief
note, which she gave to Niema.  "When you're awake, we'll have a long
talk just to catch up on gossip.

I simply don't have the time to call all my friends the way I used to.
Just tell me Jacqueline and Sid are all right, and I'll leave you to
your nap.  " "Jacqueline" and

"Sid" were her make-believe parents.

"Mom and Dad are fine, " Niema replied.  "They're in Australia now, for
an extended vacation.  " "How I envy them!  But I won't ask any more
questions now.

Have a nice rest, dear.  " She gave Niema another hug, then let herself
out.

Niema looked down at the note.  "Don't assume you can trust everyone
who works in the embassy, " Mrs.  The riot had written.  "Stick to your
cover at all times.  " She wadded up the note and started to toss it
into the wastebasket, but on second thought tore the paper into tiny
pieces and flushed it.  She yawned mightily, that nap was becoming more
necessary by the moment.

Her luggage arrived, carried by a serious young man who called her
"ma'am.  " Once he was gone and the bedroom door was locked, Niema
pulled the curtains closed, then stripped off her clothes and took a
quick shower.  Fighting to keep her eyes open, she toweled dry and
stumbled to the bed, not bothering with a nightgown or pajamas.  Using
the two-step stool, she climbed upon the bed and stretched out between
the cool, fragrant sheets.  She groaned in relief as her tired muscles
relaxed.

When was this ball at which she was supposed to meet Ron sard?  She
couldn't remember.  Not tonight, for certain.  Tomorrow?

Was she ready?  She went over the details of her cover, even
repeating

"Niema Jamie son" to herself over and over, to make certain she
responded when someone addressed her by that name.  She couldn't just
pretend to be Niema Jamie son, she had to become that person.

Ron sard was sharp, he would notice if she appeared not to recognize
her own name.

John had been thorough in building the cover identity.  The documents
would stand up to any inspection and investigation.  She didn't have to
worry about that aspect of her cover.

No, what she worried about was her own ability, John might not have
doubts about her, but she did.  She had never played a role before,
unless it was when they were in Iran, if wearing a chad or and not
speaking was the same as playing a role.

She didn't, however, doubt her ability to plant a listening device in
Ron sard's office.  When it came to that part of the job, she was
confident she could handle it.

"Let the games begin, " she murmured to herself, and went to sleep.

Part three.

Chapter thirteen.

Louis!  It is wonderful to see you.  You are | looking as handsome as
always.  " The prime's Fminister's wife beamed up her toothy smile at
him as she took both his hands and planted kisses on each cheek.

Louis carried her hands to his lips and returned the salute, briefly
kissing her knuckles.  He was actually fond of Adeline, who was
good-natured and inherently kind.  Her strong features bore an
unfortunate resemblance to a horse, but in the Parisian way she made
the most of her best features, her eyes, and after one got to know her,
one saw only her nature and didn't think of the long boniness of her
face.  "I would never miss the opportunity to see you, my dear.  "
"Flatterer.  " She beamed at him.  "I must continue greeting the
guests, but promise me you won't leave without speaking with me
again.

I don't see enough of you, you rogue.  " He promised, an easy thing to
do, then left her to the receiving line and mingled with the throrlg of
guests crowding the ballroom and adjacent rooms.  A small orchestra was
discreetly installed in an alcove and partially blocked from view by a
gauze curtain.

Black-clad waiters carried trays of delicate flutes half-filled with
golden champagne, while others offered a dazzling array of hor
d'oeuvres.  Ron sard plucked a glass of champagne from one passing
waiter and a delicate pastry from another.  He had just taken his first
sip of the rather mediocre wine--it was always mediocre at such
parties--when he heard his name being called.

He turned to see his sister, Mariette, bearing down on him with her
husband in tow.  Eduard Cassel's expression was indulgent, as always.
Mariette was a bubbly froth of a woman, as giddy and harmless as a
butterfly.  She was three years younger than Ron sard and he had always
been protective of the pretty creature.  When she married, she had
chosen a man fifteen years her senior, and Eduard had taken over as her
protector.

Eduard had been beneficial to Ron sard on several occasions.

Positioned as he was in the Ministry, he often knew interesting little
details about the government, the economy, and some high-ranking
officials' personal lives, which he passed along to his
brother-in-law.

In return, Ron sard had set up and regularly added to a substantial
trust in Mariette's name, allowing the Cassels to live in a level of
comfort that far exceeded Eduard's salary.

"Louis!  " Mariette flung her arms around his neck and kissed his
cheek.  "I didn't know you would be here tonight.  This is wonderful.

How is Laure?  " "She is well.  " Louis's voice was flat, his tone
pitched so his words didn't carry.  He didn't discuss Laure in public.
Many of his acquaintances had no idea she existed.

Mariette wrinkled her nose in apology.  "Forgive me, " she said
contritely.  "I forgot.  " "Of course, " he said gently and kissed her
forehead as he held out his hand to her husband.  "How are you, Eduard?
" "Well, thank you.  " Eduard was slightly heavy, balding on top, and
his features could best be described as "not ugly.  " His expression
was usually bland, disguising the shrewdness that lurked in his eyes.
"And you?  " "Well.  " Those social niceties out of the way, Ron sard
settled his arm around his sister's waist.  "You look stunning.  That
gown is very becoming.  " She beamed and smoothe a hand down the
shimmery pink fabric that brought out the color in her cheeks.  "You
don't think it too young?  " "My dear, you are young.  " "And so I tell
her, " Eduard said.  "She grows lovelier every day.  " As saccharine as
the compliment was, he meant it.  His devotion to Mariette always
weighed heavily in his favor, in Ron sard's estimation.

"Oh, there is Juliette, " Mariette cried, her attention instantly
diverted.  "I must speak to her.  " She darted away, her full skirt
fluttering around her as if she would take flight.

Ron sard and Eduard drifted away from the crowd, strolling casually as
if they had nothing more important to do than idly chat and look for
acquaintances in the throng.  "I think everyone in government is here
tonight, " Ron sard observed.  "There must be something interesting in
the air.  " Eduard shrugged, his heavy lips set in a benign smile.

"Elections, my friend.  Every one is courting everyone else.  And
commerce is always interesting, is it not?  The Iraqis wish to buy a
very expensive, sophisticated computer system from us, but the
Americans, as always, are having a tantrum at the idea.

Their economy is healthy, so they can't comprehend difficulty in other
countries.  Our industrial leaders don't like having the Americans
intrude on their business.  But if we tell them to leave--" He spread
his hands.  "The Americans have so many lovely dollars.  What does one
do?  " "Whatever one must, on the surface, " Ron sard said dryly.

No Frenchman liked the American presence that seemed to permeate the
world.  France was French, and would remain so.

Whatever agreements the Americans forced, they could not be everywhere
and oversee everything.  France agreed, then did whatever was in
France's best interests.  Pragmatism was the cornerstone of the French
character.

"The Russians, of course, are desperate for technology

Unfortunately they have no means to pay.  Perhaps the Americans will
pay for them.  These are interesting times, are they not?  " "Very
interesting.  " In the past ten years, old boundaries had been
completely obliterated.  Politics was in a state of flux, and such an
atmosphere was very favorable to his business.

Instability was the greatest of motivators to a certain type of
person.

"The American ambassador is here, of course, " Eduard continued.

"His aide is drifting around with his ears on alert.  " The
ambassador's aide was an employee of their Central Intelligence Agency.
Every one knew who everyone was, but still an astonishing amount of
information was passed around at these functions.

Intelligence officers were often conduits of information that
governments wanted to dispense to other governments, but by back
channels.  No one, after all, wanted to precipitate a crisis.

"A family friend is visiting the ambassador and his wife.  She is the
daughter of one of Madame The riot's oldest friends.  A lovely young
woman, if I may say so.  One always sees the same faces at these
things, you know, anyone new is a welcome change.  " Ron sard was a
man. He was always interested in a lovely young woman, provided she
wasn't too young.  He had no interest in giggly adolescents.  "Point
her out to me, " he said idly.

Eduard looked around.  "There, " he finally said.  "By the windows.

Brunette, dressed in white.  She has the loveliest eyes.  " Ron sard
located the woman in question.  She was not, he saw, an adolescent. She
was standing beside Madame The riot, a smile that managed to be both
polite and warm on her face as she tilted her head, listening to a
minister of finance who was probably expounding on his favorite
subject, horse racing.

Ron sard exhaled in appreciation.  Eduard had not exaggerated, she was
indeed lovely.  Not beautiful, not spectacular, but .  . . lovely.

She wasn't dressed in a manner calculated to draw attention, but
somehow she did.  Perhaps it was the quiet dignity of her manner,
coupled with those stunning eyes.  Even from there, Ron sard could
appreciate Eduard's comment about her eyes.  They were huge and
night-dark, the type of eyes a man could look into and forget what he
was saying.

Her gown was a simple, unadorned white, relying on its exquisite cut
for its charm.  Her complexion was pale, so pale he wouldn't have
thought she could wear white without looking washed-out, but instead
the color seemed to accentuate the faintest of pink flushes that made
one think one could see the warmth of her blood under that delicatc
skin.

She was slender without being thin, as so many fashionable women were
these days.  The gown skimmed over nicely rounded hips, and her bosom,
though not large, was enticingly shaped.  She wore a single, gracefully
long strand of pearls, which matched the bracelet on her right wrist
and the earrings on her lobes.  She turned as he watched, and the
strand of pearls swung sideways to curl under and frame her left
breast.

Unconsciously she touched the strand, restoring it to is previous
graceful drape, but the brief image made Ron sard's loins pleasurably
tighten.

"Is she married?  " The French were sophisticated about such matters,
but Americans remained, for the most part, annoyingly prudish.

"Widowed, " Eduard supplied.

The orchestra at that moment began playing a gently stirring movement
from Beethoven, as the dancing had not yet begun.  As Ron sard watched,
the lovely widow's head turned toward the orchestra, her expression
arrested as she listened to the music.  She became very still, and her
eyes seemed to fill with an aching sadness.  She turned to the ministry
employee and said a few words, then inclined her head to Madame The
riot and seemed to whisper something.  Madame The riot looked sympathe
ic and touched the young woman on the arm.  Then the young woman
slipped out the open patio doors into the night.

Ron sard had no idea how long she had been widowed, but obviously the
music had just brought a painful memory to mind.  Sad young women, in
his opinion, should always be comforted.  "Pardon me, " he murmured to
Eduard and strode across the ballroom floor.

It was a tedious passage, everyone wanted to speak to him.

Women called his name and gave him slumbrous smiles.  He i_.

shook hands, kissed cheeks, and made graceful escapes while he kept his
eye on the patio doors.  The minister of finance to whom she had been
speaking seemed to dither, but finally found the courage to approach
the doors.  By that time Ron sard was there, and he deftly stepped in
front of the man.

"Your solicitude is much appreciated, " he murmured, "but won't be
necessary.  " "Ah .  . . " The man blinked at him as Ron sard's
identity registered.  "Yes, of course.  " Ron sard went outside into
the warm Paris night.  The flagstoned patio was lit only by indirect
light, from the windows behind him and by the lights strung in the
ornamental trees in the garden.  Small tables and chairs had been
scattered about the patio, providing guests with an opportunity to take
fresh air and escape the noise of the ballroom.

The widow sat at one of those tables, her hands quiet in her lap as she
looked out over the garden.  She hadn't wept, Ron sard saw when he drew
near, his footsteps slow and purposeful.  She had kept her composure,
though he thought he detected a sheen of tears in her eyes, and her
mouth had that soft, sad curve that made him want to kiss a smile onto
it.  A mouth that delectable should always smile.

"Hello, " he said gently in English, and the slight start she gave told
him that she hadn't been aware of his approach.

"Forgive me, I didn't intend to startle you.  " She turned those big
dark eyes on him, and again he felt that surge in his loins.  She
looked so sad, so alone and vulnerable.  Even as he watched she
gathered herself and sought refuge in the social face she had probably
been taught to assume from the time she was out of the cradle.

"That's perfectly all right, " she said, beginning to stand.  Her voice
was low and feminine, without the annoying nasal tones of so many
Americans.  "I was just about to return to the party--" "No, don't let
me displace you, " he said quickly, reaching out to gently touch her
arm.  He was always gentle in his dealings with women, and so many of
them were endearingly susceptible to that tenderness, as if they didn't
get enough of it in their lives.  The widow, however, looked mildly
shocked that he had touched her, and she drew back just a little.

"I saw you come out and thought you looked .  . . upset.  " He had to
be cautious here and ease her wariness.

For a moment she didn't say anything.  She turned her head to look out
into the garden, and he admired the graceful line of her neck, the
curve of her cheekbone.  Then she said, "The music reminded me of
another time.  " That was all.  There were no forthcoming details, no
expounding.

He sensed her reluctance to give him any personal information.  He was
accustomed to women responding to him, trying to hold his attention,
this woman's very lack of response was intriguing.

"My name is Louis Ron sard, " he said, settling into the chair beside
her.

"I'm pleased to meet you, " she said politely.  "I'm Niema Jamie son. 
" "Niema.  " He said the name slowly, tasting the sound of it.

"What a lovely, unusual name.  " She gave a small, quick smile.  "Too
unusual, sometimes.

People seldom know how to pronounce it if they see it spelled out--they
usually pronounce it Neema' instead of Nye-ema, and if they hear it
they don't know how to spell it.  When I was a child I often wished my
mother had named me Jane, or Susan, or anything straightforward.  " "Is
it a family name?  " "Nothing so dignified, " she said, and the smile
became a chuckle.

He was delighted by the transformation of her face, from sadness to
humor.  "She liked the rhythm of the name Naomi, but not the name
itself.  So she substituted vowels until she found a combination she
liked, and"--she spread her hands--"Niema was invented.  " "I think
it's lovely.  " "Thank you.  I've become accustomed to it.  " She
glanced over her shoulder into the ballroom.  "It's been nice talking
to you.  I think I should--" "Of course, " he said, getting to his
feet.  "You don't know me, and you're uncomfortable being alone with
me.  " He paused a beat to give her an opportunity to demur, but she
didn't, and he was amused.

"Will you reserve a dance for me, Mademoiselle Jamie son?  " He
purposefully called her mademoiselle, to give her an opening to tell
him she was widowed.

"Madame, " she corrected, and he was pleasantly surprised by her
accent.  He was less pleased when she left it at that, withholding the
fact of her widowhood, a woman who was interested would have made her
marital status clear.

His own interest increased.  Ron sard seldom had the opportunity these
days to enjoy the chase.  Women were all too willing, which was a nice
state of affairs, but sometimes a man wished to be the predator.

His question hung in the air between them.  Finally she said, "Yes, of
course, " but her tone held only politeness, not any eagerness for his
company

He was both piqued and amused.  Perhaps he had become spoiled, but he
knew he wasn't repulsive.  Far from it, in fact.

This woman, though, seemed totally unaware of him as a man.

Politely he offered his arm, and she laid a graceful hand on it.

Her touch was barely perceptible, she didn't cling, didn't actually
hold him.  Together they walked back into the ballroom, drawing more
than one pair of eyes.  Ron sard saw Madame The riot frown and whisper
something to her husband.  So, she wasn't pleased that her young friend
had become acquainted with the notorious arms dealer?

Ron sard smiled at Madame The riot, then turned to his prey and made
her a small, graceful bow.  Something in his manner must have alerted
her, because her eyes suddenly widened and her soft lips parted.

Before she could pull away he pressed his lips to her hand, a brief
salute that he didn't allow to linger, and caressed her with his
eyes.

"Until later, " he murmured.

Chapter fourteen.

yiema took a deep breath as she walked \ across the ballroom.  A major
hurdle had been been crossed, and so swiftly, so easily, she was
astounded.  The plan had been for Eleanor to introduce her to people
who had spoken with Ron sard, but not to the arms dealer himself.

Eventually their paths would have crossed, but it would have looked odd
for Eleanor to be the one who made the introductions, as she naturally
would not have liked for her best friend's daughter to associate with
someone like Ron sard.

None of that had been necessary.  Out of the corner of her eye, she had
seen him speaking with someone she had already met--his name escaped
her--and both of them had been watching her.  At that moment the
orchestra had begun playing a particularly lovely piece of music and
inspiration struck.

She allowed sadness to play across her features for a moment, then
excused herself to the gentleman who was something boring in the French
government.  She leaned over and whispered to Eleanor, "He's
watching.

I'm going to slip out onto the patio.  " Eleanor, whose acting skills
were worthy of Hollywood, immediately saw the opportunity and what
Niema was doing.

She put on a concerned face and touched Niema on the arm-nothing
dramatic, but a touch of sympathy that wouldn't go unnoticed.

Then Niema had simply sat on the patio and waited.

Within five minutes, Ron sard joined her.

He was remarkably good looking.  The photos she'd seen of him didn't
compare to the man in the flesh.  He was tall, with dark blue eyes set
on a slant above his exotic cheekbones, and he wore his long dark hair
loose on his broad shoulders.  The hint of savage in an elegant tuxedo
was a devastating combination.

His voice was smooth and low, his manners impeccable, and his eyes
managed to convey both his interest and his concern over her sadness.

A romantic, handsome Frenchman at a formal party was enough to give any
woman weak knees.

As soon as she reached Eleanor, the older woman gripped her wrist and
leaned over to whisper in Niema's ear, all the while frowning at Ron
sard, as if she were informing Niema of his reputation.  "Mission
accomplished?  " Niema put a startled look on her face, then an alarmed
one.

She darted a quick glance at Ron sard.  Yes, he was watching.

She quickly looked away.  "He asked for a dance, " she murmured.

Az It[G vUGGtZ 3 lVlGt it Eleanor, who knew only the basic story and
that Niema was to draw Ron sard's attention, turned away with a
practiced smile as the prime minister's wife approached, and Niema's
attention was claimed by a young staffer from the embassy who was from
New Hampshire and was evidently suffering from homesickness.  Since
Niema had never been to the state, she hoped he didn't start asking
specific questions.

The only formal party she had ever been to in her life was her high
school prom.  This was far out of her league, but to her surprise she
felt comfortable.  The clothes were better, the food more exotic, the
people more serious and aware of their own importance, but all in all
the same dynamics applied, polite chitchat, polite laughter, the
constant mingling.  The politicians worked the room while the lobbyists
worked the politicians.  Every one wanted something from someone
else.

Her French had rapidly returned, once she heard it spoken again, but
then French had been her best language.  Ron sard had spoken in
English, however, so that was how she had answered him.  She doubted he
was a man who ever let anything slip, but if he thought she didn't
understand him he might be a little careless in what he said.  It
wasn't her intention to hide the fact that she spoke the language,
though, as that was too easy to give away, and he would immediately be
suspicious.

She had to avoid any appearance of being interested in him.

Quite the opposite, in fact.  He had to make all the moves, so he
couldn't suspect her of maneuvering for an invitation to his villa.

But at the same time she had to show she liked him, or she wouldn't
have a reason for accepting.

In her favor was the fact that other women fawned over him.  She would
stand out in his mind because of her very lack of response.  Men liked
a challenge, and she was going to give him one.

The dancing started, and she let herself be steered around the floor by
the first person who asked, who happened to be the boring gentleman she
had been talking to earlier.  He pumped her arm as if he expected her
to spout water out of her mouth, and all the while he enthused about
thoroughbred racing.  She smiled and made an occasional comment, and he
was happy.

Next the ambassador claimed a dance.  He was a stately gentleman with
silver hair and a sweet smile, a little shorter than his wife, but with
a smooth tact that made her instantly comfortable.  He spoke to her as
if she were indeed an old friend of the family, chatting on about
friends they supposedly had in common, a vacation their families had
once spent together when she was a child.  She wondered if one of the
qualifications to an ambassadorship was to be a consummate liar,
because he excelled.

After the dance with the ambassador ended, she excused herself and went
to the ladies' room, where she killed as much time as she could.

She didn't immediately return to the ballroom, but mingled in the other
rooms, speaking to those people to whom she had already been
introduced.  If Ron sard really wanted to dance with her, he was going
to have to find her.

He did.  A warm hand closed around her elbow and he said, "You promised
me a dance.  " Niema hesitated.  A small silence fell around them.
Every one knew who he was, of course, and waited to see if she would
snub him.  She saw his eyes begin to narrow, and into the silence she
said, tAre you certain you want to risk your toes?  " Relieved chuckles
rippled around them.  His face relaxed, and a slight smile curved his
lips.  "My toes would be honAl the (due en's Men ored.  " He held out
his hand, indicating the direction of the ballroom.

She walked calmly by his side, ignoring the hand that settled on the
small of her back.  The orchestra was just beginning a number slower
than the others had been, and she realized that he had waited and
chosen his moment cither that or bribed the orchestra.

"I thought you were going to refuse me, " he said in a low voice as his
arm closed about her waist and he swept her into a gliding circle.

He held her closely enough that she could feel the warmth of his body,
the movement of his legs against hers, but not so close that she would
be alarmed and pull back.

"Iwas.  " One dark eyebrow arched, his expression sardonic.  "Why
didn't you?  " "A dance won't hurt me, " she said calmly.

"Neither will I. " He looked down into her face, his tone gentle.

"I assume Madame The riot warned you against me.  " "Understandable,
don't you think?  " "Understandable, but unnecessary.  I mean you no
harm.  " She didn't respond to that, her expression serene as he swept
her around the floor.  He danced with a grace that made the exercise
effortless, and she thanked God that her parents had insisted she take
dance lessons in high school even though she would much rather have
learned how to hang glide, at least she wouldn't embarrass herself.  A
socialite would know how to dance, after all.

When she made no effort to pick up the conversational ball, he asked,
"Are you just visiting, or have you been employed at the embassy?  "
"Gracious, no!  " She looked amused.  "Visiting, only.  " "For how
long?  " "No definite time.  A few weeks.  " "That isn't much time, "
he complained softly, looking down at her with such apparent masculine
interest that a woman would have to be blind to miss it.

"Monsieur Ron sard--" "Please don't be alarmed.  You're a lovely woman,
and I would like very much to see you while you're in Paris.

That is all.  " "There's no point in it.  " She looked away, staring at
a point over his shoulder.  She made her tone gentle and faintly sad.

He firmed the guiding touch of his hand on her back, pressing his palm
against her.  Her gown was fairly low cut in back, and his fingers
brushed her bare skin.  "There is always a point to pleasure.  " "I
don't seem to be very good at pleasure these days.  " "Then you must
learn how to enjoy yourself again.  " Her lips trembled, and a look of
pain haunted her eyes.  He saw it, as she had meant for him to.
"Forgive my clumsiness, " he murmured, dipping his head so his mouth
was close to her temple.  "I never intended to distress you.  " She
firmed her lips and lifted her chin.  "The orchestra is very good,
isn't it?  I love this piece.  " He allowed her to steer the
conversation into mundane waters, but she felt his unswerving gaze on
her face the entire time.  Louis Ron sard was definitely a man on the
hunt.  So far, she thought, she had done a credible job of appearing
reluctant without insulting him.

The dance ended, she thanked him for it, and turned to leave.  He fell
into step beside her.  "Have you been to Paris before?  " "Yes, of
course.  " "Ah.  I had hoped to show you the city.  " "Monsieur .  . .
" She hesitated, as if groping for words.

"Forgive me if I sound presumptuous, but I'm not interested in any sort
of romance.  Even if your occupation wasn't a barrier I wouldn't--"
"Forgive me, " he interrupted, "if I've made you in any way
uncomfortable.  I would like to spend time with you, yes.  I would like
to make you smile again, as you did out on the patio.  A lovely lady
should not have such sad eyes.  And even if you say that, no, I may not
kiss you, or delight myself in other ways, I would still like to take
you out to dinner.  " For a moment Niema was so diverted and charmed by
the phrase "delight myself" that she couldn't stop herself from
smiling.

"Aha!  I have achieved one goal already.  " He touched one finger to
the corner of her smiling lips.  "Your smile is as lovely as I
remembered.  Please say yes to dinner.  My reputation is greatly
exaggerated, I promise.  " She searched his face, as if looking for the
truth.  Finally she said, a bit hesitantly, "I haven't dated since my
husband--" She broke off and looked away.

"I understand you're a widow, " he said.  "Yes, I asked about you.

I'm sorry for your loss.  It has been .  . . how long?  " Five.  The
word echoed in her brain, and this time the sadness that flashed across
her face wasn't an act.  Five long years.

"Two years, " she managed to say, her voice constricted.  "Most people
think that's long enough to grieve, but .  . . it isn't.  " His
expression was somber.  "I think the heart has its own calendar.  You
mustn't let anyone rush you, including me.  I give you my word I would
attach no expectations to a dinner together.  It would just be a meal
in pleasant company no more.  Or perhaps you would prefer lunch?  " She
let herself waver, then said softly, "Yes, lunch sounds .  .

. " "Safer?  " he suggested.

"More casual.  Less like a date.  " He chuckled.  "I see.  Then, Madame
Jamie son, will you not go out to dinner with me?  Let's just have
lunch instead.  " She smiled up at him.  "That sounds very nice.  " As
soon as he was back in his town house, Ron sard placed a secure call to
the villa.  Cara answered immediately, though it was late, after one A.
M. "Consult that computer of yours, " he said.  "I want to know
whatever you can find out about Niema Jamie son, from New Hampshire.

She's a widow, a friend of the American ambassador, and she's visiting
them now.  " "How do you spell her name?  " Ron sard hesitated, then
remembered what she had said about her mother modeling the name on
Naomi.  "N-i-e-m-a, " he said.  "Late twenties, early thirties.  Dark
hair and eyes.  " "Got it.  When do you want this?  " "In the morning.
" "I'll get right on it.  " Ron sard hung up and paced slowly around
his luxurious bedroom.  It had been a long time since he had been so
intrigued by a woman, but that didn't mean he was careless.  If Niema
Jamie son wasn't what she seemed, he'd know it soon enough.  And if she
was, then he looked forward to a pleasant chase and seduction.  Most
women could be had, eventually, and he doubted she would be any
different.

He had forgotten how pleasurable it was to be the pursuer, to feel that
triumphant thrill when she agreed to meet him for lunch.  He laughed at
himself, such a small victory, but he felt like a conqueror.

He would put a satisfied smile on the widow's face yet.

', I She had been faithful to her husband's memory for two years.

Such steadfastness was rare in his world.  He found he respected her
for that and envied her the love she must have known.  Such a love had
eluded him, he loved Mariette, of course, and Laure was his heart, but
a sweeping, romantic love .  . . no, he hadn't known one.  Passion,
yes.  Lust.  Possession.  But not love.  He suspected he never would
love anyone in such a manner, that he wasn't capable of that depth of
emotion.  Or perhaps he was simply too wary, too guarded, with too much
at stake to let himself become vulnerable.

Not even for a woman like Niema Jamie son.

f.

Chapter fifteen.

The telephone beside her bed rang at six | A. M. , jerking Niema out of
a sound sleep.

"Hello.  " She sounded as groggy as she felt.

She heard a stifled chuckle.  "You certainly sound alert.  " John.  The
sound of his voice did funny things to the pit of her stomach.  She
settled herself deeper into the pillow.  "We social butterflies need
our sleep.  " "Has the fluttering attracted any attention?  " "It
certainly has.  " She yawned.  "Within minutes.  " "Told you.  We're
amoebas.  " "I hope this line is secure, " she said in sudden alarm.

"If it isn't, then the Company isn't doing its job.  All lines into the
embassy are secure, and I'm on a secure phone.  Tell me everything
about last night.  " How did he know she'd met Ron sard last night? 
she wondered in annoyance.  "Are you keeping tabs on me?  How?

Where are you?  " "Of course I'm keeping tabs on you, " he said calmly.
"You didn't think I'd bring you into this and just leave you on your
own, did you?

I'm nearby, for the moment.  " And that was all he intended to tell
her, she realized.  Still, it w, as enough.  Until she heard his voice,
she hadn't realized how much she had missed him, missed the constant
challenge of his presence.  If he was nearby, that meant she had to be
on her toes, because he could pop up at any second.  She didn't want to
step out of the shower, stark naked, and come face to face with him. On
the other hand .  . .

Whoa.  She backed away from that thought without finishing it.

Instead she began a recital of the previous night's events.  "He
followed me onto the patio and introduced himself and asked for a dance
later.  When we danced, he asked me out to dinner.  I refused.  We're
having lunch today at one, at Le Cafe Marly.  Do you know where that
is?  " "It's in the Riche lieu wing of the Louvre.  It's where you go
to see and be seen.  " "And here I thought having lunch with him would
be more discreet than dinner.  " "Not at Cafe Marly.  Why are you
trying to be discreet?  " "If I'm this fine upstanding citizen and an
old family friend of the ambassador's wife, it would seem more
reasonable to at least wTV about seeing an arms dealer.  " "Ron sard is
seen by every influential person in Paris, " John said dryly.

"Yes, but I'm different.  " She said that with an airiness that had him
chuckling.

"When will you give in and have dinner with him?  With enough time, I
can arrange to have some of our people placed around you, the table
wired, things like that.  " "I don't think I will.  I'll have lunch
with him, but other than that I don't want to encourage him too much. "
"Just make certain you encourage him enough to be invited to his
estate.  " "I'll be friends with him, but that's all.  " A pause
stretched over the line.  "If you're trying to tell me you won't sleep
with him, I never intended for you to, " he finally said, his tone
flattening out.

"That's good to hear, because sex was never an option.  Even though I
did go on those damn birth control pills the way you ordered.  "
Silence again.  "The pills weren't in case you wanted to have an
affair, they're in case something goes wrong.  " She understood, then.
If anything went awry and she was captured, she could be raped.  "Got
it, " she said softly.  The issue of birth control pills hadn't arisen
on the job in Iran, because she had been taking the pills anyway.  She
and Dallas had wanted to wait a year or so, maybe longer, before
starting a family.

"I'll be in touch, " he said, and hung up.

Slowly she replaced the receiver and snuggled back in bed, but any
chance of sleep was gone.  Her brain felt alert, racing along the way
it always did when she talked with John.  What she needed was a good,
long run.  The more she thought about it, the better the plan
sounded.

She would ask Eleanor where the best place to jog was.  She hopped out
of bed and began digging out her sweats, which she had packed for a
just-in-case occasion.

Not only did Eleanor know, she arranged for one of the off duty Marines
who was a dedicated jogger to run with her.

Niema and the serious young man with the sidewall haircut raced side by
side until they were both dripping with sweat.

By the time they returned to the embassy, she had teased him out of his
stiffness and he had spilled out his life story to her, as well as the
details of his wedding, which would take place during his next long
leave.

Feeling both energized and relaxed by the run, she showered and ate a
light breakfast, then decided to get in a bit of shopping before
meeting Ron sard for lunch.  Eleanor gave her a list of interesting
shops, and Niema ventured out into the French capital.

When the taxi let her out at Cafe Marly's terrace on Cour Napoleon at
two minutes til one, she was carrying a large shopping bag.  She looked
at the cafe and for a moment a strong yearning swept over her.

She would like to be meeting John for lunch in a place like this--No,
she told herself sternly, cutting off the thought.  She couldn't let
herself lose focus on the job.  She had to concentrate, not think about
what John was or wasn't doing, and what it would be like to have lunch
dates with him, and dinner dates--"I'm doing it again, " she
muttered.

Pushing all thoughts of him out of her mind, she entered the cafe and
was immediately greeted.  All she had to say was

"Monsieur Ron sard" and she was whisked away to a table.

Ron sard was already there, smiling as he rose to his feet.  He took
her hand and briefly kissed it, then seated her in the chair beside
him, rather than in the one across the table.

"You're even lovelier today than you were last night.  " "Thank you.  "
She was wearing a classic red sheath with a single-strand pearl
necklace.  If he had a discerning eye, and he !  , I I' seemed to, he
would recognize the style and quality of Chanel.

She looked around, intrigued by the cafe.  Glass walls were all that
separated the cafe from the stunning works of art in the Louvre.

"You're glowing.  Boosting a nation's economy must agree with you.  "
He nodded meaningfully at the shopping bag.

"A woman can never have too many pairs of shoes.  " "Really?  How many
do you have?  " "Not enough, " she said firmly, and he laughed.

Today his hair was gathered at the back of his neck with a simple,
round gold clasp.  But even though he was dressed in trousers and a
linen jacket instead of a tuxedo, and his hair was confined, every
woman in the cafe seemed to be staring at him just as they had at the
ball last night.  He had a natural, exotic flamboyance that drew the
eye.

Evil should show on the face, she thought.  It should twist and mar the
features, give some indication of its presence within a person.

But if Ron sard was evil, she hadn't seen any sign of it yet.  So far
he had been unfailingly polite and charming, with a tenderness to his
manner that didn't seem at all feigned.

"So, " he said, leaning back, perfectly at ease.  "Tell me, Did Madame
The riot warn you about me again?  " "Of course.  Eleanor cares about
me.  " "She thinks I'm a danger to you?  " "She thinks you're an
unsavory character" Taken by surprise by her candor, he blinked, then
laughed aloud.  "Then why are you here?

Do you have a yearning for danger, or do you think you can rescue me
from my wicked nxx ways { "Neither.  " She regarded him with somber,
dark eyes.  "I think you may be a very nice man, but I can't rescue you
from anything.  And you're no danger to me at all.  " "I think I'm
insulted" he murmured.  "I would like to be a danger to you, in one
particular way.  You must have loved him very, very much.  " "More than
I can say.  " "What was he like?  " A smile broke across her face.  "He
was .  . . oh, in some ways he was extraordinary, and in others he was
like most men.  He made faces when he shaved, he left his clothes on
the floor when he took them off.

He sailed, he flew his own plane, he took CPR courses and regularly
donated blood, he voted in every election.

We laughed and argued and made plans, like most couples.  " "He was a
lucky man, to be loved so completely.  " "I was the lucky one.  And
you?  Have you been married?  " "No, I haven't been so fortunate.  " He
shrugged.  "Perhaps one day.  " But it was obvious from his tone he
thought marrying was as likely as the sun rising in the west.

"I don't think your wicked reputation scares off many women, " she
teased.  "Every female in here has been staring at you.

He didn't even glance around, as most men would have done, to see if
that were true.  "If I'm alone, it's because I choose to be.  I was
thinking last night that I'd never felt anything like what you
obviously felt--still feel--for your husband.  Part of me thinks it
would be pleasant to love someone that much, but a part of me is very
grateful that I don't.  But why am I saying this?  " he asked
ruefully.

"Telling you I don't think I'll ever love you is not a good way to
convince you to have an affair with me.  " Niema laughed.  "Relax, "
she advised, patting him on the hand.

"An affair wasn't on the books anyway.  " He gave her a crooked smile.
"But I would very much like for it to be.  " AZl tne queen's xvlen She
shook her head, amusement still on her face.  "It can't be.  All I can
offer is friendship.  " "In that case, I would be honored to be your
friend.  And I'll keep hoping, " he said, his eyes twinkling.

Later that afternoon, Ron sard picked up the sheaf of papers Cara had
faxed to him.  He had quickly read through them when they arrived, but
now he studied them more closely.

There was nothing suspicious about Niema Jamie son.  She was from New
Hampshire, had attended an exclusive women's college, married at the .
age of twenty-four, and was widowed at twenty-eight.  Her husband had
been killed in a yachting accident.  They had been mentioned a few
times in society columns, usually with a descriptive tag such as
"devoted couple.  " She was exactly what she seemed to be, a rarity in
his world.

He liked her.  She could be surprisingly blunt, but without malice.  In
a way, he even liked that she wasn't romantically interested in him. He
still wanted to take her to bed, but there was no pressure from her, no
expectations to be met.  She had simply had lunch with him, and that
was that.  Afterward she had taken a taxi back to the embassy, without
hinting for another invitation--which, of course, made him even more
determined to see her again.  He had asked her out to dinner again,
only to be gently refused.  He persisted until she at least agreed to
another lunch.

The telephone rang, his private line, and he absently answered it.

"Ron sard.  " It was Cara.  "Ernst Morrell has been in contact.  " Ron
sard's lips thinned.  He neither liked nor trusted Morrell.

Though by the nature of his business he dealt on a daily basis with
fanatics, madmen, or plain murderers, Morrell was probably the most
vicious.  He was the head of a small but particularly virulent
terrorist organization and had a particular fondness for bombs.  He had
set explosives in a hospital in Germany, killing six patients in
retaliation for Germany's cooperation with the United States on a
military action against Iraq.

"What does he want?  " "He's heard about RDX-a.  He wants it.  " Ron
sard swore a lurid phrase.  First Temple, and now Morrell.  But Temple
was one thing, and Morrell something else entirely, though he had
expected information about RDX-a to leak, he hadn't expected it to
happen quite so fast.  He and the manufacturer had an agreement, he
would be the lone conduit of the compound.  Such exclusivity would be
enormously profitable to both of them, at least until someone else was
able to duplicate the compound.  He had not told anyone, because the
explosive still wasn't perfected, it would be much more in demand if it
were reliable, rather than having an unfortunate reputation for early
detonation.  That meant the manufacturer was logically responsible for,
as the Americans would say, everyone and his brother knowing about
RDX-a.

But it seemed as if his partners had decided to sacrifice large future
riches for immediate gain.  He sighed.  To hell with them.  He would
collect his percentage and issue a warning to the buyers that the
compound wasn't yet reliable.  He had to protect his business on that
end, since the source had proven so short-sighted.

"When does he want it?  " he asked in resignation, rubbing a sudden
ache between his eyes.

"He didn't say.  He wants to talk to you.  " "Did he leave a number?  "
"Yes, and he said you could reach him there only for another forty-five
minutes.  " That was common, at least among the more efficient
organizations, They moved frequently and had only short windows of time
during which they could be contacted.  Such tactics greatly reduced
their chances of being located.

Ron sard jotted down the number Cara recited, and as soon as their call
was disconnected he began dialing.  It was a London number, he saw. The
rings bnrd in his ear, then stopped as the receiver was lifted.
"Bakery.  " The one word was heavily accented.

Ron sard said only one word, his name.  There was thirty seconds of
silence, then a different voice said heartily, "You are prompt, my
friend.  " Morrell was a stocky, barrel chested man, but his voice was
incongruously light.  He always spoke as if he were throwing the words
from his mouth, trying to counteract the lightness of his voice by
sheer velocity.

He was not, and never would be, Morrell's friend.  "You have an order,
I believe.  " "I hear such interesting rumors about a new recipe!  I
have use for one thousand kilograms.  " A thousand kilograms! Ron
sard's eyebrows arched.  That was enough explosive to destroy London,
not that Morrell would use it only in one place.  No, he would wreak
destruction all over the industrialized world, or perhaps sell some of
it himself.  "Such an amount will be very, very expensive.  " "Some
things are worth their cost.  " "Did the rumors tell you that the
recipe has not been perfected?  " "Not perfected, how?  " "The results
are unreliable.  Unstable.  " "Ah.  " There was silence as Morrell
processed this.  No sane person wanted to work with an explosive that
might go off during transport, but then, Ron sard thought with grim
humor, sanity was not required with these people.

"What brings about these unfortunate results?  " "Rough handling. Being
dropped, for instance.  " Another

"Ah.  " If one used RDX-a on an airplane then it would have to be in a
carry-on bag so one could control the motion--a suicide mission.  Or
one could always use an unsuspecting courier, as on Delta Flight 183.

"One must accept these risks, " Morrell finally said, meaning that he
himself would not be handling the explosive.

"There is one other problem.  " "So many problems!  " Now Morrell
sounded petulant, as if a favorite toy had been broken.

"The recipe must be used within a certain amount of time or it will . .
. perform unexpectedly.  Timing must be precise.  " "So I have heard,
my friend, so I have heard!  It is a most interesting recipe.  " "A
thousand kilograms is a considerable amount to be handled.  " "But an
organized person can handle such a task.  When will the shipment be
ready?  " From that statement, Ron sard deduced Morrell already had his
targets selected, and that they would be hit almost simultaneously.  He
did not, however, have enough people in his organization to do it all
himself.  Different organizations occasionally cooperated with each
other, especially if they had mutual enemies.

To Morrell he said, "I'm not certain.  That's such a large amount, the
manufacturer perhaps doesn't have that much available.  " In fact, Ron
sard was certain of it.

"It is worth a great deal of money to me to have this recipe within two
weeks.  " "I'll give the manufacturer your order.  " "Good, very good!
I will call again tomorrow.  " Ron sard hung up.  He was extremely
irritated, by precipitously putting RDX-a on the market, the
manufacturer had increased not just their risk, but his.  Such risk
would have to be compensated, of course.  Highly compensated.

Then he had an amusing thought.  Production was, he knew, still very
limited.  An order of a thousand kilograms would be difficult to fill,
and he didn't yet know how much of the compound Temple would want.
Perhaps he should simply let Temple and Morrell settle between them who
got the RDX-a.  A showdown, as they said in the Westerns.

Yes, that would definitely be amusing.

Chapter sixteen.

I'm having a house party in three days, " Ron sard said to Niema
several days later as they strolled in a small, quiet park.  "At my
home in the Rhone-Alpes region, south of Lyon.  The countryside is
beautiful, and my home is comfortable.  I would like very much for you
to attend the party.  " She was silent, her head dipped as she walked
along beside him.

The canopy of trees shaded them from the warm summer sun, and birds
sang overhead.  They were not the only people enjoying the little
park.

Young mothers and nannies supervised shrieking children of all ages as
they dashed about, skipping and jumping, rolling in the grass.  Joggers
pounded up and down the paths, singly and in pairs.  Lovers walked hand
in hand, sometimes stopping to kiss.  Older people occupied the, . s.

benches, some of them playing board games, some of them just watching
the activity that surrounded them.  The sweet perfume of flowers lay on
the warm air like the touch of a lover.

"You aren't saying anything, " he observed after a moment.

"Are you worried about Madame The riot's disapproval?  " "That, and
though you say you expect only friendship, somehow I don't think you've
given up hope that .  . . well, that I'll change my mind.  " "Of course
I hope, " he said matter-of-factly.  "I am a man--a Frenchman.  I would
like very much to sleep with you.  But it's also nice just being with
you.  You don't want favors from me, and you don't want my money.  Do
you realize how few People like you I have in my life?  "

I X

"Your life is what you've made it.  " She glanced up at him.

"I refuse to feel sorry for you.  " Smiling, he caught her hand and
swung it between them.

"There, that is what I mean.  You say what you think.  " "Not always, "
Niema said.  "I'm too polite for that.  " The smile became a chuckle. ,
Are you insulting me?  " "Of course.  You know what I think of your . .
. profession.  " Something closed in his eyes, some expression that was
shuttered before she could read it.  "We all do what we must.  " "Not
everyone.  Some people do what they can.  " "And there is a difference
between must' and can'?  " "There seems to be.  People say they do what
they must when what they've done has hurt someone.  People who do what
they can are usually helping.  " "A matter of semantics.  " He
shrugged.  "But perhaps you're right.

I made a choice, when I was a young man, and now I mustn't whine.

Perhaps I had other options, but at the time, at that age, I didn't see
them.  Given the same circumstances, I would make the same choice
again.  " There was no regret in his voice, only a pragmatic acceptance
of who and what he was.  He didn't despair over the mistakes he had
made, there was no angst, no wrestling with his conscience.  He had set
his feet on a certain path and never looked back.

She wanted to ask him why he had made the choice he had, but the answer
seemed fairly obvious, money.  He had needed money, and that was the
means he had chosen to get it.  The "why" didn't matter, by his own
free will, he had put himself across the line that divided legal from
illegal.  She couldn't help liking him, but at the same time she had no
qualms about presenting herself to him under false pretenses.  Ron sard
was an adversary, however friendly and charming he might be.

"My profession aside, I still want an answer to my invitation.  " "A
house party.  " That was exactly the function to which John had wanted
her to get invited, but there was no enthusiasm in her voice.

"How large a party?  " That question had him smiling again.  "Are you
wondering if it would be a party of two, which I would much prefer?  I
believe there are about a hundred people invited.  " "Then your house
must be more than just comfortable, " she said dryly.

"Perhaps that was an understatement.  But there are separate guest
quarters that house half that number, so not everyone is staying under
the same roof.  " "That is still a large roof.  " "Yes, it is.  Don't
hold my roof against me, please.  " She laughed.  "I'm sure it's a very
nice roof.  Would you mind if I ask who the other guests are?  " His
eyes gleamed.  "You wouldn't ask unless you were considering accepting,
" he said with satisfaction.  "You met many of the same guests at the
prime minister's ball that you'll meet at my home.  " Many, but not
all.  Undoubtedly some of his guests were the sort who wouldn't be
invited to government functions.  It was a cynical world, when the
lawmakers and the lawbreakers mingled together behind the scenes.  John
would be there, as' one of the latter group.  She wondered if he would
be surprised at any of the other guests, then dismissed the idea.  No,
he wouldn't be surprised.  He probably knew of them all.  I

"Please say yes, " he cajoled.  "I won't be in Paris much longer, and
your visit may end before I return.  " "Yes, " she said, and sighed.
"I'll probably go home afterward.

It would be awkward for me to visit you, then come back to the
embassy.

I don't want to do anything that would damage Albert's career.  " He
was silent as they walked along.  Perhaps he didn't like being told
associating with him had repercussions for others, but she wasn't going
to sugarcoat anything for him.  She had a job to do, and so far her
instincts had been on target, so many people sucked up to him, and he
was pursued by so many women that the very fact she didn't made her
memorable to him.

"So I won't see you again after you leave the house party, " he finally
said.  He gave her a wry smile.  "I don't think we normally travel in
the same circles.  " "No, " she said.  "We don't.  " "Then it's all the
more important for you to come.  There's someone I'd like for you to
meet.  " "I got the invitation, " she told John the next morning when
he called.

"Good.  When are you going?  " s_.

"Day after tomorrow.  " "I won't be there until the next day.  There's
a fancy-dress party that night, and I'll probably schedule my arrival
during the party.  " "How do you know the schedule?  And why in the
middle of the party?  " "Every one's attention will be splintered,
including Ron sard's.

It's just a small advantage for me, but every detail matters.  We don't
know his security arrangements, the floor plan, or his schedule, so
we'll have to play that part by ear.  Don't forget, I'll be smitten by
you the first time I see you, so we'll have an excuse to be together. "
"I'm turning into a love goddess, " she muttered.  "Men are being
smitten left and right.  " He laughed quietly.  "Maybe you've found
your niche in life.  " "Smiting men?  " "I think you could get to like
it.  " "That depends on what I'm smiting them with.  " "See you in
three days, Mata.  " Ron sard left that day for his villa, so she
didn't have lunch with him for the first time since they had met.  Glad
of the downtime, she spent a good portion of the day assembling the
things she would need once she got to Ron sard's house.  The CIA
station chief in the embassy was of great help in procuring the tiny
transmitters, batteries, and wiring she needed.  If he asked any
questions, he didn't ask them of her.  She knew he had to have cleared
everything with Langley for him to be as cooperative as he was.

The station chief didn't know anything about the job she was doing,
just that he was to get whatever she needed, the Paris-based CIA
contingent didn't even know she had been meeting Ron sard, unless one
of the case officers had taken it on himself to follow her one day, but
she couldn't think why they would.  So far as any of them had known
until now, she had simply been a friend, visiting the ambassador and
his wife.

Lyon was about three hundred kilometers from Paris, farther than she
wanted to drive, so she booked a flight and called the number Ron sard
had given her to arrange to.  be picked up at the airport.

She was eager to arrive, to look around and see what she had to deal
with, so she could make concrete plans and decisions.  Being a
socialite, even a subdued one, wasn't her cup of tea.  She wanted to do
something besides shop and have lunch and attend parties.

The weather was beautiful the day she flew down to Lyon, the flight
smooth.  She was met at the airport by a man in a stylish gray suit,
his blond hair cut military short and his eyes hidden by sunglasses. He
didn't speak other than when it was necessary, but he was efficient. He
collected her luggage and handed her into a silver Jaguar, and she
settled back to enjoy the drive.

They went south on the expressway, then turned east, toward Grenoble.
The region was beautiful, perhaps the most beautiful in France, with
the French Alps rising in the east.

The weather was warmer than it had been in Paris, the heat radiating
through the expensive tinted glass of the Jaguar's windows.

Her first view of Ron sard's villa made her blink in astonishment, and
she was glad she was wearing sunglasses to hide her expression.

After all, she was supposed to be used to wealth and luxury.  John
should have warned her, she thought absently.

A sleekly paved drive, bordered with multi-colored flowers, led up to
massive gates set in a twelve-foot-high gray stone wall that completely
encircled the estate.  The stone in the wall alone had to have been an
enormous expense.  The gates slid smoothly open as the car approached,
when they drove through, the gates started closing again almost
immediately.

The estate itself was massive, she estimated at least forty acres had
been enclosed, though the grounds had been so artfully landscaped there
were sections where she couldn't see the wall at all.  The house
itself--though she doubted a structure that huge could be called a mere
house--was four stories high, with wings stretching out on each side.

It had been built with huge slabs of pale, luminous gray marble, with
faint streaks of pink and gold running through the stone.  The effect
was stunning.

To the right was a long, two-story building that was rather barracks
like in style, though more of that incredible landscaping went a long
way toward disguising it.  To the left, set like a jewel on a
picturesque pond, was what looked like another house.  She guessed that
this was the guest quarters Ron sard had mentioned.  It was large
enough to be a small hotel, and looked small only in comparison to the
massiveness of the main building.

Illegal arms-dealing had to be a very, very lucrative business.

Until now she hadn't had any grasp of Ron sard's wealth, but now she
had a better idea why he was pursued for his money.

There were men in shades everywhere--his private army.

There seemed to be a system of dress.  to designate authority.

Most of the men wore a dark green uniform-type pants and shirt, and
these men carried weapons openly.  Next in number were those wearing
dark green pants, but white shirts, and they wore only side arms.
Fewest in number were those wearing light gray suits like her driver.

A number of guests had already arrived.  They were wandering in the
formal gardens, casually but expensively dressed in what she had always
thought of as country-manor style.  Some sat on a side patio, indulging
in cocktails.  Six industrious individuals were on the tennis courts,
batting the chartreuse ball back and forth with increasing languor as
the heat sapped their strength.

Ron sard himself came down the broad, shallow steps to meet her,
smiling, and his hands extended as she got out of the car.  He took her
shoulders in a light grasp and, bending, brushed his lips across her
cheek.  Startled, she drew back and blinlQed up at him.  That was the
first time he had done more than kiss her hand, and she must have
looked uneasy because he rolled his eyes.

"One would think, from your expression, that I had attempted to remove
your dress, " he said dryly.  "If my ego had been inflated, it would
now be as flat as yesterday's champagne.  " He gave a rueful shalQe of
his head.  "And to think I've missed this.  " "I'm sorry, I was just
startled.  " "No, don't apologize and ruin the effect.  " "Now you're
making me feel guilty.  " "I'm teasing.  " He smiled down at her, then
said briefly to the two young staffers who stood behind him like
sentinels.

"Put Madame's luggage in the Garden room.  " "The Garden room, " she
repeated.  "That sounds lovely.  " "It's actually a small suite.  I
want you to be comfortable.

And before your suspicious nature rears its ugly head, no, it is not
next to my private suite.  None of the guest rooms are.  " "Consider my
suspicions headed off at the pass.  " She took his arm, and he led her
inside, where delicious coolness and airy space replaced the heat of
outside.

Marble columns soared to a painted ceiling three stories high.

The floor was granite flagstones, in a darker hue than the pale gray of
the columns, and dotted by enormous, richly colored rugs with tight,
thick weaves.  Twin marble staircases curved to the left and right,
coming together at the top of the arch with hallways opening off each
side.

"I hope you're providing tour maps to everyone, so they don't get lost,
" she said as he escorted her up the stairs.

"The design is basically simple, " he began, and smiled at the
disbelieving look she gave him.  "There aren't any cul-de-sacs.

All secondary hallways lead directly back to the main hallway.

If you have a sense of direction, you can find your way back to here
without any difficulty.  " As they mounted the stairs she looked up at
an enormous tapestry hung on the left wall.  "How old is your house?  "
"It isn't old at all.  It was built in the seventies by one of the
Middle-Eastern oil billionaires.  When the price of oil dropped, he
needed to raise cash, and I was in a position to provide it.  "
Upstairs, the marble stairs gave way to dove-gray carpeting so thick
her feet sank into it.  Light streamed through Palladian windows,
walking over to look out, she saw an enormous swimming pool in the
courtyard below, the pool was irregularly shaped so that it resembled a
lake, exquisitely landscaped, with a small waterfall sparkling over
rocks before cascading back into the transparent turquoise water.

"The pool must be spectacular at night, like another world, " she
said.

"It's one of my pleasures.  A long swim is relaxing after a difficult
day.  " He led her along the hallway, turned left down a secondary
hallway, then opened a door on the right.  "Here is the Garden room.  I
hope you will be comfortable.  " Niema stepped inside, and her eyes lit
with pleasure.  "It's beautiful.  " The reason it was called the Garden
room was obvious, It was filled with greenery.  Besides the lovely
arrangements of cut flowers, there were eight-foot tall areca palms in
strategic locations, succulent jade, rhododendrons.  They were in a
small sitting room, double doors to the right were opened to reveal a
sumptuous bedroom.

Straight ahead, glass doors opened onto a private balcony that was lush
with potted trees and flowers.

The balcony was the width of both the sitting room and bedroom, perhaps
forty feet wide.

Ron sard was watching her move around the suite, touching the plants,
smelling the flowers.  "This is a peaceful place.  I thought you would
enjoy it, an escape from the social whirl.  " "Thank you, " she said
sincerely.  His thoughtfulness in providing this retreat was touching.
He was correct in thinking she enjoyed occasional solitude and serenity
in which to recharge, but as she looked around she realized that the
balcony would also provide an excellent means of clandestine entry, a
la Medina.  She would make certain the glass doors were always
unlocked--not that they would provide much difficulty to someone as
adept at breaking and entering as John was.

Her luggage had already been deposited on a padded bench at the foot of
the bed.  Ron sard took her arm.  "A maid will unpack for you.

If you aren't too tired, I have someone I'd like you to meet.  " "No,
I'm not tired, " she said, remembering he had mentioned in Paris that
he wanted her to meet someone.  The electronic supplies she had brought
were safely locked in her .  j_ jewelry case, so she wasn't worried
about the maid seeing them and reporting to Ron sard that one of his
guests had brought some interesting equipment with her.

"My private wing is on the other side of the house, " he said and
smiled.  "I wasn't lying when I said your suite wasn't next door to
mine.  I wish it was, but I deliberately remodeled so that the guest
rooms were somewhat distant.  " "For privacy, or protection?  " "Both.
" A tender look swept his face, an expression all the more astonishing
because it seemed to be directed elsewhere.

"}Jut not my privacy, and not my protection.  Come.  I told her I was
bringing someone to see her, and she has been excited all day, waiting.
" "She?  " "My daughter.  Laure.  " Chapter seventeen.

r r is daughter?  John hadn't mentioned that _ Ron sard had a daughter.
Niema tried to E E hide her surprise.  "You've never mentioned her
before, " she said.  "I thought your sister was your only ramlly.

"Ah, well, perhaps I'm paranoid.  I do everything I can to safeguard
her As you pointed out, I'm an unsavory character, I have enemies.  "
"I said Eleanor thinks you're an unsavory character, " she corrected.

"She's right, you know.  I'm far too unsavory for a woman like you.  "
She rolled her eyes.  "Smooth, Ron sard.  Women probably fall all over
you when you warn them that you're too dangerous for them.  " "Have I
ever mentioned you have this annoying habit of seeing through my ploys?
" he asked conversationally, and they both laughed.

They weren't the only people in the hallway.  They passed several
guests, all of whom had to speak to their host.  One gentleman looked
familiar, and he swept her with a knowing look.  It took her a moment
to place him as the horse-racing afficionado she had met at the prime
minister's ball.  She smiled at him and asked how his horse had
finished in the weekend's race.

"You have a slave for life, " Ron sard said as they continued down the
hall.  "He bores everyone with his talk of horses and racing.  " "I
like horses, " she replied serenely.  "And it doesn't take any more
effort to be nice to someone than it does to be nasty.  " Getting from
one side of the huge villa to the other took some time, especially when
he was continually stopped.  At last, however, they passed into his
private wing, which was guarded by heavy wooden double doors.  "My
suite is here, " he said, indicating another set of double doors on the
left.  He showed her a family dining room, a den that surprised her
with its coziness, a small movie theater, an enormous playroom filled
with all manner of toys and games, a library so packed with books she
doubted he could get another volume on the shelves.  The titles were
both fiction and nonfiction, with an amazing variety of children's
books mixed in.

"This is one of Laure's favorite rooms, " he said.  "She loves to read.
Of course, she has outgrown fairy tales and Dr.  Seuss, but I make
certain there is always a selection of reading material appropriate to
her age.

"How old is she?  " "Twelve.  It's a delightful age.  She's hovering
between childhood and adolescence, unable to decide if she wants to
play with her dolls or experiment with lipstick.  I've forbidden the
lipstick for another year, at least, " he said, his lips quirking.

He turned to her, a smile still on his lips, but his eyes were somehow
looking beyond her.  "Laure is small for her age, " he said.

"Very small.  I want to prepare you.  Her health is .  . . not good.

Every moment I have her is a gift from God.  " An odd thing for a man
like Ron sard to say, but then again, perhaps it wasn't.  He opened a
door into a room so cheerful and charming Niema caught her breath, and
they stepped inside.

"Papa!  " The voice was young, sweet, as pure as the finest crystal.

There was a whirring sound and she came rolling toward them in a
motorized wheelchair, a tiny doll with an animated face and a smile
that lit the world.  An oncygen tank was attached to the back of the
wheelchair, and transparent tubing ran from the tank to her nostrils,
held in place by a narrow band around her head.

"Laure.  " His voice was filled with an aching tenderness.  He leaned
down and kissed her.  He spoke in English.  "This is my friend, Madame
Jamie son.  Niema, this is my heart, my daughter, Laure.  " Niema bent
forward and extended her hand.  "I'm very pleased to meet you, " she
said, also in English.

"And I you, madame.  " The young girl shook Niema's hand, her fingers
were painfully fragile in Niema's careful clasp.  Ron sard had said his
daughter was twelve, she was the size of a six year-old, probably
weighing only about fifty pounds.  She was so very, very thin, her skin
a bluish white.  She had Ron sard's eyes, dark blue and intelligent,
and an angel's smile set in an alabaster face.  Her hair was a silky
light brown, brushed to a careful smoothness and tied back with a
festive bow.

She was wearing lipstick.

Ron sard noticed it the same time Niema did.  "Laure!  " he exclaimed.
He put his hands on his hips and gave her a stern look.  "I forbade you
to wear lipstick.  " She gave him a long-suffering look, as if she
despaired of ever making him understand.  "I wanted to look nice, Papa.
For Madame Jamie son.  " "You are beautiful as you are, you don't need
lipstick.  You are too young for makeup.  " "Yes, but you're my papa, "
she said with unassailable logic.

"You always think I'm beautiful.  " "I think the shade is very
flattering, " Niema said, because females should always stick together.
She wasn't lying, Laure displayed an intelligence beyond her years by
choosing a delicate shade of rose and using only a light application.
Anything more would have looked garish in such an unearthly pale
face.

She ignored the girl's tiny size, what was important here was her mind,
not her body.

Ron sard's eyebrows flew up in disbelief.  "You're taking the part of
this .  . . this disobedient hoyden?  " Laure giggled at hearing
herself described as a hoyden.

Niema met Ron sard's accusing look with an innocent expression and a
shrug.  "Of course.  What did you expect me to do?  " "Agree with him,
" Laure said.  "He expects all of his women to agree with him.  " This
time Ron sard's astonishment wasn't feigned.  Stunned at hearing such a
statement issuing from his innocent daughter's lips, he stared
speechlessly at her.

"But I'm not one of his women, " Niema pointed out.  "I'm just a
friend.  " "He has never brought any of the others to meet me.  Since
he brought you, I thought perhaps he wants you to be my woman.  " Ron
sard made a little choking sound.  Niema ignored him to grin at the
child.

"No, it's nothing like that.  We aren't in love with each other, and
besides, your papa is allergic to marriage.  " "I know, but he would
marry if he thought that was what I want.

He spoils me terribly.  He will get anything I ask for, so I try not to
ask for very much, or he would be too busy to do anything else.  " She
was an alarming blend of childlike innocence and trust, and an
astuteness far beyond her years.  Whatever her physical problems were,
they had forced her to look inward much earlier than young people
usually learned to do.  "While he is recovering, " she said, briskly
turning the wheelchair, "I'll show you my rooms.  " Niema strolled
beside the chair while Laure gave her a guided tour of her suite.
Everything had been specially outfitted so she could reach it from a
wheelchair, and attached to one side of the chair was a long pair of
tongs so she could pick up anything she dropped.  A middle-aged woman
came forward, smiling, to be introduced as Laure's nurse, Bernadette.

Her bedroom opened off Laure's, so she was available during the night
if she was needed.

Anything that could possibly interest a young girl had been made
available.  There were books, movies, dolls, games, samplers she had
made, fashion magazines.  Laure showed all of them to Niema, while Ron
sard trailed behind, bewildered and bemused at being made to feel
unnecessary.

Laure even showed Niema her makeup case.  Ron sard made choking noises
again.  This was not a little girl's pretend makeup, but the real stuff
from Dior, stunningly packaged in a silver train case.  "I ordered it,
" Laure said, unperturbed by her father's horror.  "But nothing looks
right when I put it on.

Even the lipstick is too .  . . too much like a clown.  Today, I rubbed
my finger on the stick, then on my lips.  " "That's good.  It's called
staining, " Niema said, pulling a chair over to sit beside the girl and
taking the train case on her lap.  She began pulling out the sleek
containers of makeup.

"Makeup is like anything else, it takes practice-to use.  And some
things will never look good because they don't flatter your coloring.

You learn by experimenting.  Would you like me to show you?  " "Oh,
please, " Laure said eagerly, leaning forward.

"I forbid it, " Ron sard said, with more desperation than sternness.

"She is too young--" "Louis, " Niema interrupted.  "Go away.  This is
girl stuff.  " He didn't go away.  He sat down, a charmingly helpless
expression on his face, watching as Niema demonstrated how to use each
item.

A pink blush was much too dark for that white face.  Niema took a
tissue and wiped most of it off, leaving only a delicate tint.

"Remember, none of this sets into stone when you apply it.  If it is
too much, wipe part of it off.  I always have a tissue and cotton swabs
with me when I put on makeup, so I can make the effect more subtle.  Do
you see my eyeliner?  " She leaned closer, and Laure nodded as she
stared hard at Niema's eyes.

"I use a black pencil, like this--very soft, so it doesn't pull my
skin.  Then I use a swab to wipe most of it away, so it's barely
noticeable.  But my coloring is dark, while yours is fair, so black
would be too harsh for you.  When you are old enough to start wearing
eyeliner, use a soft gray or taupe--" The makeup lesson went on, with
Laure hanging on every word.  Under Niema's tutelage, very little was
actually applied to the small, skeletal face, just the merest hint of
color.  Laure peered in a mirror, studied herself, and smiled.  "Now I
don't look so ill, " she said with satisfaction.  "Thank you very much,
Madame Jamie son.  Were you watching, Papa?  " "Yes, I was watching. 
It looks very nice, but--" "If I die, I want you to make certain
someone puts makeup on me just like this.  I do not want to look sick
when I reach Heaven.  " All the color drained out of Ron sard's face. 
Niema felt stricken on his behalf, but also for this little girl who
had never in her life knownXwhat it was to enjoy good health, to run
and play like other children.

"I won't wear it now, I promise, " she said.  "Not even lipstick,
though I do like it.  But .  . . iM Promise me, Papa.  " "I promise.  "
His voice sounded hoarse, strained, unlike Ron sard's normal suave
tones.

She reached over and patted his knee, the child comforting the parent.
"You may take the case, " she said, "and keep it safe for me.

That way you will always know where it is.  " He lifted her out of the
wheelchair and settled her on his lap, taking care not to dislodge the
oxygen tube.  She was so frail, so tiny, her legs dangled like a
kindergartner's.  He couldn't speak for a moment, his dark head bent so
that his cheek rested on the top of her head.  "You won't need it for a
long, long time, " he finally said.

"I know.  " Her eyes, though, held a different knowledge.

She seemed to be tiring.  He touched her cheek.  "Do you want to lie
down for a while?  " "On the longue, " she said.  "There is a movie I
wish to see.  " Bernadette came over and pushed the wheelchair and its
container of oxygen while he carried Laure to the plush chaise longue
and carefully placed her on it.  Under the rose stain, the child's lips
held a tinge of blue.  He covered her legs with a soft blanket while
Bernadette arranged the pillows just so, propping her in a comfortable
position.

"There!  " she said, squirming back against the pillows.  "I am in the
perfect position for watching movies.  " She gave-him a sly look.

"It is a romance.  " He had recovered his aplomb.  "You will give me
gray hair, " he announced, feigning a scowl.  "A romance!  " "With sex,
" she added mischievously.

"Tell me no more, " he said, holding up his hands as if to ward off
anything else she might say.  "I don't want to know.  A papa can bear
only so much.  Tell Madame Jamie son good day, and we'll leave you to
your romance.  " Laure held out her hand.  "Good day, madame.  That was
fun!  Will you visit me again?  " "Of course, " Niema said, smiling
despite the ache in her chest.

"I've very much enjoyed meeting you, mademoiselle.

Your papa is lucky to have you as his daughter.  " Laure looked up at
her father, and again the expression in her eyes was far too old for
her years.  "I am the one who is lucky, " she said.

He kissed her, touched her cheek, and left her with a smile.  His grip
on Niema's hand, however, was almost bone shattering.

When they were out in the hallway, he said, "Dieu, " in a stifled tone,
and bent over from the waist, bracing his hands on his knees while he
took deep breaths.

Niema automatically reached out to offer him comfort.  She hesitated,
her hand in midair, then lightly touched his back.

After a moment he straightened and walked farther down the hall away
from Laure's rooms before he spoke again.

"Sometimes it is more than I can bear, " he said, his voice still
constrained.  "I apologize.  I hadn't realized she--I've tried to keep
from her how very ill she is, but she's so intelligent .  . . " The
words trailed off.

"What's wrong with her?  " Niema asked gently There was a decanter of
liquor and a set of glasses on a side table.  She went over to it and
poured him a hefty portion of whatever liquor it was.  He downed it
without question.

"Too much, " he said, turning the empty glass around and around in his
hands.  "If it was any one thing, there would be things that could be
done.  She has a defective heart, only one kidney, and cystic fibrosis.
The CF seems to affect her digestive system more than her lungs, or she
likely would have already--" He broke off, his throat working. "There
are new drugs that help, but it's still so difficult for her to get the
nutrients she needs.  She eats constantly, but she doesn't grow and
doesn't gain weight.  What growth she has had strains her heart.  A
heart transplant is out of the question because of the cystic fibrosis.
" He gave a bitter little smile that wasn't a smile at all.

"Finding a suitable heart is almost impossible.  She would have to have
a young child's heart, because of her size, and donor hearts from
children are rare.  And her blood type is A negative, which narrows the
chance of finding a heart almost to zero.  Even if one came available,
the opinion of the medical establishment is that a healthy heart
shouldn't be wasted on someone who .  . . who has so many other
problems.  " There was nothing to say.  She couldn't offer meaningless
phrases of hope when Laure's condition couldn't get much more
hopeless.

"I've been trying to find a heart on the black market for years.  " He
stared blindly at the glass in his hands.  "I pour money into research
on genetic treatments for CF, on new drugs, anything that will buy her
some time.  If I can fix just one thing--just one!  " he said fiercely.
"Then she will have a cnance.

Realization slammed into her like a blow.  "That's why you--" She
stopped, not needing to finish the sentence.

He finished it for her.  "Became an illegal arms dealer?  Yes.  I had
to have enormous sums of money, and quickly.  The choice was drugs or
weapons.  I chose weapons.  If anything-anything--happens that will
increase her chances, whether it's a heart miraculously coming
available or a new treatment, I have to be ready immediately with the
cash.  The research is also hideously expensive.  " He shrugged.  "She
is my child, " he said simply.  "The devil may have my soul, but he's
welcome to it if she can live.  " She had known there were layers to
him.  Except for his occupation, he had seemed to be an honorable man,
as if he completely separated the two halves of his life.  What he did
was abhorrent, but he did it out of his consuming love for his child.
She ached for him, and for Laure.

"What of Laure's mother?  " "She was a .  . . passing fancy.  She
didn't want to have the baby, but I convinced her to carry it to term.
I paid all of her expenses and gave her a large lump sum for her
trouble.  I don't believe she ever saw Laure.  The doctors told her the
baby probably would not live, and she left.  I brought Laure home with
me.

"I wasn't poor.  My family was more than comfortable.  But it wasn't
enough, not if I wanted my baby to live.  So I used my entree into the
Parisian upper crust to both provide contacts and protect my efforts.
Don't look at me with such heartbreak in your eyes, my dear.

I'm not gallant or tragic, I'm ruthless ill and pragmatic.  My one true
vulnerability is my daughter, and for her I am putty, as you saw.  She
can be quite ruthless in handling me, a quality she doubtless inherited
from me.  " "The heartbreak is for her, not you, " Niema said tartly.
"You made your choice.  " "I would make the same choice again, as I
told you before.

And you might do the same.  " He eyed her, a cynical smile hovering on
his mouth.  "You never know what you might do until your child is
involved.  " She couldn't argue with that, not if she were honest.  She
wasn't the type of person who could accept, without a fight, her
child's death sentence.  If possible she would move heaven and earth,
and if it wasn't possible she would try anyway.  That was what Ron sard
had done.

Though she didn't agree with his path, his reaction was the same as
hers would have been.

He set the glass down with a decisive thunk and got to his feet.

He ran his fingers through his loosened hair and worked his shoulders
as if loosening tense muscles.  "I have a hundred guests waiting for
me, " he said.  "Perhaps I should begin fulfilling my duties as host.

But I wanted you to meet Laure, and .  . . know that part of me.  Thank
you for taking the time to show her about the makeup.  I had no idea. "
"How could you?  " Niema's heart broke all over again, thinking of the
young girl who wanted to look her best when she died.

"I forbid you to cry.  " She squared her shoulders.  "I'm not crying.
But I will if I want to, and you can't stop me.  " He held up his
hands.  "I surrender.  Come, let's rejoin the party.  " As they left
his private wing, a tall, blonde Valkyrie of a woman approached.  "I
hate to disturb you, " she said to Ron sard.  Her accent was pure
American.  "But several details have come up that need your attention.
" He nodded.  "Niema, this is Cara Smith, my secretary.  Cara, Niema
Jamie son.  Will you excuse me, my dear?  " he asked Niema.  "Duty
calls.  " "Certainly.  " Niema watched him stride off down the stairs,
with Cara half a step behind him.  She noted the direction in which he
went, his office must be on the first floor, then, and in the west
wing.

She ached with sympathy for both him and Laure.  That would not,
however, get in the way of her doing her job.

She walked casually in the same direction, but by the time she crossed
the huge central foyer he wasn't in sight.  They had disappeared
through one of several doors, and it would be too obvious if she walked
through the villa opening all the doors.

But at least she now had a general idea of his office's location.

She would try to get him to give her a guided tour of the main floor,
and surely he would indicate which room was his office.

Tomorrow, John would arrive.  If she already had the location, they
could possibly plant the bug and copy Ron sard's files tomorrow
night.

Anticipation zinged through her.  John would be here tomorrow.

Chapter eighteen.

It was ten o'clock at night when John drove up to Ron sard's estate.
The grounds were so wellElit that he could see the glow from several
miles away.  The curving drive led him to a set of double gates, which
remained closed as he approached.  When he stopped, a uniformed guard
came out to shine a flashlight in John's face, ask his name, and see
his identity.  Silently John reached inside his tuxedo jacket and
produced his ID.  He didn't give his name verbally, an omission that
made the guard glance sharply at him, then step away to speak into the
two-way radio he carried.

A moment later, he gave a signal and the gates swung open.

The signal, John surmised, meant that the guard on the outside couldn't
open the gates himself.  He had to give the okay cO to someone else
inside, which eliminated the chance that he could be overpowered and
access gained to the estate.

He gave John another hard look as he leaned down to return the
identification to him.  John returned the look without expression, then
drove through the gates.

He stopped the car in front of a massive curving entry and got out.
Immediately a pair of red-jacketed valets approached, one got out his
luggage, while the other gave him a ticket, got into the car, and drove
it away.  It would probably receive a thorough search while it was in
their possession, John thought.

His luggage, too.

Let them search.  They wouldn't get any information from it, not even
his fingerprints.  He had carefully sprayed his fingertips with a
clear-coat gel that hardened and provided a smooth finish.  It was thin
and very nearly undetectable to the touch and would come off when he
washed his hands with hot water.

A cold-water wash wouldn't disturb the gel.

The spray was a vast improvement over the methods he had used in the
past, sometimes he would dip his fingertips into puddles of melted wax,
but the wax wasn't very durable.  For a brief job or an emergency,
however, it would do.  Another trick was to paint his fingertips with a
thick application of clear fingernail polish, but he had to have time
for it to dry or that was useless.  Band-Aids wrapped around each
finger were a quick and effective method of hiding his prints, but
someone with bandages on every finger was noticeable--at least, if that
someone was over three years old.

As he mounted the steps, a tall, tuxedo-clad man approached.  "Mr.

Temple, " he said in a crisp British accent.  "ML Ron sard will see you
now.  Follow me, please.  " John silently followed, not inclined to
exchange pleasantries.  He could hear music, and people in formal dress
stood AlZ tne queen s iv len in small groups, laughing and chattering
in a mix of languages.

The women glittered in jewels, and so did some of the men.

His own tuxedo was severely cut, without a frill or ruffle in sight,
but the cut and fit shouted that it was custom made for him.

Several women glanced his way, then looked again.

When he wanted, he could pass through a crowd completely unnoticed, but
tonight he wanted people to notice.  He walked with a silent, graceful
saunter, like a panther that has seen its prey but knows there's no
need to hurry.

The elegant flunky led him to a small anteroom off the foyer.  The room
was comfortably furnished with a sofa and two wing-back chairs, a cozy
little selection of books, a small fireplace, and a selection of
spirits.  Considering that the room was no more than eight feet square,
and that the door had a sturdy lock, John guessed that it was there
more for quick and furtive lovemaking than it was for any other
purpose.  A good host always provided for his guests, after all.

"Monsieur Temple.  " Ron sard rose to his feet as John entered.  He
nodded a dismissal at the other man, who silently closed the door
behind him as he left.  "I am Louis Ron sard.  " He extended his hand,
every inch a gracious host.

John let a fraction of a second lapse before he took Ron sard's hand.
Not a flicker of expression crossed his face.  "Why am I here?  " he
finally asked, his tone low and controlled.

"This .  . . meeting wasn't necessary.  " "I think it is.  " Ron sard
was slick about it, but he was carefully studying John's face.  "I
don't like dealing with unknown factors.

Moreover, you knew about a compound that is very new and supposed to be
unknown.  Would you mind telling me how you came to hear of it?  " John
regarded him silently, eyes at half-mast.  "I don't like to be called
by name in the middle of a crowd, and my definition, of a crowd is any
number greater than two.  " Let Ron sard wait for his answers, he
wasn't in the mood to be cooperative.

"I assure you, no one here has any idea who you are.  " "And I assure
you, there's always at least one person at parties like this who is
making a list of names, to be sold afterward.  " "I deal harshly with
betrayal, " Ron sard said softly.  Evidently deciding Temple wasn't a
man who could be charmed, impressed, or intimidated, he indicated the
chairs.  "Please, be seated.  Would you like a drink?  " John chose one
of the wing-back chairs.  "I don't drink.  " Ron sard paused with his
hand on a decanter, his eyebrows liftedv then moved his hand to a
bottle and poured himself a small amount of wine.

"I apologize if you think coming here has jeopardized your cover.

But I'm a cautious man too, and handling this compound is not without
its own risk.  I do so only when I am assured that this is a legitimate
order and that I am not being set up.  So, given the secrecy
surrounding the compound, I think you understand why I am interested in
learning how you heard of it.  " John steepled his fingers, staring
unblinkingly at Ron sard for a long moment.  He saw Ron sard's gaze
flicker to the ring of entwined snakes on his left hand.  "Flight 183,
" he finally said.

"The plane crash?  Yes, that was unfortunate.  I suspected it was a . .
. test, shall we say?  I wasn't aware beforehand.  " "I don't care if
it was a test or not.  It worked.  " "But how did you find what
explosive was used?  " "I .  . . obtained a copy of the NTSB
preliminary chemical analysis.  I have access to a very good lab in
Switzerland.  The chemical fingerprint was similar to RDX.  The NTSB
found no Al tne vueen's iv len evidence of a detonator.  It's self
explanatory, " John said, his tone bored.

"Do you really think I would believe you put all this together by
extrapolation?  " Ron sard smiled gently.  "No, someone told you.  A
second party has also approached me wanting to buy a quantity of the
compound, someone who has no access to the NTSB.  How could he know,
unless by the same leak?  " "Ernst Morrell, " John supplied.  "I told
him.  " Ron sard stared at him a moment, then drank his wine.  "You
surprise me, " he murmured.

"Morrell will provide a .  . . distraction.  Anything that happens will
be laid at his feet.  " "So he is a decoy.  " Ron sard shook his head,
smiling.  "Mr.

Temple, I salute you.  That is truly devious.  " John relaxed, subtly
but visibly.  The stony expression on his face eased.  He let himself
blink.  "If I'm lucky, the bastard will blow himself up.  If I'm not
lucky, he'll still bring so much heat down on himself he'll be caught.
Either way, he won't step on my toes again.  " "So you've met Morrell
before?  " "No, but he's a blundering idiot.  He interfered in a job. "
Ron sard laughed, his handsome face lit with real amusement.

"Monsieur Temple, I think it will be a pleasure doing business with
you.  We'll talk more, but I've been away from my guests too long, and
I must get back to them.  Come, I'll introduce you around.  "
"Introduce me as Mr.  Smith.  " "Smith, " Ron sard repeated.  He still
looked amused.  "That's my secretary's last name as well.  " "Maybe
we're related.  " They drew more than one interested gaze when they
left the anteroom.  John walked with his host across the huge foyer and
into a glittering ballroom.  They stopped at the top of three shallow
steps, looking out over the crowd.  Enormous crystal chandeliers hung
overhead, glittering like diamonds, and a wall of French glass doors
had been opened to the night.  People moved around the room, out to the
patio, back in, in a constant motion that reminded him of a hive.

He looked casually around, not letting his gaze rest on anyone in
particular, but he spotted Niema almost immediately.

An industrialist approached Ron sard and made polite chitchat for a
moment, then waited expectantly for

"II introduction.

John had met the man before, but he'd been using a different name at
the time, and with his appearance altered, his hair had been gray and
he had worn brown contacts.  The industrialist thought he was shaking
hands with a total stranger.

A voluptuous redhead, her breasts all but bared in a skintight emerald
green gown, was the next to attach herself to Ron sard's arm and angle
for an introduction.  Ron sard, obviously amused, obliged.  John became
his most impassive, not responding to any of the woman's flirtatious
remarks.  For all her obviousness, she was no fool, after a few minutes
she switched her flirtatious ness to Ron sard, who smiled and flattered
her, all the while with that look of amusement still in his eyes.

After the woman left, they were briefly alone.  John let his gaze sweep
the ballroom once again, and he went still.

Ron sard noticed immediately, of course.  "Do you see someone you know?
" he asked, becoming subtly more alert as he looked around.

"No.  " The word sounded as if it were being dragged out of John's
throat.  "Someone I'm going to know.  That woman-who is she?  " "Who? "
"Dark hair, blue gown.  Wearing pearls.  She's talking to the tall
blonde woman.  " Ron sard's search narrowed on Niema.  His face
hardened as he realized she was the woman John had noticed.  "She's
with me, " he said in succinct warning.

John spared his host only a glance before once more focusing on her He
let himself greedily drink her in, admiring the way the soft light
gleamed on her bare shoulders.  "Are you going to marry her?  " he
asked almost absently.

Ron sard gave a short, hard laugh.  "No, of course not.  " "I am.  "
The soft words lay between them like stones.  Anger darkened Ron sard's
eyes.  "She's a friend, one I've come to cherish.

She isn't for the likes of us.  " "Perhaps not for you.  If you had
some claim on her, I'd back off, but you've admitted you don't.  She's
free--but not for long.  " Ron sard was a consummate businessman.  He
was also astute enough to realize the man called Temple wasn't someone
who could be intimidated.  He took a deep breath, reaching for control.
"I don't brawl over women, " he said.  "But neither will I allow you to
force yourself on her.  I say this because she .  . . isn't receptive. 
She is a widow, and still very much in love with her dead husband. 
Even if she wasn't, she is one of the few principled people of my
acquaintance.

She frowns on people such as you and I. " "She turned you down, " John
stated.

"Flat.  " For a moment humor quirked Ron sard's mouth.  "I like her.

I won't have her hurt.  " "Neither will I. " Into the silence that fell
between them Ron sard said, , "You've astonished me.  I wouldn't have
expected you to become enamored of any woman, especially at first
sight.  It seems out of character.  " "It is.  " John drew a deep
breath and let all the pent-up hunger of the past five years burn in
his eyes.  "It is, " he repeated.

"Introduce me.  " "I think I will, " Ron sard mused.  "This should be
amusing.  " Niema saw the two tall, broad-shouldered men cutting their
way through the crowd.  Ron sard looked as dashing and debonair as
usual, his long dark hair free on his shoulders, but it was the
predator beside him who took her breath.  John looked severe,
dangerous, somehow different.  His blue gaze was focused on her like a
laser Startled, she actually took a step back, her hand lifting to the
pearls around her neck.

She hadn't seen him in over a week.  She wasn't prepared for the sudden
impact of sensation, like a punch in the stomach.

All the times before when she had seen him he had muted the dangerous
power of his personality, she realized, because the full strength of it
was blasting at her now.

His gaze swept down her and she felt as if he had stripped her naked,
as if he were about to eat her alive.  She tried to look away from him,
tried to compose herself, but she couldn't.  Excitement sang along her
nerves.  He was here, and the game had truly begun.

"Niema.  " They had reached her, so tall their shoulders blocked out
the rest of the room, even though she was wearing heels.  Ron sard took
her hand and pressed a brief kiss on her knuckles.  "My dear, this is
Mr.  Smith, who begged me for an introduction.  Mr.  Smith, Niema Jamie
son.  " "Niema.  " John said her name as if he tasted it.

"Mr.  --Mr.  Smith.  " She could barely speak.  Her throat had
inexplicably tightened.  She flashed a helpless look at Ron sard, who
didn't look at all pleased by her reaction.  She couldn't understand it
herself.  She knew it played well with John's plans, but .  . . she
wasn't acting.

"Joseph, " said John.

"I--I beg your pardon?  " "My name is Joseph.  " "Joseph .  . . Joseph
Smith?  " She blinked, trying to swallow the sudden bubble of laughter.
At least he hadn't chosen Brigham Young for a name.  "You're an
American.  " "Yes.  " Somehow he had her hand, his fingers hard and
strong around hers.  "Dance with me.  " It was more command than
invitation.

She gave Ron sard another dazed, helpless look, but this one I, was
over her shoulder as John led her onto the dance floor.  He didn't just
put his hand on her back, he put his arm around her waist and pulled
her close, anchoring her to him.  He clasped her hand in his free one,
holding it against his chest.

He began moving in a smooth rhythm and she had no choice but to
follow.

He bent his head close to hers.  "I fell in love with you on sight, "
he murmured.

"Did you?  " She quivered as she fought back another laugh.

"Joseph Smith?  " She ducked her head against his shoukler to hide her
expression.  She had been bored, chatting with people with whom she had
nothing in common, but now energy was flowing through every cell in her
body.

"Joseph Temple, actually.  I told him to introduce me as Mr.  Smith.  "
"Temple, " she repeated, burning the name in her brain cells.

The one thing she couldn't do was slip up and call him John.

"Where's your room?  " "It's in the east wing.  It's called the Garden
room, and it has its own private balcony.  " She had counted the doors,
so she could tell him exactly how to reach it.  "Go up the stairs, take
the hallway to the right.  Go down ten doors, turn left, and it's the
third door on the right.  " "Leave the balcony doors unlocked.  " "Why?
 Locks don't mean anything to you.  " His arm tightened around her
waist in a punishing squeeze for her teasing.  Beneath the silk of his
tuxedo, his chest was like iron.  He was holding her so closely her
breasts were flattened against him.  The heat of his body seeped
through the layers of clothing between them, and the scent of him
wrapped around her, warm and masculine and flavored with some subtle
cologne.

"You're holding me too close, " she said, faint panic welling up in
her, because the pleasure she felt was far from safe.  Her hands pushed
against his chest, not hard enough to be noticeable but enough to lever
her upper body an inch away from him.

He simply gathered her back in, the strength in his arms overpowering
her without effort.  "I'm in love with you, remember?  And you're
helplessly fascinated by me.  " How did he know?  The question seared
through her brain, a split second before she remembered the scenario
they were enacting.

The pattern of the dance had brought them near the open French doors.
He made a swooping turn and she found herself out on the patio.

The night was warm, but still cooler, and much fresher, than the air
inside, with so many people in one room.  There were people sitting at
the small tables scattered about the patio, talking and laughing, but
the noise level dropped dramatically.

He stopped dancing and led her down the steps into the garden.

The sweet, peppery scent of roses filled the air.  Small gravel
crunched under their shoes as they walked a little way down one of the
paths.  Though the grounds were too well-lit for there to be complete
darkness, the garden provided at least some semblance of privacy.

"This is far enough, " John said, stopping and turning to face her.

"He can still see us.  " Before she had any idea what he was about to
do, he framed her face with his hands and kissed her.

Automatically her hands came up and locked around his wrists.  Her
breath stopped for two long heartbeats, and her knees went weak.  She
felt as if he were supporting her only with the warm clasp of his hands
on her face, though the pressure was too light to do any such thing.

His kiss was light at first, a tender tasting, an exploration.

She stood motionless, dazzled by the pleasure of the simple caress,
then returned it with gentle pressure.  He slanted his head more and
deepened the kiss, his tongue probing her mouth.  Then something hot
exploded inside her, and she sagged against him.  He released her face
and folded her in his arms, tighter than before, closer, so close she
was welded to him from breast to thigh.

His mouth was ravaging, devouring.  He kissed her the way he shouldn't,
the way she hadn't let herself imagine, deeply, intensely, the way a
man kissed a woman right before he rolled her on her back and slid
between her legs.  And she accepted those kisses, welcomed them,
returned them.  Her tongue played with his, her arms lifted to twine
tightly around his neck.  Her body reached to his, and she discovered
he was rock hard, his erection pressed against her stomach.

The discovery so shocked her that she tore herself out of his arms,
staggering back.  He grabbed her arm to steady her, then immediately
let his hand fall to his side.  They faced each other in the scented
garden, the dimness of the light not dim enough.  She could see the
cool, focused expression in his eyes, and the realization was another
punch in the stomach.  Those kisses had rocked her foundation, but
John, despite the automatic response of his body, had only been doing
his job.  Working.  Pretending to be smitten.

And Ron sard was watching them, weighing what had just happened.

Niema swallowed, trying to decide what she should do.  Slap
John's--Temple's--face?  She had been a willing participant, and Niema
Jamie son wasn't a hypocrite.

Forget Niema Jamie son, she was too shattered to play a role right now.
She reached down into who she really was, Niema Burdock, and found that
the two women were much the same.

Had John planned that deliberately, made Niema Jamie son's history so
close to her own so she was essentially playing herself?

But it was Niema Burdock who gathered her dignity around her, turned,
and walked quietly away.  No histrionics.  She made her way back up the
path toward the patio and saw that Ron sard was indeed standing just
outside the ballroom doors, watching them.  With the bright light
behind him, she couldn't read his expression, but she braced herself
and approached him.

He was silent, looking down at her.  She met his gaze, inwardly
flinching at the cynical disillusionment she knew she would see there,
but instead all she could find was concern.

Her lips trembled, and suddenly tears blurred her vision.

"Oh, God, " she whispered.  "How?  " Ron sard extended his arm to her
and she took it, and he walked her back inside as if nothing had
happened.  He didn't appear to hurry, but still their progress across
the crowded room was mercifully fast.  Her fingers dug into his arm as
she clung for support.  Her legs were shaking.  Her entire body was
shaking, fine tremors rocking her muscles.

A sumptuous buffet had been set out in another room, with tables set
for those guests who wished to eat.  there, or they could take their
plates out onto the patio or into the pool courtyard.  Ron sard settled
her at one of the empty tables and went to the buffet, where he loaded
two plates and brought them back.  At a signal from him, a waiter
appeared with two glasses of champagne.

"I noticed earlier you weren't drinking, " he said.  "Try it, my
champagne is infinitely superior to that swill the prime minister
served.  Besides"--he gave a crooked smile--"you need the sedative.  "
She drank the champagne and ate the strawberries on her plate.

He cajoled her into trying the delicious pate, too, though her throat
kept threatening to close.

"I see I was too much of a gentleman, " he said, amusement rich in his
voice and eyes.  "I should have simply grabbed you and kissed you,
overwhelmed you with my animal magnetism.

But really, my dear, that isn't my style.  " "I--I didn't think it was
mine, either" She could barely speak.

"One can never predict chemistry, though somehow we always
underestimate it.  " He patted her hand.  "And now I'm going to do
something I have never thought I would do.  I'm so astonished at myself
I may never recover.  " "What?  " Ron sard's humor had a steadying
effect on her.  So she had responded to John with a shattering
intensity--that was what she was supposed to do.  It was part of their
scheme.

John wouldn't, couldn't, know that there hadn't been anything
deliberate about her response, that for a few searing, moments she had
been lost in the physical pleasure she had been trying to resist since
the moment John Medina had reappeared in her life.

"Mr.  Smith--" "He told me his real name, " she broke in, rubbing the
spot between her eyebrows, partly to shield her expression and partly
because tension was beginning to give her a slight headache.

"Then .  . . you know he wouldn't be using a pseudonym if there wasn't
good cause.  He isn't a celebrity, my dear, quite the opposite.

Every law enforcement agency in the world would love to have him in its
custody.  " She stared at him while she pretended to work it through.

"He--he's a terrorist?  " Her voice was almost soundless.

Ron sard let his silence answer for him.

She drank more champagne, but that didn't loosen the knot in her
throat.  "He's the only man I've kissed since my husband--" Five
years.

Five years since Dallas had died, and she hadn't been able to feel even
a flicker of response to any of the very nice men she had occasionally
dated.  She hadn't been able to let any of them kiss her, not because
it felt like a betrayal, but because it hadn't seemed fair to them to
pretend even that much.  The lines between role and reality had blurred
again, with Niema Burdock speaking, trying to work her way through what
had happened to her in John Medina's arms.

"I can't stay here, " she said, surging to her feet.  "I'm going to my
room.  Louis--" "I understand.  " He rose too, his handsome face full
of concern.  "I can't tell you want to do, my dear, the decision is
yours.

But make it with all the facts in your possession, and no matter what
your answer is, I'll always cherish your friendship.  " God, how could
he be so nice in so many ways, and still be what he was?  The puzzle of
Louis Ron sard wasn't any closer to being solved than it was the day
she met him.  But for all the vividness of his character, she was
losing her focus on him, had been from the moment she saw him walking
toward her with John beside him.

Blindly she groped for his hand, squeezing it hard.  "Thank you, " she
said, and fled.

. . Chapter nineteen.

It was three A. M. when she saw the curtains by the balcony doors
flutter.  Niema was lying in the dark, unable to sleep, waiting for
John to appear.  She didn't hear anything, there was only that small
flutter to signal his arrival, then his black shape silhouetted against
the faint light coming through the glass behind him.

She sat up and tugged her robe, the most substantial one she had, more
tightly around her.  The room was dark and he couldn't see her any
better than she could see him, but she felt she needed every bit of
protection she could muster.  He crossed the room with eerie stealth
and accuracy, approaching the high four-poster bed.  He leaned over and
put his mouth against her ear.

"Have you swept the room?  " "I checked it when I got here, " she
whispered back.  "I figured if the place was wired, it was part of the
security system rather than a patch job.  It's clean.  " "Mine wasn't.
" "Permanent or patched?  " "Permanent.  He wants to keep tabs on
whomever he puts in that room.  Probably other guest rooms in this
place are wired, too, and he decides who he wants to stay in them.  "
The mattress dipped as he sat down on the side of the bed.

She felt a brief flare of panic and fought it down.  After all, there
wouldn't be any point in kissing her now, when there wasn't anyone else
around to see.

"Are you okay with what happened this evening?  " he asked, an edge of
concern in his voice.  "You looked stunned.  I thought you understood
the plan.  " "I guess I didn't quite get it, " she managed to say and
fought to keep her tone even.  "Everything's okay, though, I can handle
it.  " His face was a pale blur in the darkness, but still, now that he
was this close, she could pick out his features and feel the heat from
his leg even through the bed clothes as his thigh pressed against her
hip.

"As it turned out, that was the perfect reaction.  You played it just
right.  " Only she hadn't been playing.  She had managed to keep her
presence of mind, but she hadn't pretended anything.  The power of her
response to John had been real, and that was what was frightening.  As
long as he thought her distress was caused only by surprise, though,
she didn't feel as exposed.

"Everything's okay, " she repeated, and in quiet desperation changed
the subject.  "What's the plan for tomorrow?  " "Ron sard and I will
talk business.  If I'm lucky, it'll be in his office.  If not, then
I'll have to find it some other way.  " "I can give you the general
location.  It's in the west wing, ground floor And he has a secretary,
Cara Smith, so she may be in the office even if he isn't.  " "Then
we'll have to keep track of both of them.  I'll figure out some way to
keep them occupied.  I'll locate the office tomorrow, check out the
security system, then we'll go in tomorrow night.  You plant the bug, I
copy the files, and we're out without anyone knowing.  " If everything
went according to plan, that is.  Anything could happen, as she had
already learned far too well.

"I brought you a little present.  " There was a faint rustle of
clothing, then metal, warm from his body, was pressed into her hand.

Automatically she closed her fingers around the grip of the pistol.

"It's a SIG .  380 caliber, smaller than the one you practiced with,
but that just means it'll be easier to conceal.  " "I'll tuck it in my
bodice, " she said dryly, because the thing still weighed over a pound
and was at least six and a half inches long.

Until the pistol was in her hand, she hadn't been aware of a nagging,
low-level sense of alarm, but now she felt something inside her
relaxing.  She had never carried a weapon in her life, not even in
Iran, because that would have given away her disguise, how had she
become so rapidly accustomed to being armed?

He gave a low laugh.  "That's my girl.  " There was warm approval in
his voice.  He patted her thigh.  "I'll see you in a few hours.

What are you doing tomorrow?  What time do you get up?  " "I'm going to
sleep as late as I can.  " since she hadn't slept any yet that night,
she figured she would need all she could get.  "I don't have any plans
beyond that, though.  " "Meet me for lunch, then.  " "Where?  " "The
pool courtyard, one o'clock.  " "Any reason for that particular place?
" There had to be, John never did anything without a reason.

"See you, get in a swim, let Ron sard see the scar on my shoulder as a
little extra reassurance.  " "You don't have a scar on your shoulder, "
she said automatically, and wished she hadn't, because it revealed how
closely she had looked at him when he took off his shirt that day they
had been working out.

"No, but Joseph Temple does.  " So he must have a fake scar, as part of
his disguise.  She remembered that he had looked different, too, when
Ron sard introduced him, but she couldn't put her finger on exactly
what the differences were.  "What else have you done?  You're not the
same. " "I changed my hairline a little, made my brows straighter, put
thin rolls of cotton in my jaw to change the shape.  " "How long have
you been building Joseph Temple's cover?  " "Years.  At first he was
only a name on a file, but gradually I circulated him more, and added a
few details of description, a photo that didn't give away much.  But it
was enough to let Ron sard compare hairlines, and I imagine he has.  "
"But he'll have a photo of you now, " she said.  "You know he will.

He wouldn't pass up an opportunity like this.  " "It doesn't matter" He
stood up.  "Temple won't exist after he leaves here.  " What was it
like, she wondered, to build identities as if they were changes of
clothing, putting them on for just a little while and then discarding
them?  Did he leave pieces of himself behind?  Somehow lose just a
little bit more of who he really was each time he became someone
else?

As he moved toward the balcony, she thought of something.

"How did you get up here?  " "I didn't.  I got down.  I came from the
roof.  " With those words he slipped through the doors and
disappeared.

Niema got up and locked the balcony doors, then returned to bed.

She was so tired she ached, but despite her plans to sleep late she
wasn't certain she could sleep at all.  The next twenty-four hours were
crucial, the reason she had agreed to this elaborate charade.  She had
to keep her mind on the job, and not on John.  After this was over and
she was back home, and he was gone from her life again, then she would
let herself think about him because then it wouldn't matter--he would
be gone.

Cara Smith always enjoyed Louis's house parties.  She loved dressing
up, loved the glitter and sophistication and sheer luxury.  It was like
something out of a fairy tale, watching men in tuxedos whirl women in
jewels around a polished ballroom floon Because she was so tall she
seldom wore high heels, but for these posh occasions she put on
three-inch pumps, which lifted her way over most people's heads, and
eye-to-eye with Louis himself.  Her legs looked as if they were six
feet long, an illusion she heightened by wearing dresses that were slit
up the side and exposed long, narrow strips of flesh when she walked.

But that was for night.  During the day she still worked at keeping
Louis's correspondence up to date, paying bills--it always surprised
her that billionaires had bills, but she guessed some things were
impossible to escape.  She also had to handle the phones, and notify
Louis of any business that cropped up, any problems that needed
handling.  But her hours were abbreviated, and for the most part she
played with the guests.  She swam, played tennis and billiards, and
listened to gossip.  She never failed to be amazed by the intimate
details and government secrets people blabbed at parties, especially to
tall, leggy blondes, as if she wasn't expected to have a brain in her
head--which was, of course, why Louis let her play instead of work.

She'd learned a lot of interesting stuff during these house parties.

She was fascinated by that Temple man.  Few males compared with Louis
in terms of elegance and sophistication.  But he did.  And he looked so
damned cool and contained--he was a very still man, his few gestures
controlled and minimal, with little expression on his face.

With that kind of control over his body, she bet he could last for
hours in bed.  She thought of being the woman on the receiving end of
all that control and went all shivery.

On the other hand, Cara was astute about which men were attracted to
her, and Temple wasn't.  She and a bunch of other people, including
Louis, had seen him in the garden putting the move on the Jamie son
woman.  She had wondered how Louis would handle that, considering he
had shown more attention to Mrs.  Jamie son than to any other woman she
could remember, but Louis was Louis--one woman didn't mean that much to
him.  She knew for a fact he hadn't slept alone last night, while Mrs.
Jamie son had chickened out and left the party early, to hide out in
her room.  Boy, if she'd been in Mrs.  Jamie son's place, she wouldn't
have chickened out.

She'd have grabbed that man by the bow tie and ridden him for all he
was worth.

But she had her eye on another guy, as a consolation prize.

He was rich, he wasn't bad looking, and he did something in the French
defense department, or whatever they called it.

He'd have lots of interesting things to tell her.  From the way his
wife hung on to him, he had something of interest in his pants, too.

She had seen him eyeing her, so she figured he'd find a way to escape
from the little woman for a while.

All the Queen's Men She couldn't wait.  She hadn't had sex in--well,
she couldn't remember exactly how long, but she knew it was too long.

Damn Hossam and his jealousy!  She'd been trying to wean him away, let
him down gently, but he just wouldn't go away.  She hadn't slept with
him, but in the interest of keeping things calm she hadn't slept with
anyone else, either.  She didn't want to stir up trouble among the guys
in Louis's security guard, because Louis wouldn't thank her for it.

She played a game of tennis at nine, and ML Defense Department showed
up, sans wifey.  Cara flirted outrageously with him, until she noticed
a tall, mustachioed man, wearing a suit and sunglasses, watching them
from the west patio.  Hossam.  Damn it, if she took him to her room
now, which was really the only safe place to take him, Hossam would
know and was likely to cause trouble.  Louis would be majorly pissed if
one of his guests was killed by her jealous ex-loven Fuming, she
finished the game, then excused herself and stalked across the wide
expanse of lawn to the west patio.  She swished her racket angrily
through the air, wishing it was connecting with Hossam's head.

Why, he was stalking her She had tried to be nice and not rub his nose
in the fact that she was tired of him, but nice hadn't gotten her
anywhere.  It was time for some plain speaking.

He stood with his arms folded over his chest, stolidly watching as she
steamed up to him.  He was a big man, about six five, she had enjoyed
his size, because he wasn't big just in height, but now she wished he
was normal sized so she could knock him on his ass.

"Stop it, " she hissed, standing toe to toe with him and glaring up
into his sunglasses.  "It's over Don't you get it?  Over!

O-v-e-r ICaput.  Finished.  I would say it in Egyptian but I don't know
the damn word.  I had a good time but now I'm moving on-"Arabic.  " His
voice was a deep rumble, reverberating in that big chest.

"What?  " "Egyptians speak Arabic.  There's no such thing as an
Egyptian language.  " "Well, thank you for the lesson.  " She poked him
in the chest.

"Stop following me, stop spying on me--just stop.  I don't want to
cause trouble for you but I will if I have to, do you understand.  " "I
want only to be with you.  " Gawd, she thought in despair.  "Your head
must be made of wood!  I don't want to be with you!  I've seen all your
tricks, and now I want a new magician.  Don't bother me again.  " She
pushed past him and went inside.  She managed to smile at the people
she passed on the way to her room, which was on the third floor facing
the driveway, but inside she was furious.  If Hossam messed up the best
job she'd ever had, she would wring his thick neck with her bare hands.
Men were enough to make a woman think of joining a convent, she
thought, fuming.  Maybe she didn't need another lover right now, maybe
what she really needed was her head examined because she was even
thinking about it.

If she saw Hossam so much as looking at her again, she'd tell Louis.
Enough was more than enough.

Without appearing to, John studied the security system as Ron sard
unlocked and opened the door to his office.  The lock operated on a
numeric code that translated to different tones, like a telephone.

Ron sard was careful to keep his body between John and the control
panel, so he couldn't see the A ne queen , xvlen numbers.  John didn't
even try to see them, he half-turned away, studying the hallway, noting
the blinking eye of the camera that was mounted at the far end of the
hall.  Making sure his motion was hidden from the camera, he slipped
his hand inside his jacket and triggered a powerful miniature recorder
that picked up the small beep of the tones as Ron sard punched in the
code.

"We won't be disturbed here, " Ron sard said.  "Please be seated.

Would you like something to drink?  Coffee?  " "No, thank you.  " Call
him paranoid, but he was real careful about taking anything to eat or
drink from someone else.  A buffet was fine, if everyone else was
eating, but when he was on a job he was always in control of his
intake.  If he had to set a drink down, he didn't pick it back up.  It
was a simple rule, but an effective one.

He looked around.  There was a computer on Ron sard's large, antique
desk, but no phone line going to it, which meant it was secure.

If there were any files Ron sard didn't want compromised, they would be
on that computer Another unit sat on a Louis XIV desk across the room,
and this one was hooked to a phone line, a printer, a scanner, the
works.

Also on Ron sard's desk was a small monitor with an elaborate control
attached to it, and from where he was sitting John could see just
enough of the screen to tell it was surveillance of the hallway
outside, so Ron sard knew in advance who was coming toward his
office.

There was probably a central surveillance control room somewhere in
this massive building, but whether or not the entire building was under
watch was something he'd have to find out.  It could be that, like the
listening devices, only certain rooms were involved.  This part of the
estate was, after all, Ron sard's private living quarters, and he
probably wouldn't want his employees watching him.

"Who's making the compound?  " he asked, deciding to at least ask.

Sometimes people just blurted out what he wanted to know.

Ron sard smiled at him.  "I have an agreement with the .  . . ah,
developers.  They don't use anyone else to distribute the compound, and
I don't tell anyone who they are.  Once it's known, you understand,
then they'll be under siege.

Opportunists would try to get the formula, perhaps resorting to kidnap
and torture in the process, the government might try to shut them down,
but would at least take over the manufacturing.  That's the way
governments are, isn't it?  " He sat down behind his desk.  "I had
thought they were dealing behind my back.  Both you and Ernst Morrell
were asking about the compound, what else could I think?  But you've
relieved my mind.  " "I'm glad.  " The total lack of expression in
John's voice brought a smile to the arms dealer's face.  "So I see.
Well, ML Temple, shall we complete our business?  I have guests, and
you'll want to continue your pursuit of Mrs.  Jamie son.  Tell me--what
would you do with a wife, assuming you succeed?  " John's eyes
sharpened.  "ICeep her safe.  " "Ah.  Can you do that, though?  " He
indicated the computers in the office, specifically the fast, powerful
one on his secretary's desk.

"Computers have made the world very small.

Eventually, one will be able to find out anything about anyone.

It's almost possible now.  You won't be able to disappear the way you
do now.  " "Information can be falsified or erased.  If I need a social
security number or a credit card, I use someone else's.  " "Yes, but
what about her?  She can't disappear, you know.

She has family, friends, she has a home, a routine, and a social
security number, and those credit cards you disdain.  I know the lady
well enough to promise you she would balk at using a stolen credit
card.  " Still warning him away from Niema, John realized, inwardly
amused.

"If she doesn't want what I can give her, all she has to do is say
no.

ICidnapping somebody is too chancey, it draws a lot of attention.  "
"Something you want to avoid, " Ron sard agreed.  "But if she did go
with you--what would you do?  " John regarded him silently, refusing to
be drawn on the question.

It was a non issue, of course, but Ron sard didn't know that.  Let him
think that Temple was the most secretive bastard he'd ever met, and let
it go at that.

He stonewalled every attempt Ron sard made to talk about Niema, though
he was actually beginning to like the guy.

There was something both absurd and touching about someone as ruthless
as Louis Ron sard displaying this kind of concern for a friend.

Niema had gotten to him too, John thought, just the way she had Hadi
and Sayyed, and himself, in Iran.

The situation was almost funny.  He should have been able to express an
interest in Niema, with her reciprocating, and that would have been
that, a burgeoning affair Instead Niema was rattled, Ron sard was
protective, and he was having to pursue a reluctant target.

Of course, no one would ever think this was part of any plan.  It was
just too damn implausible, like a soap opera.

Maybe that was why it seemed to be working so well.

Half an hour later, their business concluded--amount of explosive
needed, when, how it would be delivered, how much it would cost
him--John went to his room and changed into his swim trunks.  The room
had been searched again, he saw, he didn't know what they expected to
find that they hadn't found the first time.  The fact that they hadn't
found anything probably disturbed Ron sard a little.  Of course, they
were looking in the wrong place.  since acquiring the weapons last
night after arriving here, he had given one to Niema, taped another
under one of the massive hall tables outside his room, and one was
strapped to his ankle.  The ankle holster would have to go in a secure
place while he was swimming, though.  Smiling, he stuffed it and the
tiny recorder under the mattress.  The maids had already been in and
cleaned, and the room had been searched--twice.  Looking in the most
obvious place in the world was now the one place they were the least
likely to look.

He pulled on a T-shirt and a pair of trousers over his swim trunks,
then went down to the pool courtyard.  It was a hot, sunny day, but
still fairly early.  The ladies didn't want to mess up their hair so
close to lunch time, so they were sunbathing instead of swimming, and
the pool wasn't crowded.

Rather than putting his clothes in the large cabana, he shucked his
shirt and dropped it over a chaise, then took off his pants and did the
same with them.  He didn't have anything in his pocket other than his
room key, but if by leaving his clothes in the open he frustrated
anyone wanting to go through his pockets, so much the better He dove
into the pool in a long, shallow dive and began swimming laps, his arms
stroking tirelessly.  He was as at home in the water as he was on land,
courtesy of his BUDS training.  Swimming in a pool was child's play,
after swimming miles in the ocean.  It was nice of Ron sard, he
thought, to provide him a means of keeping up his physical
conditioning.

There was probably a weight room somewhere in this place, too, but he
doubted he'd have time to use it.

The only thing about swimming in public was, after a while people began
to notice.  Not many people could swim nonstop vill Lne queen S xvlrn
for that length of time, even though he'd only been at it half an hour
He could have kept on, using one stroke or another, for hours, but it
wasn't wise to draw that kind of attention.

Already people around the pool were watching him, and he was pretty
sure one woman had been counting the laps as he turned them.

He hauled himself out of the water and took a fluffy towel from the
stacks Ron sard had put out for his guests, and which were constantly
being replaced, and roughly swiped it over his torso.

Though it wasn't one o'clock yet, he saw Niema coming toward him.  She
was dressed casually, in loose, drawstring natural linen pants and a
blue camisole, with a gauzy white shirt worn loose over the camisole.

She had pulled her thick dark hair back and secured it with a silver
clasp at the nape of her neck.  Her dark eyes looked huge and
luminous.

She checked a little when she saw him, as if she hadn't known he was
there.  He stood still, staring at her, then lifted his hand and
beckoned her to him.

She hesitated for a long moment before obeying, just long enough for
him to begin wondering if she was going to do something totally
unexpected, like turning around and leaving, which would be taking the
show of reluctance a little too far and might prod her unlikely
protector into action.

But then she began walking slowly to him, and he knotted the towel
around his waist to hide his response as he waited for her to join
him.

Chapter twenty.

nema faltered as she approached John \ and slid her sunglasses on her
nose to at hide her expression from him.  Good God, the man should put
on some clothes before she had heart failure.  Greedily she drank in
the strong lines of his torso, the well-defined muscles of arms and
shoulders, the ridges down his abdomen.  His legs were the most
powerful she had ever seen, the long muscles thick and sinewy in the
way that showed he did it all, running and swimming as well as strength
training.

Water still sparkled on his shoulders and in the hair onl his chest. He
had roughly towel-dried his hair and raked his hand over it to restore
some semblance of order He looked wild, and dangerous, and she ached
inside with the need to touch him.

He wrapped the towel around his waist and stood like a redwood, waiting
for her to reach him.  At least the towel hid part of those legs.  How
could he look so lean when he was clothe , when he had muscles like
this?

Then she reached him, and a tiny smile curved his hard mouth, a mouth
that looked as if it never smiled at all and yet he made the effort for
her This was Temple, she thought, not John.  John smiled and laughed.
When he was himself, he was an expressive man--unless he was playing
another part, unless he had been someone else for so long that even
John Medina was just a role for him now.

"For a minute there, I thought you were going to turn and run, " he
said in a low voice.  "Don't be that reluctant.  " "I Know what to do.
" She sat down in the chair he held out for her, not caring if she
sounded irritable.  She was irritable.

She hadn't had much sleep, and her nerves were raw.

He stood behind her, looking down, and she felt his stillness.

Then he put his hand inside her open shirt and lightly smoothe his palm
over her bare shoulder, the movement slow and absorbed, as if he
couldn't go a moment longer without touching her Only the thin straps
of her camisole obstructed him, and they might as well not have been
there.  She shivered as that warm hand moved over her, pushing the
shirt away just enough that he could stroke that one shoulder and upper
arm.

It was the most restrained, sensuous touch she had ever experienced,
and her entire body reacted, nipples pebbling, stomach tightening.

Then he gently restored the shirt to her shoulder and moved around to
take the chair across from her.  When his back was turned she saw the
thin, four-inch scar on his left shoulder blade.  Even knowing it
wasn't real, she couldn't tell how it was applied.  It certainly looked
genuine.

il, Then he sat down facing her, and she blinked in astonishment at the
small diamond stud in his left ear.  His ear wasn't pierced, she would
have noticed before if it had been.  And he hadn't been wearing an
earring last night.  Well, if the scar was fake, the pierced ear could
be, too, he probably had the stud glued on.  And the altered hairline
looked real.  All these small identifying characteristics were fake,
with them removed, he would never be identified as Joseph Temple,
despite having the same face.  As long as there were no dental records
tying them together, or DNA samples to compare, he was
unidentifiable.

A waiter in black shorts and white shirt approached.  "May I serve you
anything from the bar?  " "We'd like to order lunch, " John said, his
French perfect.

"Of course, Sir" He ordered puff pastries filled with chicken in cream
sauce for appetizers, potato soup, and a cheese and fruit tray
afterward.  Thankful she wouldn't be expected to choke down a full
meal, including a meat course, Niema looked around at the beautifully
landscaped courtyard.  It was becoming more crowded now as others
elected to have their lunch by the pool rather than inside.  The murmur
of conversation, punctuated by splashes, laughter, and the clink of
silverware, made it reasonable that they would lean together over the
small round table.

John adjusted the umbrella shading them to protect her from the sun,
and also to partially block anyone's view of them from the house.

Before he sat down he plucked his shirt from the chaise beside him and
pulled it on over his head.  She almost mourned as those pecs and abs
disappeared from view, but admitted to herself that at least now she'd
be able to concentrate better

"I've been in Ron sard's office, " he said, pitching his voice so that
only she could he'L

"I have the door code and got a good look at his security system.
What's on the agenda for tonight?  " "It's fancy dress every night.
Buffet dinner, dancing, just like last night.  " "Good.  People will be
moving around, so it'll be difficult to keep track of us.  We're going
to dance every dance--" "Not in high heels, I'm not.  I'd be crippled.
" "Then don't wear heels.  " She gave him a dirty look, though of
course he couldn't tell since she was still wearing the sunglasses.
"You're the one who provided the wardrobe.  Heels are the only suitable
shoes I have with me.  " "Okay, we'll dance a few dances.  " He looked
in danger of smiling again.  "I'm going to be making it pretty obvious
we're together, putting some strong moves on you, so don't panic.  "
"Why the strong moves?  " Her throat had gone dry.  She wished the
waiter would hurry up with the mineral water John had ordered.

"So, if anyone notices us going off together, they'll just think we're
looking for someplace more private--such as your room.  " And instead
they would be going through files.  "What.

about Ron sard?  And Cara?  " "I'll take care of her Ron sard's a bit
trickier We may have to take our chances and hope he'll be too occupied
to come to his office.  " He paused.  "Here comes the waiter" He leaned
over and took her hand, thumb rubbing lightly across the backs of her
fingers.  "Walk with me after lunch, " he was murmuring when the waiter
set down the crystal goblets of mineral water All the (5!  ueen's Men
She drew back and picked up a goblet, sending a shaky smile in the
waiter's direction.

"How much time do you need to plant the bug?  " he asked when they were
alone again.

"I'd like to have half an hour."  She could probably do it in less time
than that, but she wanted to be very, very careful with this one,
because she was going to have to get into the wiring in the walls and
she didn't want to leave any telltale marks.  "What about the computer
files?  How long will it take on those?  " "Depends, " he said
helpfully.

"Thank you so much, ML Information.  " He fought another smile.  "I
don't know what system he uses, if it's password protected or
encrypted--though I'd be very surprised if he doesn't at least have a
password.  I have to get the password--" "How on earth can you do that?
" "People usually write it down somewhere handy.  Or it's something
obvious, like their mother's name, or their kids--" "Ron sard has a
daughter, " Niema said.  "Laure.  " "A daughter?  That wasn't in our
information, " John murmured.

"She's an invalid.  He adores her, and is very protective of her
privacy.

For security reasons, very few people know she exists.  She's so ill,
she may not live long.  " A lump rose in her throat as she remembered
Laure's skeletal face, with those dark blue eyes so like her father's,
and her mischievous, practical spirit.

"Then he'd take very seriously any incident involving her, " John
mused.

Niema sat up straight, and snatched her sunglasses off so he could get
a good look at how furious she was.  "Don't you dare, " she said
between clenched teeth.  "If you involve that child I'll--I'll .  . . "
She couldn't think of anything bad enough, but her eyes promised severe
retribution.

"I'll do whatever's necessary, " he softly replied.  "You know that.  I
don't put limitations on what I'm willing to do to get a job done.  "
"Yes, I heard that about you, " she said just as softly, rage boiling
through her veins with a suddenness that took her off guard.

"They say you even killed your own wife, so why would you worry about
upsetting a little girl?  " Leaden silence fell between them.  John's
face was absolutely expressionless, his eyes so cold and empty they
looked dead.

"Her name was Venetia, " he finally said, the words a mere rustle of
sound.  "Why don't you ask me if I did it?  How do you think it
happened?  Did I shoot her, or break her neck, or cut her throat?

Maybe I just tossed her out a thirty-story window.

I've heard all those scenarios.  Which do you think is most likely?  "
She couldn't breathe.  She had wanted to hit him, say something that
would make an impression on him, and she had evidently succeeded beyond
anything she could have expected.

She hadn't believed those wild stories, hadn't really believed he had
ever even been married.  To know that he had, to know that his wife's
name was Venetia and she had existed, was to suddenly think that those
stories could be true.

"Did you?  " she managed to say, barely able to force the words out
through her constricted throat.  "Did you kill her?  " "Yes, " he said
and leaned back as the waiter approached with their meal.

She strolled with him across the lush, manicured lawn.  She hadn't had
a chance to recover, to ask him any more questions, after he dropped
that bombshell at lunch.  First the waiter had been there, setting out
their lunch, refilling their water glasses, asking if they needed
anything else, and by the time he left, Ron sard "happened" to walk by
and stayed to chat.

Niema had scarcely been able to talk, she had managed a few short
answers to Ron sard's questions, but her lips were numb and she kept
seeking refuge in her water glass.  She remembered eating a few bites
of lunch, but she had no idea how it had tasted.

After lunch, John put his trousers on over his dry swim trunks, then
took her hand and led her out here.  The hot sun beat down on her,
bringing welcome warmth to her cold skin.

She felt as if her heart were breaking.  Innocence was an invisible
fortress, keeping one safe, and oblivious to some things that were too
horrible to contemplate.  But now she no longer had that innocence,
that obliviousness, she was aware of the pain, the horror, the cost.
What must it be like for him, to have lived through it?

"John, I'm so sorry, " she whispered.

She saw his surprise.  Evidently he had expected her to be repelled by
who he was, what he had done, maybe even frightened of him.

She searched for the right words.  "I didn't mean to hurt you.  I
hadn't believed the stories, or I never would have brought it up.  "
"Hurt me?  " He sounded almost disinterested.  She couldn't see his
eyes behind the sunglasses, and she wanted to snatch them off his
face.

"The truth is the truth.  " His hand was so warm and so strong, wrapped
around hers, but the strength in his fingers was controlled so he
wouldn't hurt her He had never hurt her, she realized.  Even when faced
with her distrust and hostility in Iran, he had taken care of her,
saved her life, held her in his arms while she grieved.

"Sometimes the truth is the truth, but sometimes it's something else.
What really happened?  Was she a double agent, the way I've heard?  "
He made a noncommital sound.  Growing exasperated, she squeezed his
hand.  "Tell me.  " He stopped and turned to face her

"Or what?  " "Or nothing.  Just tell me.  " For a minute, she didn't
think he would.  Then he shrugged.

"Yes, she was a double agent.  She did it for the money.  There weren't
any extenuating circumstances, she didn't have family in the Soviet
Union, or in East Germany, that was being threatened.  All her family
was American, and they weren't involved at all.  She simply wanted the
money.  " So there was no excuse he could give his wife, he'd had to
face the truth that she was, simply, a trait on That would have been
devastating for almost anyone, what had it been like for him, after he
had dedicated his entire life to the service of his country?

"How did you find out?  " He began walking again.  "There wasn't any
one big moment of truth, just a lot of little things that began adding
up and made me suspicious.  I set a trap for her, and she walked right
into it.  " "She didn't know you suspected?  " "Of course she did.  She
was good.  But I baited the trap with something she couldn't resist,
the names of our two highest placed moles in the I<remlin.  Aldrich
Ames never came close to this information, it was so restricted.  " His
lips were a thin line.  "I was almost too late springing the trap. 
This was during the height of the Cold War, and this information was so
crucial, so valuable, that she decided not to route it by the usual
method.  She picked up the phone and called the Soviet embassy.  She
asked to be brought in, because she knew I'd be after her, and she
started to give them the names right there over the phone.  " He took a
long, controlled breath.  "I shot her, " he finally said, staring off
at the massive wall that surrounded the estate.

"I could have wounded her, but I didn't.  What she knew was too
important for me to take the chance, the moles too important to be
brought in.  They had to be left in place.  She had already told her
handler that she had the names, they would have moved heaven and earth
to get to her, no matter what prison we put her in, no matter what
security we put around her.  So I killed her."  They walked in silence
for a while, going from flower bed to flower bed like bees, ostensibly
admiring the landscaping.

Niema still clung to his hand while she tried to come to grips with the
internal strength of this man.  He had been forced to do something
almost unthinkable, and he didn't make excuses for himself, didn't try
to whitewash it or blur the facts.  He lived with the burden of that
day, and still he went on doing what he had to do.

Some people would think he was a monster They wouldn't be able to get
beyond the surface fact that he had deliberately killed his wife, or
they would say that no information, no matter how crucial, was that
important.  Those who lived on the front lines knew bet ten Dallas had
given his own life for his country, in a different battle of the same
war.  John had saved untold lives by his actions, not just of the two
moles but of the ensuing events to which they had been critical.  The
Soviet Union had broken up, the Berlin Wall had come down, and for a
while the world had been safen He was still on the front lines, putting
himself in the cannon's mouth, perhaps trying to balance his own
internal scales of justice.

"Why didn't she sell you out?  " Niema asked.  "You're worth a pretty
penny, you know.  " "Thank you, " he said dryly.  "But I wasn't worth
that much back then.  I had high-level security clearance, so I was of
some use to her, but she had her own clearance and access to a lot of
classified documents.  " "I can't imagine what it must have been like
for you.  " Ineffable sadness was in her voice.  She squeezed his hand
again, trying to tell him without words how sorry she was for ever
opening that particular can of worms.

He glanced down at her, then his head tilted up and he looked beyond
her He drew her closer to a huge flowering shrub, as if he were trying
to shield them from view.  "Brace yourself, " he warned and bent his
head.

His mouth settled on hers, his lips opening, molding, fusing.

She put her hands on his shoulders and clung to him, her pulse pounding
in her ears, her heart racing.  Her entire body quickened with painful
urgency, and she stifled a moan.  His tongue was doing a slow, erotic
dance in her mouth, advancing and retreating.  He put his hands on her
hips and drew her to him, lifting her, holding her so that they were
groin to groin.

She felt him getting erect, and she shivered with pleasure even while
her inner alarm began clanging insistently.  She fought to keep her
legs under her and not sag against him like a limp noodle, which he
definitely wasn't.

He lifted his mouth, holding it poised over hers.  She stared up at
him, dazed, and wished he wasn't wearing sunglasses so she could see
his eyes.  Still clinging to him she whispered, "Who's there?  " This
time he did smile, his mouth curling upward.  "Nobody.

I just wanted to kiss you for being so damn sweet.  " Violently she
shoved away from him.  "Sneak!  " She stood with her lungs heaving,
glaring at him.  She really, really wanted to punch him, but instead
she had to bite her lip to keep from laughing.

"Guilty as charged.  " Taking her hand again, he resumed their walk
across the lawn.  "But what did you expect?  I tell you something that
proves I'm the ruthless bastard everyone says I am, and you apologize
to me.  Of course I had to kiss you."s

"I thought it was for the job.  " "Not always, " he said, not looking
at her

"Not everything.  " Chapter twenty-one.

figh heels would be a definite liability, r Niema thought, going
through her wardLrobe in case she had overlooked a pair of shoes that
was both dressy and flat-heeled, though she was certain she hadn't.
High heels made too much noise, and it was impossible to run in them. A
pair of ballet slippers would do nicely, but of all the different kinds
of shoes John had had delivered to her, none of them were ballet
slippers.

She stared at the gown she had planned to we'L It was a sleek black
sheath with inch-wide straps that gradually widened to form the bodice,
with the lowest point of the neckline squarely between her breasts.  A
sunburst of black cultured pearls was sewn at that strategic point,
with strings of black pearls swinging from the sunburst.  She had other
gowns, but she wanted to wear the black so she would blend better into
the shadows, if necessary.

Other than the sexy black heels, she had only one other pair of black
shoes with her, and they were rather casual sandals, with stretchy
straps.  She pulled them out and stared at them, trying to think what
she could do to dress them up.  They would definitely be more
comfortable to dance in than the high heels, but they looked like what
they were, casual.  Niema Jamie son wouldn't be that careless with her
dress.  She had classic taste in clothes and was never less than
impeccably attired.

"Why couldn't you have been a slob?  " she muttered to her alter ego.

She examined the gown again.  It was sophisticated and understated,
even with the dangling strings of black pearls, which glistened with a
midnight iridescence that caught the eye.  She reached up and flicked
the strings with her finger, setting them to swaying.

They would constantly call attention to her breasts.

She looked at the black sandals, then back up to the pearls.

Curiously she examined the sunburst.  The swaying strings weren't
attached to the sunburst, but under it.

"Now we're cooking, " she muttered and got up to get her tools.

She knew why she was obsessing about her shoes, of course, so she
wouldn't think about John and what he'd said about not everything being
for the job.  How was she supposed to take that?  Was he referring to
her or to something else entirely?  There was so much in his past that
he literally could have been talking about anything.  Some guys led
normal, open lives, with nothing more to hide than how many beers they
had on the way home.  John's past was so closed and convoluted no one
would ever know all the bits and pieces of what made him who he was.

Obsessing about the shoes had obviously failed in its purpose, because
she couldn't stop thinking about him.  Losing Dallas had been difficult
enough, almost too much to bear, what must it have been like for John,
to not only lose his wife but for it to be by his own hand?

She tried to dredge up some feeling, some sympathy, for his wife, but
nothing was there.

The woman had been selling out her country, costing other people their
lives.  To Niema's way of thinking, that didn't make her much different
from the terrorists who used poison gas or random bombs to kill. Dallas
had died stopping people like her Tonight might be the last time she
ever saw John.

That thought hovered in the back of her mind all the while she worked
with the sandals, using glue from her tool kit to attach the pearls to
the straps.  There had been other times she'd known could be the last
time, When he left just before she came to France, when he was only a
voice on the phone and she knew she might not be invited to the villa.
But this was somehow more definite.  Once he got the computer files, he
would leave immediately.

She would stay until the end of the house party and leave as scheduled,
by this time next week, she would be home and back at work, and this
would be a fantastic story she could never tell anyone.

But for right now she felt vibrantly alive, more than she ever had
before.  Her very skin was more sensitive than she had ever before
noticed.  She took a long, relaxing bath in water scented with the bath
crystals provided with her room, and washed her hair.  She even took a
nap, something she rarely did, but the events of the day had been
taxing.  She gave herself a manicure and pedicure, painting her nails a
deep scarlet.  If she never saw John again, by God, he'd remember how
she looked.

She didn't want to have to come back to her room for her tools and
equipment, but neither could she carry everything in the tiny excuse
for a purse that was her evening bag.  It had room for a credit card, a
lipstick and compact, and a key.  That was it.  She tried to think of
someplace to hide the tools and pistol, but she didn't know the estate
well enough, plus it was crawling with people.

There was no way out of it, she had to come back to the room to
retrieve the things.  She wrapped everything, tools and pistol, in the
black silk stole that matched the gown she was wearing and placed the
parcel under her lingerie in the built-in drawers in the large
closet.

Then she took a deep breath, braced her shoulders, and prepared for a
final act for the audience.

He was waiting for her at the foot of the stairs when she went down. He
straightened, his blue gaze sweeping over her in a perfect imitation of
an infatuated lover Out of the corner of her eye Niema saw Ron sard
watching them, his expression a mixture of ruefulness and concern.  She
waited until she caught his eye and gave him what she hoped was a
reassuring smile.  He spread his hands in an

"I tried" gesture.

John followed her smile and his eyes narrowed, menace all but oozing
from him.  God, he was good.  He should have gone to Hollywood, with
his talent, he would already have a couple of Oscars to his credit and
be making a lot more money than he was as a government employee.

She could do a little acting of her own, she thought.  She slowed as
she neared John, as if reluctant to take those last few steps.  He
frowned slightly and held out his hand to her in that arrogant gesture
that demanded she come to him.

She did, silently putting her hand in his, and he led her into the
ballroom where the same crowd as the night before was doing the same
thing they had done the night before, only wearing different
clothing.

She went into his arms and he held her close, their feet barely moving,
his head bent down to hers in the classic pose of a man who is totally
absorbed in the woman in his arms.

"I had to leave the things in my room, " she said in a low voice, the
words muffled against his shoulder

"I couldn't carry them in this.  " She indicated the tiny evening
bag.

"What?  You couldn't put everything in your bodice with the SIG?  " He
glanced down at the fabric clinging to her breasts and the deep V of
the neckline.

"Careful, " she warned.  "I've got a knife in there and I'll use it.  "
She felt the movement of his lips against her temple as he smiled.
"What kind of distraction did you arrange?  " "I didn't.  I was afraid
you'd scalp me.  We'll take our chances.  " "I'm good at taking
chances.  " No sooner had the words left her mouth than she almost
recoiled in shock.  No, she wasn't good at all at taking chances.  She
used to be, but not now.  Not any more.

He felt her stiffening in his arms and reacted by bringing her closen

"What's wrong?  " "Nothing, " she said automatically.

"Nothing you're going to tell me, " he corrected.

"Right.  " Again there was that movement against her temple.  After a
moment he commented, "You're shorter than you were last night.  " Trust
him to notice something like that.  "I'm not wearing heels.

I doctored a pair of sandals so they match the gown.  " She stuck her
foot out so he could see the pearls adorning the narrow straps.

He looked a little pained.  "You butchered a Dior to decorate your
shoes?  " "It's okay, " she soothe .  "Wearing sensible shoes was more
important than the gown.  Besides, black ops is off-budget, you don't
have to account for what's spent, do you?  " "No, thank God.  " "So,
what time do we do it?  " "No set time.  We keep an eye on Ron sard,
and make our move when it looks as if he's occupied.  " "What about
Cara? " "Taken care of.  " "I hate to tell you this, but she's standing
just over there.  " "She won't be for long.  " Cara was wearing a
dazzling white tube gown, with her long blonde hair hanging straight
down her back and rhinestones dangling from her ears.  She knew she
looked Hollywood flashy, but there was no way she could compete with
these people in terms of jewelry and couture gowns, so she didn't try.
California sexy was the style she tried for and achieved.

She flirted with several men, but the sexy Frenchman with whom she had
played tennis that morning was safely anchored by his wife.

Deciding to troll, she began moving around the room, stopping only to
talk to likely prospects.  She wasn't going to worry about Hossam's
feelings one minute longer, he had no claim on her She didn't see it
coming.  Someone turned too abruptly, and a glass of red wine sloshed
all over her white gown.  She looked down at the awful stain in dismay,
knowing she would probably have to throw the garment away.  "I'm so
sorry, " the woman who had splashed her apologized, her face contorted
with dismay.  "I don't know how this happened, someone jostled me.  "
"It's perfectly all right, " Cara soothe , even though it wasn't.

She didn't want to upset any of Louis's guests.  "I'm sure the stain
will come right out.  I'll just run to my room to change.  " She
brushed away the woman's offer to pay for the dress and kept a smile on
her face as she left the ballroom.  She seldom used the elevator,
preferring the stairs in order to get in some exercise, but tonight she
chose the fastest route to her room.

The smile was gone and irritation in its place when she got off the
elevator on the third floor The long hallways were deserted, with only
indirect lighting from the sconces, but she was glad no one was there
to see what a mess she was.  Taking the key from her tiny evening bag,
she jammed it into the lock and pushed her door open, her hand
unerringly finding the light switch and flipping it on.

Light flooded the room at the same time a large hand clamped over her
mouth and an arm around her waist lifted her off her feet.  The door
was kicked shut.

Panic screamed through her, making everything around her go dim for a
moment.  She heard her own muffled screams and knew the sound wouldn't
carry beyond the room.  She clawed at the hand over her mouth, kicking
and squirming in an effort to escape.

"Hush, my love.  There's no need to be frightened.  " Hossam!  Panic
turned to rage in the space of a split second.

She slammed her head backward in an effort to smash his mouth, but he
only chuckled and tossed her onto the bed, then landed on top of her
before she could control herself enough to scramble off the bed.

"You bastard, " she hissed, no longer trying to scream.

He only laughed again, sitting astride her and capturing her fists.
With no more effort than if he were handling a child, he looped a scarf
around her wrists, then pulled her arms over her head and tied the
scarf to the headboard.

"You bastard!  " she said again, louder this time, shrieking it.

"Shhh, be quiet.  " "I'll kill you for this!  I'll tear your balls
off--ummmph!  " "I told you to be quiet, " he murmured, tying another
scarf over her mouth.  He sat back, eyeing his handiwork, and a smile
spread over his dark face.  "Now, my love, let's see if the magician
knows any new tricks.  " He took a knife from his pocket and pressed a
switch.  A gleaming blade shot out, the light catching the razor-sharp
edges.

Cara's eyes widened as she stared at the knife, then at him.  She began
bucking, trying to throw him off, but he squeezed her body between his
thighs and ruthlessly held her still.

Muffled screams came from behind the scarf as he slipped the blade
under the clingy material covering her breasts and slashed downward.

The two halves of the gown parted as if it had been unzipped, baring
her breasts.

Hossam paused to admire the view.  Still holding the knife in one hand,
he fondled her naked breasts, cupping them and stroking his thumb over
her nipples, admiring the way they tightened.  Then he levered himself
off her.

"Be still, " he commanded.  "I might accidentally cut you.  " She
forced herself to stillness as he slit the dress all the way to the hem
and pulled the rags away from her She wore nothing underneath.  Modesty
wasn't her strong suit, but now she squeezed her legs together in a
useless effort to protect herself.

Oh, God, was he going to kill her?

He stepped back and began removing his clothes.  Wildly she shook her
head, hot tears burning her eyes.

1. l, ACC tne vueen's lvlen

"Don't be frightened, " he repeated, stepping out of his pants and
standing naked over her His penis jutted out from his body, telling her
how ready he was.  Desperately she kicked at him, trying to catch him
in the balls, though she had no idea what good that would do since she
was still tied and gagged.

Clicking his tongue in reproval, he grabbed her by one ankle and gave
it the same treatment he had her wrists.  Another ten seconds and her
other leg was bound, and she was lying with her hands stretched upward
and her legs spread obscenely wide.

"What a wild thing you are, " he crooned, crawling on the bed between
her legs.  "Sweet and wild and .  . . mine.  Never forget that.

You're mine.  " She expected to be swiftly, brutally raped and had
already braced herself for the violation.  It didn't happen.  Instead
he bent down and pressed his mouth between her legs, and began loving
her The contrast between what she had expected and what he actually did
was so great that she couldn't stop the soft moan that vibrated in her
throat.  She arched, and he cupped her bottom in his big hands to hold
her still.

The bright overhead light dazzled her eyes.  She stared upward as
pleasure zinged through her body, unable to raise her head to see.

This was .  . . this was so totally unexpected she couldn't quite grasp
it was happening.  He brought her to a hard, rapid climax that left her
gasping, her eyes tearing from the force of it.

"That is just the first one, " he murmured, leaning over her.

"You know I would never, never hurt you.  Tonight we will discover all
the ways I can pleasure you, as no other man can.  " His dark eyes
twinkled at her.

"And afterward, perhaps I will let you tie me to the bed.  " She moaned
and arched as his long fingers slid into her, stimulating nerve endings
that were still sensitive from her climax.

Her fear had faded, because his hands on her were loving instead of
brutal, and in place of fear a deep excitement was blooming.  This was
different, and kinky.  She had never been helpless before during sex.

Usually she dominated, because that was how she liked it.

But she liked this too, she found.  She was totally at his mercy, naked
and exposed in the bright light.  He could do anything to her he
wanted, and her mind reeled at the possibilities.  Hossam was so big
and powerful, and he tended to be slow at sex anyway.  This was going
to be a long night-wonderfully, deliciously long.

"It's time, " John breathe into Niema's ear.  Her pulse leaped.  She
took a deep breath and felt herself steady.  She tilted her head back
and gave him such a vibrant smile that he physically checked, staring
down at her.  Who was she kidding?  The moment of clarity was almost
blinding as they left the ballroom and climbed the curving staircase to
the second floon She was a risk-taker She loved every minute of this.

She didn't want to go home and resume her job, she wanted to stay in
fieldwork, where she belonged.

She had paid penance for five years, but John had wrenched her back
into the life for which she was truly suited and she never wanted to
leave it again.

She felt almost breathless with discovery, with an inner joy that
spread through her as if she had finally returned to life, to being
herself.

The long hallway was empty.  With no one to watch them, they walked
briskly down to her room.  She retrieved the wrap from the closet and
held it folded so the tools and pistol were in a pocket of fabric
against her body, with the loose ends draped over her arm.  "How about
this?  " she asked.

"Looks good.  Come on.  " They hurried back up the hall, but instead of
going down the stairs they went straight across into the west wing.  "I
prowled around and found a back way, " John explained.

"Ron sard's private quarters are in this direction, too.  " "I know.
The back way is through his rooms.  " She rolled her eyes, but didn't
bother asking how he'd gotten into Ron sard's rooms.  Locks didn't mean
anything to him.

This route wasn't without risk.  There were fewer people to see them,
but anyone who did would be staff who worked in the private section,
and who would know immediately they didn't belong there.

Guests or not, Ron sard wouldn't allow anyone to disturb his daughter
John pulled her to a halt in front of a wooden door burnished to a high
gloss.  He turned the handle, and they slipped inside the room.  It was
a bedroom, she saw--a huge, lavish one.  "Ron sard's, " John whispered
in unnecessary explanation.

"There's a private elevator going down to the hallway where his office
is located.  " The elevator was small, but then it was meant to carry
only one man.  It was also surprisingly quiet and arrived without the
customary "ding" of a commercial elevaton The hallway they stepped into
was also empty, which was good because there was no logical excuse for
them to be there, especially stepping out of Ron sard's elevator.  John
strode to a door, pulled a small recorder out of his pocket and held it
to the electronic lock.  He pressed a button, and a series of tones
sounded.

A tiny green light on the lock lit up, there was a faint but audible
click, and he opened the doon They slipped inside and he silently
closed the door behind them, then did something to the lock.  "What are
you domgr

"Disabling the lock.  If we're caught, the fact that the lock isn't
working will at least cloud the issue in our favor a bit, but I'd still
have to come up with some reason for our being here.  " "Boy, you have
this planned down to the last detail, don't you?  " "I don't intend to
get caught.  Come on, move your pretty butt and get to work.  " Fb
Chapter twenty-two.

Fie ma looked around while John sat down \ at Ron sard's desk and
turned on the a't computer Another setup, far more elaborate, was
hooked up on a desk on the other side of the room, but he ignored that
one.  She checked the jacks on what must be Cara Smith's desk, there
were three separate lines coming into the office, but the phones
themselves were only two-line phones.  The computer was on a line by
itself, then.  She looked at the phone on Ron sard's desk, it was
identical to the other, with two lines coming in.  The first line would
be the business line, she guessed, the second, his private numb en
There was a closed-circuit television on Ron sard's desk, also, showing
the hallway outside.  She followed the line on it to the wall, making
sure where it connected. She liked to have a room's wiring laid out in
her mind, so she knew exactly what she was looking for and at.

Ron sard's phone jack wasn't behind his desk, probably because he
didn't want it in the way.  She followed the lines again, the jack was
behind a long leather sofa that sat against the wall.  Carefully she
pulled the sofa out, lifting one end to make certain there were no
telltale bangs and thumps.

I(neeling down on the floor, she unfolded her evening wrap and removed
the black velvet pouch that contained her tools.

Laying aside the SIG, she quickly unscrewed the jack, then disconnected
the wires and stripped the plastic coating to separate the wires.

The usual wiretap had a receiver or recorder close by.  In this
instance, that wouldn't do any good because she had no way of
retrieving a tape or listening to the calls.  The CIA operative in
place here didn't have access to Ron sard's office.  John had slipped a
digital burst receiver to him, he would trigger a signal to retrieve
the audio data, which he would then send by his usual route to
Langley.

Even if he were discovered with the receiver, nothing could be made of
it because the information was digitalized.  It looked like an ordinary
pocket radio, it even worked as a radio.

Quickly she attached the inductive probe tip to only one of the line
terminals, which didn't make a complete circuit and hence couldn't be
picked up by an electronic sweep.  She interfaced the leads to the
junction, keeping the leads less than three inches long.  The short
leads made the phone bridge impossible to pick up by electrical
deviations.  Next she hooked up two nine-volt batteries as a power
source for the receiver/ transmitter and began putting everything
together in the receptacle.

"Almost finished, " she said.  She estimated she had been working about
twenty minutes.  "Are you in yet?  " "Still working, " John murmured
absently.  "The files are password protected.  " "Did you try Laure'? "
"It was my first shot.  " "Nothing in the desk?  " She had been aware
of him opening and closing drawers, but thought he might be looking for
paper files, too.

"No.  " He was swiftly examining everything on top of the desk, looking
for anything that might contain the password.

She screwed the jack plate into place, then repositioned the sofa.

"What if it isn't written down?  " "Unless he's a fool, he changes the
password on a regular basis.

If he changes it, then the current one is written down somewhere.

If you're finished there, look for a wall or floor safe.  " "Don't tell
me you're a safecracker, too.  " "Okay, I won't tell you.  " Swiftly
she checked behind all the paintings hanging on the wall, but there was
only wallpaper there.  A huge, thickly woven rug covered the floor and
she threw back the edges, but again found nothing.  She got out a
screwdriver and, moving around the room, examined all the outlets,
because sometimes dummy outlets concealed small hiding places.

"Nothing, " she reported.  She gathered her tools and the pistol,
slipping them back into the folds of her evening wrap.

John picked up a book and ruffled all the pages, holding it spine up to
see if anything fell out.  He paused, looking at the well-thumbed book.
Niema walked over to look at the book, putting her tools down on top of
the desk, A Tale of Two cities.

John flipped to a page with a down-turned corner

"It's here.

Nobody reads this more than once, unless they have to.  " j'It's a
classic, " she said, amused.

"I didn't say it wasn't good, but it isn't something you read over and
oven" He ran his finger down the page, looking for anything that jumped
out at him.  "Guillotine.  " Turning back to the keyboard, he typed in
the word.

ACCESS DENIED flashed on the screen.

He shrugged and consulted the book again.  "Dickens was damn wordy, "
he grumbled.  "This could take all day.  " He tried "monarchs.  "

ACCESS DENIED.

"Monsters" was rejected, then "enchanter.  " The file list opened on
"tumbrils.  " "How about that, " John said softly.  "I was just
shooting in the dark.  " "Lucky shot.  " Except he wasn't just lucky,
he was so highly trained that instinct and experience put him several
jumps ahead of almost everyone else, allowing him to see the
significance of a battered copy of a classic lying in the open on Ron
sard's desk.

He slid a disk into the A drive and began calling up files and copying
them onto the disk.  He didn't take time to read any of them, he just
copied them as fast as possible, one eye on the closed-circuit monitor
the entire time.

Niema moved around behind the desk.  "I'll watch the monitor, " she
said.  "You copy.  " He nodded, and the A drive began whirring almost
continuously.

A moment later, watching the monitor, Niema saw the door at the end of
the hallway open.

"Someone's coming, " she whispered.

John glanced at the screen, but didn't pause in what he was doing.

"That's one of the security team, " he replied.

"Do they do door checks?  " "Maybe.  " The reply was terse.  since he
had disabled the lock on the door, it would open if anyone tried it.

Niema put her hand in the folds of the evening wrap.  The pistol grip
felt cool and heavy under her fingers.  The guard began walking down
the hallway toward the office.  Her heartbeat picked up and her mouth
went dry.

The hallway was a long one, on the small Screen, it seemed to stretch
out endlessly, with the guard becoming bigger and bigger as he
approached.  Niema found herself counting his steps.  Nineteen, twenty,
twenty-one-"Don't lose your cool, " John cautioned softly but didn't
look up from the list of files.  "Almost finished here.  " The guard
strode past, never even pausing outside the door.

Watching him on the screen, hearing his footsteps pass by the office,
gave her an odd sense of unreality because the sound came from a
different direction than the activity she watched on the screen.

"That's it.  " Quickly he punched the release, and the disk popped out.
He slipped it into a protective sleeve and put it in his inside jacket
pocket.  Then he turned off the computer, restored everything on the
desk to its original position, and touched her elbow.  "Ready?  " "I'll
say.  " She turned to go to the door, but suddenly he grabbed her arm,
pulling her to a standstill.  "More company " She looked back at the
moniton The hallway door was opening again.

Someone had stopped in the doorway, half turned away as if he were
speaking to someone on the other side of the doon The tiny figure on
the screen had long dark hair.

"Ron sard, " she whispered, a cold twist of panic tightening her
stomach.  He wouldn't be in this long hallway unless he were coming to
his office.

j-John exploded into motion, literally lifting her off her feet.

In two long strides he was beside the sofa.  He set her down and began
stripping out of his tuxedo jacket, carelessly dropping it on the
floon

"Take off your underwear and lie down, " he ordered, his tone low and
urgent.

They had only seconds, seconds before Ron sard would be coming through
that doon Her hands shook as she pulled up her skirt and reached under
it for the waistband of her panties.

Pretending to have sex was such a cliche, trotted out in hundreds of
movies, that no one would believe it, especially not someone as
sophisticated and savvy as Ron sard.  That was precisely why it just
might work, because he wouldn't believe Temple would be so hokey.

Of course John, being John, wouldn't depend on a torrid clinch to give
the impression he wanted.  No, he wanted underwear off, clothes
disarrayed, as if they truly were just about to make love.

Her heart was pounding so hard she could feel her pulse throbbing under
her skin.  She skimmed her panties down her thighs and let them drop,
then hurriedly kicked them away and lay down on the sofa.

Leaning forward, John tugged her skirt up to her waist and pulled her
legs apart, kneeling between them with one knee on the sofa while he
tore open his trousers.  She went numb with shock.  Only the cool air
washing over her naked flesh told her this wasn't a weird dream, but it
had to be.  This was carrying pretense further than she was prepared to
take it.  She couldn't be lying here half-naked with him between her
spread legs and witnesses likely to come through the door at any
second.

He bent down and licked her, his hard hands pushing her thighs wider as
his tongue probed inside her, depositing moisture.  Niema's entire body
jolted and he held her down, his mouth pressed between her legs.  She
swallowed a shriek, her breath strangling in her throat.  Oh God, he
was going down on her--Ron sard would.  . . She couldn't let herself
think of Ron sard walking in on them now but this must be what John had
planned, to be caught in an act so intimate no one would dream it was
pretense-How could it be pretense when he was actually doing it?

She whimpered and reached down, her hands sliding through his hair She
wanted to push him away but couldn't, her hands simply wouldn't obey.
Bolts of sensation shot through her body, arching her in his hands. How
long would she have to endure this?  How long?  Five seconds? Ten?

Time had become elastic, stretching beyond recognition.

She shook her head in wordless protest, helplessly speared under the
dual lash of fear and pleasure.  Something hot and wild spiraled in her
She couldn't do this, couldn't bear it, not with his mouth on her body
making every muscle tighten past endurance.

She found the strength to push weakly at his shoulders.  He slid
upward, his tongue swirling around her clitoris in a quick caress that
nearly shot her off the sofa, but he quickly controlled her and shifted
into position between her legs.

"Easy, " he whispered and pressed himself to her opening.

No.  He couldn't actually be doing this.  Not here, not like this.

She didn't want their first time to be like this.

Everything was happening too fast, her body hadn't had time to prepare
itself, even with the moisture he had given her with his tongue.  How
coald she be prepared, when she couldn't believe what he was doing, not
now, not like this?

He pushed slowly into her and she wasn't nearly wet enough, her inner
tissues yielding reluctantly to his intrusion.

"Scream, " he said, the word almost soundless.

."s Scream?  That would certainly bring Ron sard--but that was what
John wanted.  The realization seared through her dazed mind.  Any one
up to no good wouldn't make that kind of noise, which was guaranteed to
attract attention, or be doing what they were doing.

He put no limits on what he would do to get the job done.

He withdrew a little then thrust again, forcing himself deeper, inch by
inch.  "Scream, " he repeated, demanding now.

She couldn't.  She didn't have enough air, her lungs were paralyzed,
her entire body arching under the almost brutal lash of sensation.
Every nerve ending felt electrified, her loins clenching as she fought
the relentless swell of pleasure.  She fought him too, not with her
fists but with every muscle inside her, clamping down, trying to hold
him, prevent him from going deeper and pushing her beyond control.

She wasn't strong enough.  He thrust slowly past her resistance,
bracing his hands on either side of her rib cage and leaning over her
Quick, shallow breaths panted between his parted lips, his eyes were
narrowed, brilliant, the blue more intense than she had ever seen it
before.  With one swift movement he pulled down the left strap of her
gown, baring her breast.  Her nipple was already tightly beaded,
flushed with COlOL "scream, " he insisted, thrusting harder

"Scream!  " Her head thrashed back and forth on the cushion.  She
choked back a sob and desperately struck out at him, trying to squirm
away.  She couldn't, she didn't want to, dear God please don't let her
be climaxing as Ron sard walked through that door, she couldn't bear
it.

John caught her wrists and pinned them to the sofa, relentlessly
probing ever deeper She couldn't stop it, couldn't contain it.  She
convulsed, waves of sensation pulsing through her loins.  She sank into
the climax, head thrown back and eyes closed, breath halted, everything
fading around her until her only focus of existence was the searing
pleasure.  She did scream then, silently, beyond despair, as she waited
for the door to open.

The door didn't open.  There was nothing but silence in the hallway.

The sensual paroxysm began to ebb, the tension fading from her
trembling flesh until she lay limp and pliant beneath him, her legs
still open and her body still penetrated.  She couldn't think, couldn't
move.  She felt hollow, emptied out, as if he had taken everything.

Humiliation crawled through her like lava.  She turned her head aside,
unable to look at him.  How could she have climaxed in such a
situation?  What kind of person was she?

What kind of man was he, to do this?  Tears burned her eyes, but she
couldn't wipe them away because he still held her wrists pinned.

Time stopped.

Ron sard wasn't coming into his office.  She didn't know where he had
gone, but he wasn't here.  She waited for John to withdraw, waited for
a moment that stretched on and on until the tension was more than she
could bear and she had to look at him again, had to face him.

His expression was set in almost savage lines, his eyes so bright they
seemed to burn her He seemed to have been waiting for her to look at
him.  "I'm sorry, " he said, and began moving--not away from her but
inside her, thrusting, forging a deep, fast rhythm, and pierced her to
her very core.

He came hard, gripping her hips while he plunged and bucked, his head
thrown back and his teeth grinding together to hold back the hoarse
sounds in his throat.  He sank against her, panting, his chest heaving
as he gulped in air She didn't say anything, couldn't think of anything
to say.

Her mind was emptied, dazed with shock.  Nothing she'd ever read in
Miss Manners covered this situation.  The bizarre ness of that thought
almost made her laugh, but the laugh turned into a sob that she choked
back.

Carefully he levered himself away from her, her breath caught at the
drag of his flesh leaving hers.  He pulled her to a sitting position.
"Are you all right?  " She nodded silently, swinging her feet to the
floor and pushing her skirt down to cover her thighs.  He neatened
himself with brisk movements, tucking in his shirt and fastening his
trousers.

Her panties were lying on the floor in front of the desk.

John picked them up and held them out to her In silence she took them.
Her legs felt too wobbly for her to trust them, so she sat on the sofa
and worked the panties up her legs until she could lift her hips and
tug the flimsy garment into place.

She was very wet now, the moisture dampening her underwear and drying
stickily on her inner thighs.

He walked around the desk until he could see the closed circuit
moniton

"The coast is clear, " he said, as calmly as if nothing had happened.
"I don't know where Ron sard went.  " Shakily she got to her feet and
gathered her evening wrap, fumbling with the folds to make certain they
still held everything securely.  John shrugged into his tuxedo jacket
and straightened his tie, then raked his fingers through his hair.  He
looked cool and controlled.

"Are you ready?  " She nodded, and he checked the monitor again.  "Here
we go, " he said, taking her arm and ushering her to the doon Somehow
she controlled her voice, and found the words.

Somehow she sounded as casual as he did.  "What about the lock?

Are you going to fix it?  " "No, he'll just think it malfunctioned.
This type does occasionally.  " He opened the door and swiftly looked
out, then ushered her into the empty hallway.  He was pulling the
office door shut, his hand still on the handle, when the hallway door
abruptly swung open and a guard stepped through.  He checked when he
saw them, shouting something as he automatically reached for his
weapon.

John was moving almost before the guard saw them.  He pushed Niema
against the wall as he went down on one knee, going for the weapon in
his ankle rig.  The guard panicked and fired too soon, the bullet
plowing into the floor ten feet in front of him.  John didn't panic.

Niema saw his face, calm and expressionless, as his hand swept up.  He
fired twice, the first shot in the chest and the second, an insurance
shot, in the head.  The guard jerked like a puppet with broken strings
as he crashed backward through the open door John gripped Niema's hand
and with one motion pulled her to her feet.  Screams rose beyond the
open hallway door and running footsteps pounded toward them.  "Come on,
" he said and shoved her toward the left exit, and people poured
through the door behind them.

Upstairs, the three shots froze Hossam.  He leaped off the bed and
grabbed his pants from the floor, jerking them on as he ran for the
door He grabbed his shoulder holster as well, sliding the weapon
free.

"Hossam!  Don't leave me like this!  " Cara's voice was sharp with
panic--he had long since taken off the gag--but he ignored her and ran
out the door.  He did have presence of mind to slam the door closed as
he went out, but that was all he took the time to do.

Barefoot, he raced down the hall to the stairway at the end and instead
of using the steps he put his hand on the rail and vaulted down to the
next tier, again and again until he reached the ground floon The shots
seemed to have come from directly below and to the right, which meant
they were near Ron sard's office.

The long hallway was jammed with peoplei some of them Ron sard's guests
who were exclaiming in horron The security personnel were trying to
clear them out of the hall, but the arrival of a huge, half-naked,
armed man had the guests shrinking back.

"Where?  " Hossam shouted.

"Out this entrance, " a guard replied, pointing to the door

"It was Temple and one of the women.  " Hossam wheeled and plunged into
the night.

Where would Temple go?  Hossam briefly paused, thinking.

He would try to get transportation, rather than get away on foot, but
the guests vehicles were secured in a fenced area.  The estate
vehicles, however, were not.  Hossam ran barefoot across the damp lawn,
heading for the garage area.

Bright emergency lights flashed on all over the estate, lighting up the
area like a football field.  Armed men swarmed the lawn.  Hossam
yelled, "The guest vehicles!  Check them!  " A large group formed,
racing for the secure area.  Hossam ran on toward the garage, his
weapon held ready.  Damn, this guy Temple had piss-poor timing!  He'd
had Cara ready to come for about the tenth time when he heard the
shots, but he'd had to jerk out of her and leave her on the brink,
still helplessly tied to the bed.

The long, shadowed garage was silent as he moved down the row of cars
and Land Rovers and Jeeps.  "Are you here?  " he whispered.

"Here.  " Hossam whirled as Temple stepped out of the shadows, towing a
woman behind him.  "Go, man, " he hissed, pulling a set of keys out of
his pocket and tossing them to Temple, who released the woman to catch
them with his left hand.  "The green Mercedes there.  " "Thanks.  Turn
around.  " Sighing, Eric Go vert turned around.  He just hoped he
wouldn't be out too long, or Cara would be hysterical with rage.  He
never heard Temple move or felt the blow that left him stretched out on
the cold concrete floor _rb Chapter twenty-three.

tohn bent down and scooped up the big man's | weapon and tossed it to
Niema.  "Here, hold this.  " She pushed that pistol, too, into the
bundle of her evening wrap.

It would look suspicious if they didn't take the weapon.

He unlocked the car with the automatic lock release on the key ring and
they got in.  "Get down on the floor, " he said, putting his hand on
the back of her head and pushing to make sure she obeyed.

She crouched in the well of the floor as he started the car and hit the
garage door opener The door began to slide upward and the automatic
light came on overhead.  He glanced at her and smiled, and shifted into
gear.  The powerful car shot forward, tires grabbing traction so
smoothly there was no squeal or burning rubber.

The first shot shattered the window above her head, spraying glass over
the interior of the can She bit back a startled cry, covering her head
with her arms as a second shot went through the passenger door and the
back of the seat not three inches from John's arm, the bullet making a
funny whXtt sound as it passed through the leather and fabric.

He floored the gas pedal, smoothly shifting through the gears.

With each new gear the increased G-force pushed her hard against the
seat.  "Stay down, " he said, and ducked a split second before the
drivers' side window shattered.

The gates.  He was heading for those massive, steel-barred gates.

She barely had time to brace her hands before the impact.  Metal
screamed and glass shattered, and she heard more shots, the rapid
coughing of automatic fire.  She was thrown sideways, her head banging
the gear shift.  One of the heavy gates, torn off its hinges, landed
half on the hood.

"Are you all right?  " John shouted as he shifted into reverse.

The gate spun and slid to the ground.  He shifted gears again and the
car shot forward, bumping over the gate, metal bars clanging.

"Yeah, " she yelled, but she didn't know if he heard her over the
gunfire.  He wasn't returning the fire, using all his concentration to
drive.  She fumbled for the two weapons in the folds of her wrap, the
first one she touched was the big one the Company man had been
carrying.  She got to her knees as she thumbed off the safety.

"God damn it, stay down!  " John roared, reaching for her as if he
would shove her back into the floon

"Just drive!  " She jerked away, wrapped both hands around the heavy
weapon, and began firing out the window.  Even if she didn't hit
anyone, return fire would at least make them duck for COVer If she
didn't do something, the car, with them in it, would be shot to
pieces.

The heavy weapon bucked in her hand, the deep cough deafening her as
hot casings ejected into the can One bounced off her bare arm, leaving
behind a sting.

The car wasn't running as smoothly as before, it jerked and hesitated,
the engine cutting out.  Some of the bullets had hit something critical
but at least they were off the estate grounds.

More shots zinged after them, but they sounded like handguns, which
meant the shots didn't have their range.  "We have to ditch the car, "
John said, turning his head to check behind them.  The rearview mirror
was nothing but a shattered metal frame, the mirror blasted into tiny
pieces all over them.

"Where?  " "As soon as we're out of sight.  With luck, they won't find
the car until morning.  " Niema peered over the shredded remains of the
seat back.

The estate was lit with so many lights it looked like a miniature city.
Dozens of lights bloomed as she watched, neatly spaced apart in
pairs--headlights.  "They're coming, " she said.

They went around a curve, and a thick stand of trees hid the estate
from sight.  He drove off the road, slowing so the tires wouldn't churn
up the ground, easing the heavy vehicle into the trees.

They bumped over limbs and rocks, and bushes scraped at the
once-pristine paint job.

He didn't touch the brake pedal, just in case one of the taillights was
still working.  When they were far enough off the road that passing
headlights wouldn't glint on metal, he stopped and killed the engine.
They sat in silence broken only by the engine pinging and hissing,
listening to the pursuing vehicles roar past their hiding spot.

They were less than a mile from the estate.  "Now what?  " she asked,
her voice sounding funny, but then her ears were still ringing from the
gunfire.  The car interior stank of burnt gunpowder and hot metal.

"Do you feel like a nice run?  " "It's my favorite thing to do in the
middle of the night, wearing sandals and a two-thousand dollar dress,
with a hundred guys chasing and shooting at us.  " "Just be glad the
sandals aren't high-heeled.  " He rapped his pistol barrel on the
inside lights, shattering covers and bulbs so there wouldn't be any
betraying light when they opened the doors.

Gingerly she climbed up from the floon Shards of glass dusted the
seats, her shoulders, her hair It was very dark under the trees.  The
door on her side wouldn't open, a bullet had probably hit the lock
mechanism.  She crawled over the gear shift, glass tinkling and
gritting with every movement she made.

John got out and reached in, bodily lifting her out of the car and
standing her on her feet.  "Shake, " he directed.

They both bent over, shaking their heads and flopping their arms and
clothes to dislodge any clinging bits of glass.  Her arms and shoulders
were stinging a little, but when she cautiously felt them her fingers
came away dry, so at least she wasn't bleeding.  It was a wonder they
were even alive, not being cut by that hail of glass went beyond wonder
into miraculous.

But when they straightened, her eyes had adjusted more to the darkness
and she saw that half of John's face was darker than the other half.
Her stomach plummeted.  "You're hit, " she said, fighting to keep her
voice even.  He couldn't be shot.  He couldn't.  Something vital in her
depended on his being okay.

"By glass, not a bullet.  " He sounded more irritated than anything
else.  He took the silk handleerchief from his breast pocket and held
it to his forehead.  "Do you have both pistols?  " "They're in the can"
She leaned forward into the car and retrieved both weaponS.  "What
about my tools?  Leave them?  " She definitely didn't want to lug them
around.

"Hand them here.  " She gave him the velvet pouch, heavy with tools. He
took the tools out and threw them, one by one, as far as he could into
the trees and underbrush.  If the bag of tools was found, Ron sard
would wonder what they had been used for, and since they had been
spotted coming out of his office he would then no doubt have a complete
physical search done of all the wiring, and he would find the bug.  A
physical search was the only way to find it, but then no bug could be
hidden when the wires themselves were examined.

"Got your wrap?  " "Why do I need it?  " "Because it's black and will
hide some of that skin you're showing.  " She got the wrap and her
evening bag out of the car, though she had to gingerly feel around
until she found them.

The evening bag was useless, there wasn't anything in there they could
use, not even money.  All her money, passport, everything, were back in
her room.  She wasn't worried about the passport, the name on it was
false, and John would get them back into the country even without one,
but money would have come in handy.

John took the bag from her, but instead of throwing it away he tucked
it in his pocket.  "Come on.  " Running in the woods in the dark was
too dangerous, they risked turned ankles at least, and possibly broken
bones, so they picked their way through the trees and underbrush,
pausing every so often to listen for pursuit.  They could hear traffic
on the road, growing more and more distant as they angled away from it.
They couldn't hope that Ron sard's men would be stymied for much
longer, though.

They came out of the woods onto a secondary road.  "We'll follow this
for a while, " he said.  "It's easier traveling, and while it's dark we
can see them a lot sooner than they can see us.  " "Are we going
anywhere in particular, or just running?  " "Nice.  " "Why Nice?  Why
not Lyon?  It's closer" "Ron sard will be watching the airport in Lyon,
and all the car rentals.  He'll expect us to go there.  " "Then how
about Marseilles?  " "Our yacht is in Nice.  " "Really.  I didn't know
we had a yacht.  " "The Company has a yacht, and the yacht has a
computer with a satellite up-link.  I'll be able to get this
information to Langley and let them start work on it immediately.  "
"Nice it is, then.  " He took a knife from his pocket and knelt at her
feet.

Grasping a fistful of fabric in his hand, he inserted the knife about
level with her knee and slit her gown sideways, cutting off the bottom
half of the skirt.  "You have more things in the pockets of that tuxedo
than Snoopy has in his dog house, " she commented.  "I don't see how it
fits as well as it does.  " "I have a very good tailor" Now that they
were out from under the trees, she could see that his head was still
bleeding.  He cut a narrow strip off the swath he had just removed from
her gown and tied it over the cut.  His tuxedo was torn and dirty, and
when she looked down she saw that what remained of her gorgeous Dior
gown was in the same condition.  The remnant of the fabric he draped
around his neck.

They began running in an easy jog, because they weren't wearing running
shoes and the impact of the hard asphalt through the thin soles of
their eve nine shoes iarred every bone and muscle as it was.

v w

"Are we going to run all the way to Nice?  " she asked after about a
mile.

"No, we're going to steal a can" "When?  " "As soon as we find one.  "
She tried to find a stride that was easier on her feet and legs, and
tried to keep her mind focused on the present.  While they were being
shot at she hadn't had any trouble focusing, but now there was nothing
but the rhythmic slap of their shoes on the asphalt, the easy sound of
their breathing, and the night sounds surrounding them.  With nothing
posing an immediate threat, her thoughts zeroed in on what had happened
in Ron sard's office.

She didn't want to think about it, but couldn't stop.  Maybe it had
been inevitable, given the tug of sexual attraction she felt for him,
had felt from the moment she set eyes on him in Frank vi nay's office.
He struck sparks off her, made her feel so alive she sometimes thought
her skin couldn't contain her.  Those kisses they had shared--maybe the
setup had been pretense, but her response hadn't.

With every touch, every dance, every kiss her anticipation had built
until it was a wonder she hadn't climaxed as soon as he licked her.

If only it hadn't happened that way.  If only he had been making love
to her, instead of setting a scene for their cover story.  For her,
their coming together had been a cataclysmic event.  For him, it had
been a job.

Maybe that was what hurt so much.  She wanted to mean something to him
other than just another job, another means to an end.  She was afraid .
. . dear God, she was afraid she loved him.

She would have to be a Grade A fool to love John Medina.

Loving a man who traveled was one thing, thousands-of women did.

Loving a man who drew in danger with every breath was something else
thousands of women did.  Cops, firemen, high-iron men, oil-well
riggers--they all had dangerous jobs and they were gone for' long
stretches of time.  But at least they lived in the sunlight.  At least
their lives were real.

John was always setting a scene, doing a job, working an angle.

He was almost always someone else.  She would never know if he was dead
or alive, or if he was coming back even if he was alive.

She couldn't love like that.  She couldn't live like that.

"Car, " he said, breaking the agonized chain of her thoughts, gripping
her arm and urging her off the road.  "Get down.  " Headlights speared
toward them through the darkness, the car moving fast.

She lay flat on her face in the weeds, with the evening wrap draped
over her arms and shoulders and the remnants of her skirt covering her
bare legs.  John lay beside her, between her and the road.

The car zoomed past.

Slowly they sat up.  Until they stopped running, she hadn't been aware
of how her feet and legs were aching.  She rubbed her hands up and down
her shins.  "Maybe barefoot would be better than these shoes.  " "On
the ground, yes, but not on asphalt.  " The thin straps were rubbing
blisters on her feet.  She eased the straps to a different position.
"I'm developing a problem here.  " He squatted beside her

"Blisters?  " "Not yet, but getting there.  " "Okay, running is out. We
need to get transportation tonight, though, because we'll be a lot
easier to spot on foot during the day.

I wanted to get farther away before I liberated a car, but that can't
be helped.  " "What difference does it make?  " "If a car is stolen
practically in Ron sard's backyard, do you think he won't hear about it
and figure we're the ones who stole it?

Then he'll know what kind of car we're in and can have people watching
for us.  " She sighed.  "Then we walk.  " His hand closed gently over
her foot.  "I don't think that's an option, either We'll come across a
farm soon, or a village, and I'll get whatever's there, even if it's a
tow truck.  " "Until then, " she said as she got to her feet, "we walk.
" Chapter twenty-four.

on sard was more coldly furious than he'd X ever been in his life, but
more at himself E vt han anyone else.  After all, in his business one
could expect treachery.  What he hadn't expected was that he would have
been so completely fooled.  Nor had he expected that as many security
personnel as were on the estate wouldn't be able to stop one car from
leaving.  They were supposedly professionals, but they hadn't performed
as such.

He had one man dead, and another, Hossam, suffering from a concussion.
Hossam had been found lying on the garage floor, only half-dressed and
unconscious.  Having correctly guessed that Temple would try for one of
the estate vehicles, he had evidently been taken from behind.  Why
Hossam had been wearing only his pants when he was supposed to have
been working was a puzzle, until he noticed that Cara was nowhere to be
found and sent someone to investigate.  She was found tied to her bed,
naked and furious.  He had been wondering if he would have to kill
Hossam for assaulting her until her concern, when she found he had been
injured, reassured him that whatever had been going on in her bedroom
had been consensual.

Ron sard's guests were shocked and uneasy.  The violence of the night's
events had forcibly brought home to many of them exactly what sort of
world their host lived in.  It was all very well to flirt with danger,
to boast to their friends that they had been guests at the notorious
Louis Ron sard's luxurious estate, to give him information that made
them feel wicked and notorious too, but the reality of it was more
brutal than they could have guessed.

He imagined none of them had ever seen a man who had been shot in the
head.  Then all hell had broken loose outside as Temple made his
escape, with a hail of automatic fire that sounded as if a small war
was being waged on his front lawn, the car crashing through his front
gates, his guards scattering as small-arms fire was returned at them.

It wasn't just his security that had been breached, but theirs.  They
no longer had the illusion of safety.  Most of them were leaving come
the morning.

As a host, his night had been a fiasco.  As a businessman, it was worse
than that.

Temple and Niema had been in his office.  What Niema was doing there,
he couldn't imagine.  Perhaps she was Temple's partner, perhaps not.
witnesses to the shooting in the hallway had agreed he was manhandling
her, shoving her around, dragging her outside.  On the other hand,
Temple had been driving the car, who other than Niema had been shooting
at his guards?  It was possible Temple had been both driving and
shooting, difficult, but not impossible, and Temple was a trained
assassin.

What had they been doing in his office?

The lock wasn't working.  It had been, however, when he left the office
the last time, because he automatically, from ingrained habit, tried
the handle every time he left.

He stood in his office looking around, trying to see what Temple could
have seen.  What would he have been interested in?  The computers, of
course.  But there was nothing on Cara's that would have been of
interest to him, and the information in Ron sard's computer was
password protected.

The password.  He walked to his desk and surveyed the items on top of
it.  Nothing looked disturbed, his copy of A Tale of Two cities was
exactly where he had left it.

And yet-And yet, the instinct for survival that had stood him in such
good stead told him that Temple had somehow breached the security in
his computer as surely as he had breached the estate's security.

Ron sard couldn't afford to assume otherwise.

Nor could he afford to underestimate his opponent, a man who evidently
appeared and disappeared at will, and who had access to government
documents before they were made public.  Such a man was a man with
power either behind him, or in his own hands.

They had to be found.  With one phone call to the authorities in Lyon
he had immediately thrown a net over the airport, then, when one of his
more observant men saw where a car had been driven off the road and
found the Mercedes abandoned, extended that net to the car rental
services also.

They were on foot, unless Temple stole another car.  Ron sard arranged
that he be told immediately if any thefts were reported.

He sat down at his desk, drumming his fingers on the wood.

Lyon was the most logical immediate destination--but perhaps Temple
would go in the opposite direction, for that reason.  Do the
unexpected.  ICeep your opponent off balance, guessing.

This would be like a game of chess, with moves and counter moves.

The key to victory was planning ahead, anticipating every move his
opponent could make.

Marseilles was to the south--a larger city than Lyon, with a huge, busy
port.  It was farther away, but once there, the chances of escaping
went up dramatically.

The port.  That was the key.  Temple would escape by water.

The village was a small one, no more than fifteen houses loosely
grouped on each side of the road.  John selected an older model Renault
that was parked in front of a cottage, as the older cars were easier to
hot wire.  Niema stood watch while he eased the car door open and felt
under the dash for the wiring harness.  The interior light was burning,
but he didn't have a flashlight and had to take the chance of someone
seeing the light.  With his knife, he stripped the wires of their
plastic sheath.

Three cottages away, a dog roused from its doggy dreams and barked
once, then fell silent.  No light came on in any of the cottage's
windows.

"Get in, " John whispered, moving aside so she could crawl in from that
side and not make more noise by having to open and close the passenger
door, too.  She wasn't a four-year-old, and the Renault was small, she
banged her knee on the gear shift, her head on the interior light, and
her elbow on the steering wheel.  Swearing under her breath, she
finally maneuvered herself into the passenger seat.

All the (due en's lvlen John wasn't laughing, but his mouth wore a
curve that said he wanted to.  The small interior light gave her the
first clear look at him since they left the estate, and her heart
skipped a beat.  The right side of his face was streaked with dried
blood, despite his efforts to wipe it off.  His once-snowy shirt was
rusty with dirt and blood, his hair was tousled, and beard stubble
darkened his jaw.  With the black strip of silk tied around his head,
he looked like a disreputable, Armani-clad pirate.

If anyone saw them the way they looked now, they were busted.

He twisted the wires together, and the engine began trying to crank. It
coughed, the fan turning, and he slid into the seat and gently pressed
the gas pedal.  With a high-pitched hum like a sewing machine, the car
started.  Without closing the door, he put in the clutch and shifted
into low gear, the car began rolling as he let out the clutch. Fifty
yards down the road, he closed the door.

"What time is it?  " she asked, slumping in the seat.  Her feet were
throbbing.  She eased them out of the sandals, knowing she might not be
able to get her shoes back on and not caring.

sitting down was such a relief she almost groaned.

He glanced at his wristwatch.  "A little after three.  With luck, we
have two or three hours before anyone notices the car is missing.

Why don't you try to get some sleep?  " "I'm not sleepy.  " She wasn't.
She was exhausted but not sleepy.

She was both hungry and thirsty, and really, really needed to soak her
aching feet in cold water.

"You will be.  When your adrenaline drops, you'll crash.  " "What about
you?  Don't you have adrenaline?  " she snapped, though she didn't know
why she was suddenly crabby.

"I'm used to it.  I've learned how to work through the crash.  " "I'm
okay.  " She wasn't, though.  She glanced at him.  His strong hands
were steady on the wheel, his expression as calm as if he were out for
a Sunday drive.  Maybe she looked that calm, too, but inside she was
shredded.

"Do you want to talk about it?  " "No, " she said, appalled.  There was
no need to ask what "it" was.

She didn't want him to be reasonable and logical and tell her to just
look at what they'd done as part of the job.  All she wanted was to get
this over with and leave with some semblance of dignity still intact.

"We have to at some point.  " "No, we don't.  I just want to forget it.
" He paused, and his jaw tightened.  "Are you mad because you came, or
because I did?  " She felt like screaming.  God, why wouldn't he just
leave it alone?  "Neither.  Both.  " "That's certainly a definitive
answer" "If you want definitive answers, get a dictionary.  " Another
pause, as if he measured her resistance.  "All right, I'll drop it for
now, but we will talk.  " She didn't reply.  Didn't he understand?
Talking about what happened was like touching a wound, keeping it fresh
and bleeding.

But, no, how could he understand, when it wasn't like that for him?

"How far is it to Nice?  " "A couple of hundred miles if we use the
expressway, less if we go over the mountains.  The direct route
probably won't be the fastest, though, at least not in this car.  It
doesn't have the horses to climb the mountains at much more than a
crawl.  " "The expressway should get us there by six-thirty or seven,
though.  " "In the neighborhood.  We have to stop and steal another
car.  " "Another one?  " "We're too close to Ron sard's estate.  He'll
hear about this as soon as it's reported.  We need to ditch this one. "
"Where?  " "Valence, I think.  I'll look for something there.  " They
were serial car thieves, she mused.  Well, she had wanted excitement.
John Medina certainly filled the bill, there were no dull stretches
while in his company But home was looking better and better, as a
refuge in which she could deal with the idiocy of having fallen in love
with him.  She thought of her peaceful house, with everything
specifically arranged to her liking--except for the double hook-and-eye
latches on every door and window.

"If I can get a flight out, I'll be home by this time tomorrow, " she
said, then remembered her passport.  "No, scratch that.  No passport.
How am I going to get back into the States?  " "We'll probably take
military transport home.  " We?  He intended to travel with her?  That
was news.  "You're going back to Washington, too?  " "For the time
being.  " He didn't expand on that, and she didn't ask.  Instead she
leaned her head back and closed her eyes.  Even if she couldn't sleep,
she could rest.

"A baker reported his car was stolen early this morning .  . .

here.  " Ron sard put his finger on the map.  The village was thirteen
kilometers from the estate, on a small, narrow road that wound in a
general southwest direction and eventually bisected the expressway.

Several of his security people were gathered around the desk while he
spoke on the telephone to a friend with the local authorities.

If Temple went south, he would have been in the same rough area as the
village.  "What make and color is the car?  Do you have the license?  "
He wrote as he listened.  "Yes, thank you.  ICeep me informed.  " He
hung up and tore the sheet of paper off the pad.  "Find this car, " he
said, handing the sheet to his men.  "On the expressway to Marseilles.
Bring him back alive, if possible.  If not--" He broke off and
shrugged.

"And the woman?  " Ron sard hesitated.  He didn't know the extent of
Niema's involvement.  He had personally searched her room and there was
nothing suspicious there.  Could Temple have kidnapped her?  There was
one thing of which he was absolutely sure, The man was obsessed with
her.

The intensity with which he had watched her couldn't be feigned.  He
could still feel that way if they were partners, but if they weren't,
Temple was the type of man who wouldn't balk at kidnapping if she
wouldn't go willingly.

The Niema he knew was funny, a little sharp-tongued, and kind-hearted.
He remembered the way she had shown Laure how to apply the makeup she
had acquired, the gentleness, the way she didn't talk down to Laure as
if being ill had somehow stunted his daughter's ability to
understand.

For Laure, he said, "Try not to hurt her.  Bring her to me.  " Chapter
twenty-five.

They reached Valence before dawn.  John | cruised down the streets,
looking for a v promising target.  The city had a population of over
sixty thousand, so he should be able to find another car without a lot
of trouble.

He glanced over at Niema, sitting as erect as a soldier, and his lips
compressed into a grim line.  He'd almost gotten her killed tonight. He
had been so certain this would be an in-and out job, the sort he could
do blindfolded, but instead they had barely escaped with their lives.

He was still taking risks with her life.  He knew it, and yet he
couldn't bring himself to make the call that would get them picked up,
not now, not with what he'd done to her in Ron sard's office lying
between them like a snake coiled ready to strike if he tried to move
it.

One phone call.  That was all it would take.  They would be picked up
within the hour and flown to Nice, where he would up-link the files and
finish the job.  But the way things were now, she would move heaven and
earth to go home and get away from him.  He couldn't let that happen,
not with things the way they were between them.

He had gone to a lot of trouble to keep her from realizing how focused
he was on her, and now that was working against him.  She thought she
was nothing more to him than a means to an end.  What would she say if
he told her the truth, that even though the love-making in Ron sard's
office had started out as a cover, he had seen the opportunity to have
her and ruthlessly used it.  What was worse, he would do it again. He'd
take her any way he could, whenever he could.

Everything he'd said at Ron sard's, everything he'd done, was the
truth. That was why Ron sard had so easily believed the cover, because
it was true.  But Niema didn't seem to see it, even though he knew she
wanted him, was so physically aware of him she had climaxed with
startling speed.  Maybe he was too damn good at his job, at playing a
role.  He was tired of role-playing, when he kissed her, damn it, he
wanted her to know he was kissing her because he wanted to rather than
because it was what was called for in some unwritten script.

A police car was coming toward them in the other lane.  He was so
preoccupied he almost missed how it slowed as it approached.  Then
instinct kicked in and reflexes took over.

"We're made, " he said, downshifting and taking the next right on two
wheels.  There was no point in being subtle, it didn't matter if they
knew he'd seen them.  What mattered was getting this car off the street
before they were picked up.  He All the (Queen's Men jammed the gas
pedal to the floor, needing to make the next turn before the police
were able to turn around and fall in behind him.

Niema jerked to full attention.  "That fast?  " she asked
incredulously.

"Ron sard has a lot of money.  He can make a stolen vehicle a matter of
prime importance.  " He pushed the little car as hard as he could, its
motor whining.  The next turn was a left, and that one too was made on
two wheels.  He killed the headlights and took the next left, which
brought them back out on the street from which they had originally
turned off.

Niema was trying to brace herself against the dash, the door, anything
to keep from being slung all over the car.

He took a right.  They were now, With luck, going away from the police
car.  The narrow street he was on was winding, and dark, unless he
touched the brakes, they shouldn't be able to locate him.

He was good at driving without using the brakes.  He downshifted
whenever he needed to slow to take a curve, letting the engine do the
work.

"What now?  " she asked.  She had given up on trying to brace herself
and was on her knees on the floor.  In spite of everything, a hint of
cheerfulness had returned to her voice.

He remembered the way she had grabbed the heavy pistol and returned
fire as they were crashing the gates, far from getting hysterical, she
thrived on excitement.

"We stay with the original plan.  Dump this car, get another one.  "
"Is there any chance of getting a little food while we're doing all
this?  " "If we can find a stream where we can clean up.  We're too
noticeable the way we are.  " She looked down at her bare feet and
tattered gown, then at his bloodstained tuxedo, and shrugged.  "So
we're a little overdressed.  I don't think washing our faces and hands
is going to help much.  " She was right about that.  They needed a
change of clothes before they were seen in public, they were too
noticeable.  And he'd forgotten about the black strip tied around his
head, but he couldn't remove it until they found some water, because
the dried blood had stuck the material to the cut and if he pulled it
off he'd start the damn thing bleeding again.

On the other hand, if the next car he stole had a full tank of gas, he
could also steal some food and water and they wouldn't need to stop
again until they reached Nice.  They could shower on the yacht and have
clothing delivered.

"We also need to find a secluded area for other reasons, " she pointed
out.

"Understood and obeyed.  " He left the Renault parked behind a shop and
removed its plates.

The next car they came to, he removed those plates, replaced them with
the Renault's, then they went back to the Renault and put the other
car's plates on it.  When the local police found the car and compared
the plates to the ones on the car reported stolen, they would think it
was a different car.

They would eventually figure it out, but at least this would slow them
down a little.

"Where to now?  " Niema asked.  She was tired, but at least John had
found a bush behind which she had relieved herself, so she wasn't in
any physical discomfort, other than her sore feet.

"We walk until we find another car.  " "I was afraid you were going to
say that.  Why didn't we just take the car we put the Renault's plates
on?  " "They were too close together.  We would automatically be
suspected.  We need a car on the other side of town.  " She sighed. The
last thing she wanted to do right now was walk to the other side of
town.  No--the last thing she wanted to do was get caught.  She bit her
tongue to hold back any complaints that might slip out.

They walked for forty-five minutes before he spotted the car he wanted.
It was a Fiat, parked at the top of a small slope, and it was unlocked.
 "Get in, " he said, and she thankfully crawled in.  Instead of
hot-wiring it, he put it in neutral, braced his hands on the frame, and
started it rolling.  He hopped in and they rolled silently down the
slope, away from the owner's house.  He let it roll as far as it would
and then did the hot wiring thing.  The engine was another sewing
machine, but it ran smoothly, and that was all they required.

Ron sard paced quietly.  He didn't like leaving everything to his men.
He understood Temple, he thought, at least he didn't underestimate him.
His guests were gone, there was no reason for him to remain here.

The phone rang with another update.  The Renault had been found in
Valence, but there was no report of Temple or Madame Jamie son.  The
plates on the Renault had been switched with those from a Volvo, but
the Volvo hadn't been stolen.

"What other cars have been reported stolen within the past twenty-four
hours?  " "A Peugeot was taken from behind a house a kilometer from the
Renault.  A Fiat was also stolen, but that was some distance away.  And
a Mercedes was reported stolen, but the owner has been out of town and
does not know how long the car has Lxeen gone.

The Peugeot was the most likely, Ron sard thought.  It was the closest.
And yet .  . . perhaps that was what Temple wished him to think.
"Concentrate on the Mercedes and Fiat, " he said.  "I will be joining
you by helicopter in two hours.  Find those two cars.  " "Yes, sir, "
came the brisk answer.

It was noon when they reached Nice.  Niema was so tired she could
barely think, but somehow her body kept moving.

They were met at the dock by a man in a small outboard, to take them
out to the yacht that was moored in the harbor.  He had to be Company,
Niema thought.  He was American, and he didn't ask any questions, just
competently steered the boat across the harbor and brought it alongside
a gleaming white sixty-footer.

She wasn't too tired to be amazed.  She stared up at the yacht, with an
impressive array of antennas bristling from its top.  When John had
said "yacht, " she had expected something about twenty-five or thirty
feet, with a tiny galley, a tinier head, and bunk beds in a cramped
cabin.  This thing was in an entirely different category.

John spoke quietly with the other man, giving him instructions on the
disposition of the stolen Fiat.  It was to disappear, immediately.

There were other instructions as well.  "Keep us under surveillance.

Don't let anyone approach us without warmng.

bot lt.

He turned to look at Niema.  "Can you make it up the ladder?  " "Do I
get to take a shower and go to bed if I do?  " "Absolutely.  " "Then I
can make it up the ladder.  " She suited action towS 1words, setting
her bare feet on the rungs and using the last of her energy to climb to
the deck.  John made it as easily as if he had just woke from a good
night's sleep and started fresh.  He looked terrible, but she couldn't
see any sign of fatigue in him.

He opened the hatch door and led her inside.  The interior was
surprisingly spacious, with everything built in that could be built in,
the design both sophisticated and luxurious.  They were in the middle
of the boat, in a large salon outfitted with pale golden wood and dark
blue trim, a full galley lay beyond.

John ushered her past the galley, into a narrow hallway, or whatever it
was called on board a ship.  If a kitchen was a galley, a bathroom was
a head, and a bedroom was a cabin, then a hallway had to be something
else too.

"Here's the head, " he said, opening a door.  "Everything you'll need
is there.  When you're finished, take either of these cabins.  " He
indicated two doors in the hallway past the head.

"Where will you be?  " "In the office, up-linking to a satellite for a
burst transmission.  There are two other heads on board, so don't feel
you have to hurry.  " Hurry?  He had to be joking.

The head was as luxuriously appointed as the rest of the boat.

All of the cabinetry was built in, to save space.  The glass enclosed
shower was spacious by anyone's standards, with gold-plated fixtures.

A thick white terry cloth bathrobe hung on a hook behind the door, and
a bath mat with a pile so thick her feet sank into it covered the
glazed bronze tiles on the floor.

She investigated the contents of the vanity and found everything she
could possibly need, as John had said, soap, shampoo, conditioner,
toothpaste, a new toothbrush, moisturizer.

In another drawer was a blow dryer and an assortment of brushes and
combs.

She was so tired all she wanted to do was fall in bed and sleep for the
rest of the day.  They were safe, the job completed.  She had done what
she signed on to do.

She should feel satisfied, or at least relieved.  All she felt was a
great hollow pain that had started in her.  chest and now seemed to
fill her entire body.  It was finished.  Over.  John.  The job.

Everything.

"I can't let him go, " she whispered, leaning her head on her hands.
She loved him too much.  She had tried to fight it for weeks now,
loving a man like him was a tough thing to do.  She had already loved
one damn hero, and losing Dallas had nearly destroyed her.  What she
was risking now was too devastating to even contemplate, but there was
no turning back.

Nor could she see any future for them.  John was, essentially, a lobo.
They had worked as a team on this job, but that wasn't likely to happen
again.  By necessity he had to limit the number of people who knew his
real identity, and carefully control any contact with them.

She still didn't understand why she was one of those few people,
despite what he said about being taken by surprise and blurting out his
real name.  John Medina didn't blurt out anything, Everything he said,
everything he did, was toward some aim.

So why had he told her?  She was nobody, a low-level tech with a talent
for electronic surveillance.  He could have kept quiet and let her go
on believing his name was Tucker, or he could have come up with some
other name, God knows he had a list of them tucked away somewhere in
that convoluted brain of his.  She had no way of knowing the
difference.

She would drive herself crazy wondering about him, what he was doing
and why he was doing it.  No sane woman could possibly love him, but if
this job had taught her one thing, it was that she wasn't sane.  She
was an adrenaline junkie, a risk taker, and though she had spent the
past five years fighting her own nature, punishing herself for Dallas's
death and trying to shape her life, her personality, into a more
conventional pattern, she could no longer maintain the illusion.  All
John had to do was walk through a door and beckon her, and she would go
with him--anywhere, any time.

It angered her that she could be so defenseless against him.

If he had shown any corresponding weakness, she wouldn't feel so
hopeless.  He liked her, she knew, physically he had responded when
they kissed, and he had certainly risen to the occasion in Ron sard's
office, but a physical response from a man was so automatic she
couldn't let herself read any importance into it.  Men were, as he
himself had pointed out, simple creatures.  All they required was a
warm body.  She had filled that requirement.

She could stand there all day running the details around and around in
her mind, like a rat trying to escape from a maze, but she always came
back to the same end, She couldn't see a future with John.

He was what he was.  He lived in the shadows and risked his life on a
daily basis, and kept his personal life to a minimum.  She even loved
that part of him, because how many people in the world could do what he
did, make the sacrifices he had made?

All she could do was hope she saw him now and again.  Even every five
years would be enough, if she could just know he was alive.

Shuddering, she pushed away that last thought and at last moved into
action, stripping off her filthy clothes and stepping under the warm
shower.  She put her mind in neutral, soaping and scrubbing and
shampooing, scrubbing away at a stubborn dark stain on her thigh until
she realized it was a bruise.

Getting clean made her feel marginally better, though the face she saw
in the mirror was still pale and strained, her eyes shadowed with
exhaustion.  She took full advantage of the amenities provided,
brushing her teeth, smoothing moisturizer into her skin, blow-drying
her hair.  There was even a tube of medicated cream, and she dabbed
that on the raw places on her feet.

The grooming rituals had a sedative effect, easing the tightness of her
nerves.  She could sleep now, she thought, and even managed a smile to
herself.  As if sleeping had ever been in any doubt!  She planned to
spend at least ten hours horizontal, more if she could manage it.

She would deal with her dirty clothes later, she decided, and wrapped
herself in the thick, soft robe.  All she wanted to do now was sleep.

She opened the door and froze.  John stood just outside the door, naked
except for a damp towel wrapped around his waist.  He had already
showered, small beads of water still clung to the hair on his chest.

Niema knotted her hands into fists, wrapping them with the robe sash to
keep from touching him, flattening her palms against that warm,
muscular wall and feeling his heart beat beneath her fingers.

"Are you finished?  " she asked in surprise.

"It only took a couple of minutes.  Load the disk in the computer,
up-link to the satellite, and send a burst transmission.

It's done.  " "Good.  You must be as tired as I am.  " He blocked her
exit from the head, looking down at her with an unreadable expression
in his blue eyes.  "Niema .  . . " "Yes?  " she prompted, when he
didn't say anything else.

He held out his hand to her, palm upturned, utterly steady.

"Will you sleep with me?  " Her heart gave a powerful thud that made
her feel weak.

She stared up at him, wondering what was going on behind that
impenetrable blue gaze, and then realized it didn't matter.  For now,
nothing mattered but being with him.  She put her hand in his and
whispered, "Yes.  " He put his arms around her and lifted her off her
feet almost before the word was out of her mouth.  His mouth closed
over hers, hungry, devouring, hot.  He tasted of the same toothpaste
she had used.

His tongue stroked urgently in her mouth and she met it with her own.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and lost herself, pleasure and joy
exploding through her veins.

He dropped the towel where he stood.  She lost the robe somewhere on
the short route to the nearest cabin.  She didn't know exactly how he
got her out of it, but he did.  They fell on the bed.  Before she could
catch her breath he levered himself on top of her and pushed his legs
between hers.

His penetration was abrupt and forceful.  She cried out, her back
arching, her nails digging into his shoulders.  His penis was so hot
and hard it felt like a thick, heated pipe pushing into her unprepared
body.  His whole body was hot with urgency, his muscles shaking as he
probed deeper, working his entire length into her.  His mouth covered
hers, swallowing her moans as excitement swirled through her.  This
wasn't part of a job.  This wasn't pretense.  He wanted her.

He was in her to the hilt, a heavy, stretching presence.  He buried his
head against her shoulder, shuddering with relief as if he couldn't
have borne another moment unconnected to her.

This wasn't the John Medina she knew, this man with his desperate
need. He was always so controlled, but there was nothing controlled
about him now.

She smoothe her hands down his back, feeling the powerful muscles
rippling just under his skin.  "There's a concept I want to introduce
to you, " she murmured.  "It's called foreplay.  " He lifted his head
from her shoulder, smiling wryly.  Propping himself on his elbows,
settling more comfortably on her and in her, he framed her face in his
hands and pressed a kiss to her mouth.  "I'm a desperate man.  Any time
you let me touch you, I'm going to get inside you as fast as I can,
before you have time to change your mind.  " The words shocked her,
hinting at a vulnerability, a need, she never would have suspected he
felt.

He moved, a slow stroke that set off a small riot in her nerve endings.
She gasped, her legs rising to clasp his hips.  "Why would I change my
mind?  " she managed to ask.

"Things haven't always been .  . . easy between us.  " Things weren't
easy between them now.  There was tension and pain and uncertainty, an
explosive sexual attraction, even a spark of hostility caused by the
clash of two strong personalities.  There was nothing serene about her
relationship with him, never had been.

She slid her fingers into the damp strands of his hair, holding him as
she lifted her hips and did her own stroking.  "If I wanted an easy
ride, I'd find a merry-go-round.  " His entire body tightened, and his
eyes burned laser blue.

He seemed to lose his ability to breathe.  She did it again, lifting to
take him deep, then clamping all her internal muscles on him and
holding him tight as she pulled back, milking him with her body.  A
harsh groan burst out of his throat.  "Then hold on tight, honey,
because it's gonna be long and hard.  " "Actually, " she purred, "it
already is.  " The smothered sound he made was almost a laugh.  "That
wasn't what I meant.  " "Then show me what you did mean.  " That look
was back in his eyes again, that unreadable wall behind which something
elusive moved.  "A lot of different things, " he murmured.  "But for
now, we'll concentrate on this one.  " Chapter twenty-six.

Fie ma woke in his arms the next morning.

\ She lay quietly, still drowsing, slipping ,"s back and forth between
sleep and awareness.  She was curled on her left side and he was a
solid wall behind her, his legs tangled with hers and his arm a heavy
weight over her hip.  His breath was warm on her shoulder.

She hadn't slept with a man like this since Dallas, she thought
sleepily, the name resonating gently in her mind.

No--John was the last man she had slept with.  The realization was a
shock.  She remembered that awful time in Iran, the way he had held her
and gentled her to sleep, then held her the next morning while she
wept, when she woke and realized he wasn't Dallas, that Dallas would
never again hold her in the night.

She couldn't see the clock, but it was almost dawn, the sky was
beginning to lighten.  They had been in bed--what, sixteen, seventeen
hours?  Making love, sleeping, making love again.  He had gotten up
once and brought back a tray of bread and cheese and fruit, and that
had been their supper.  Other than that they hadn't left the cabin
except to visit the head.

She felt lethargic, content to be right where she was.  Her entire body
was relaxed, sated, well-used.

His lips brushed the back of her neck and she realized he was awake.
She made a slight nestling movement, sighing with pleasure.

How she enjoyed this, waking in the early morning, held close by the
man she loved, there were few things in life more satisfying.

His morning erection prodded her, rising insistently against her
bottom.  She started to turn over but he stayed her with a murmur,
adjusting his position and guiding himself to her opening.  She arched
her back, giving him a better angle.  He put his hand on her stomach,
bracing her, and pushed.  He went slowly inside her, she was morning
soft, morning wet, but their positions made her body yield reluctantly
to his intrusion.  She breathe through her mouth, trying to stay
relaxed.  With her legs together there wasn't much room inside her, he
felt huge, stretching her to the limit.

The sensation bordered on pain, but was also its own turn on.  She
pressed her head back against his shoulder, struggling to contain the
feeling and yet take more of him.  Another inch pushed into her and she
moaned.

He paused.  "Are you all right?  " His voice was low, smoky with sleep
and desire.

She didn't know.  Maybe.  "Yes, " she whispered.

He stroked his right hand up to her breasts, lightly rubbing his
fingertips on the lower slope, the way he had learned she , xvlrn
liked.  The subtle caress lit a gentle glow of pleasure, prepared her
nipples for more direct contact.  That came from his thumb, slowly
moving over them, circling them until they hardened and stabbed into
his covering palm.  It was scary how fast he had caught on to all the
small subtleties of how she liked to be touched, scary that his
attention had been so focused on her that he hadn't missed a single
hitch in her breath.  After just one night, he knew her body as well as
she did.

He slipped his left arm under her, curving it around her waist and
cupping his hand over her mound.  His middle finger slid between her
fold, pressing lightly on her clitoris.  Not rubbing, just pressing,
holding his finger there.  Then he began to thrust, using long, slow
strokes that moved her body back and forth against his finger.

She cried out, jerking under the lash of pleasure.  He whispered
something soothing and steadied her, then resumed the motion.

"I wanted you the first time I saw you, " he murmured.

"God, how I envied Dallas!  " His right hand stroked up and down her
torso, piling sensation on top of sensation.  "I stayed away from you
for five long, fucking years.  I gave you every chance to settle down
with Mr.  Right, but you didn't take them and I'm through with waiting.
You're mine now, Niema.

Mine.  " Her thoughts reeled with shock.  He wasn't given to a lot of
swearing, For him to say what he just had was a measure of the strength
of his feelings.  "J-John?  " she stuttered, reaching back for him. She
hadn't had any idea any of that had been going on inside him.

How could she?  He was too damn good an actor.

His hips recoiled and plunged in a steady, unhurried motion that was
completely at odds with the way his heartbeat was hammering against her
back.  "I talked you into coming on this job because I couldn't let you
go.  " His mouth moved on her neck, finding that exact spot between
neck and shoulder where the lightest touch made her go limp with
pleasure, and a bite would light her up like a Christmas tree.  He
licked and kissed, holding her quivering body as she strained against
him.

She tried to part her legs, to lift her thigh over his, but he anchored
her leg and held it down.

Niema squirmed, almost frantic with need.  As good as his finger felt
between her legs, with her legs held together the contact wasn't quite
enough, his strokes inside her weren't quite deep enough, or fast
enough.  He had brought her to the boiling point, with touch and words,
but wouldn't let her go over it.

"You were right, " he breathe , the words hot on her skin.  "I could
have found someone else to plant the bug.  Hell, I could've planted it
myself.  But I wanted you with me.  I wanted this chance to have you. "
"Let me put my leg over yours, " she pleaded, almost mad with
frustration.  "Move faster.  Please.  Just do something!  " "Not yet. "
He kissed her neck again.  Her right hand, reaching behind to grab him,
clenched hard on his butt.  "In Ron sard's office--" "For God's sake,
confess afterward!  " He laughed and moved her hand, dislodging her
nails from his ass.

"I didn't mean to go that far.  I've never lost control like that
before.  " He nuzzled her ear.  "I had to taste you, had to kiss
you--and then I had to have you.  I wanted our first time to be in a
bed, with a lot of time to spend loving you, but I couldn't stop.  I
forgot about the job.  All that mattered was having you.  " He was
saying things any woman in her right mind wanted to hear from the man
she loved, Niema thought dimly.  But, damn him, he was saying them when
she was on the verge of dying.  And maybe what he was saying was
turning her on even more, because every word seemed to go straight to
her very core.

"You seem to think the end of this job is the end of us.  Not by a long
shot, sweetheart.  You're mine and you're going to stay mine.  " "John,
" she gasped.  "I love you.  But if you don't start moving your ass
this very minute--!  " He laughed, a deep-throated sound of pure
pleasure, and obeyed her command.  He lifted her thigh over his hip and
moved hard and fast, going deep.  She stiffened, her legs trembling,
and erupted in a violent climax.  He joined her before her tremors had
ceased.

Afterward, she couldn't stop trembling.  The pleasure had been too
intense, too prolonged, and she still couldn't quite believe all the
things he had said.  She twisted around to face him.  Immediately his
expression became guarded.

She managed a smile, though her heart was pounding so violently she
could barely speak.  "Don't think you can get away with saying things
like that only when my back is turned.  " She touched his face,
cradling his cheek in her palm.

"Did you mean them?  " A shudder wracked him.  "Every word.  " "So did
I. " He caught her fingers and pressed them to his lips, then folded
them in his hand.  For a moment he seemed beyond words.

She kissed his chin.  "I don't expect more from you than you can give.
I know who you are, remember?  You have a job to do, and I won't ask
you to give it up.  I'll probably go back into fieldwork myself--" "Why
am I not surprised?  " he asked in a wry tone.

She couldn't seem to stop touching him.  All those long hours in bed
with him had only made the yearning worse, instead of sating it.

She stroked her hand over his rock hard chest, pressed a kiss to his
throat.  "We'll work it out.  We don't have to make decisions now, or
even tomorrow.  " His eyebrows rose and he rolled, tucking her neatly
beneath him.

Propped over her on his elbows, he said in amusement, "You're being
very gentle with me.  " "I don't want to frighten you off.  " "After
waiting five years to have you?  Sweetheart, you couldn't frighten me
off with an elephant gun.  But you're right about one thing, We don't
have to make any decisions other than what to eat for breakfast.  We
can steal a few days just for ourselves before we go back to D. C. "
"Can we?  " That sounded like heaven--nothing to do but sleep late,
make love, lie in the sun.  No roles to play, no disks to steal.  They
could just be themselves.  She still couldn't quite take in everything
he'd said, How could she not have known, not sensed his attraction to
her?  But maybe she had, maybe that was what she had picked up on when
they were in Iran that made her so uneasy.  She hadn't been able to
tell what it was, because John was so good at hiding what he was
thinking, but she had known there was some tension there.  Would she
have been ready earlier to hear what he was saying?  She didn't know.

They were together now, and that was all that mattered.

Chapter twenty-seven.

tohn made a call on the radio, and a couple of | hours later the man
with the outboard brought some clothes to the boat, jeans, Tshirts,
underwear, socks, and sneakers.  "Have you heard anything on Ron sard?
" John asked as he took the bundle of clothes.

The man shook his head.  He was dressed much as he had been the day
before, in cotton pants and a pullover shirt, with dark sunglasses that
prevented anyone from seeing his eyes.

"Nothing since last night.  His men were all over Marseilles.

Looks like you lost them there.  We'll keep tight surveillance on the
yacht, though, just in case.  " Niema waited until the Company man
left, then went out on the deck.  "Clothes, " she said with
satisfaction, taking the bundle from John's arms.  "Thank God.  Being
naked when you have clothes to put on is one thing, but being naked
when you have no choice is nerve-wracking.  " He reached out and
fingered the thick bathrobe she had tightly belted around her after
showering a few moments ago.

"You look clothe to me--too damn clothe for my taste.  " "That's the
point.  If you have to work for something, you appreciate it more.  "
She stepped away from that encroaching finger and headed back below
deck.

"Then you should consider yourself the most appreciated woman in the
civilized world, " he growled.

Maybe he hadn't meant for her to hear him, but she did.

Her knees went a little weak.  Every time she thought of the things
he'd said that morning her heart started thumping hard and fast.

She was so happy she was afraid she might fly apart.

They would face problems in the future, probably in the near future.
She didn't know what form their relationship would take, whether there
would be any formal commitment or just an unspoken arrangement as
lovers whenever they happened to be together--which might not be very
often.  But all of that was in the future.  For right now, for these
couple of stolen days before they caught a military transport back to
the States, all they had to do was love each other.

He hadn't said he loved her, but he didn't have to.  She felt it every
time he touched her, with a wrenching blend of tenderness and almost
savage lust that made his hands tremble, or when he looked at her with
his emotions naked in his eyes.

John was so controlled that the very fact he let her see what he was
feeling told her more than words ever could.

She didn't have to have any promises, any plans.  Not today.

Not tomorrow.  Maybe losing Dallas had made her afraid to A nc vurrrz 3
ivlGn count on the future, all she knew was that she w'S happy just
having John now.

He came below deck and leaned against the door frame, watching as she
took all the articles of clothing out of the bag and placed them on the
bed, dividing them into his and hers stacks.

"Are you going somewhere?  " "No, I just want to get dressed.  I guess
I can't believe Ron sard has given up, and if there's trouble I want to
be wearing more than a robe.  " John strolled forward and hooked a
finger in the belt around her waist, pulling her against him.  She went
willingly, looping her arms around his neck.  "We're safe enough here
on the boat, " he said.  "The only way anyone can get to us without
being seen is from underwater.

We're under constant surveillance, and the boat has electronic
countermeasures in place in case anyone tries to eavesdrop.  " "So we
have to stay on board until we're picked up?  " "I wouldn't mind a
couple of days of downtime.  " A slight smile curved his lips.  "On the
other hand, I'm not Superman, either, so we might as well get dressed.
" He stripped off his tuxedo pants, which was all he was wearing, and
was in shorts and jeans by the time she stepped into a pair of
underpants.  He eyed her feet.  "You need Band-Aids on those blisters
before you put on socks and shoes.  I'll get the first-aid kit.  "
Niema sat down on the bed and examined her feet.  The blisters didn't
look bad and weren't bothering her, the antibiotic cream she'd put on
them the day before had helped a lot, plus she had been barefoot since
coming on board the boat.  Still, he was right, They needed protecting.
Runners learned to take care of their feet.

He came back with a small white kit in his hand and sat down beside
her.  "Feet up, " he said, patting his lap.

Smiling at the luxury, she turned around and lay back on the pillows,
lifting her feet onto his lap and giving herself up entirely into his
hands.  These strong hands gently cradled her feet, dabbing cool
ointment on the blisters and covering them with adhesive strips.

He performed the task with the same fearsome concentration he applied
to everything.

Still holding her feet in his hands, he looked up at her, "Did you know
the feet are an erogenous zone?  " Alarmed, she said, "I know they're a
ticklish zone.  " She tried to regain custody of her feet but with very
little effort he controlled the motion.

"Trust me.  " His tone was both soothing and cajoling.  "I won't do
anything to tickle you.  " She was trying to jackknife into a sitting
position when he pressed his mouth to her right instep.  She fell back
on the pillows, her breath tangling in her throat, spikes of pleasure
shooting all the way to her groin.  She sucked in a deep breath.

"Do that again.  " "My pleasure, " he murmured, caressing her instep
with his tongue and eyeing with interest her hardening nipples.

Niema closed her eyes.  What he was doing was incredible, She didn't
have the least inclination to laugh.  His touch was firm, almost
massaging.  His tongue unerringly found the most sensitive spot on her
instep, stroking it until she had to choke back moans of pleasure.

Then he turned his attention to her left foot, shifting so he was
facing her and a foot was in each hand.  He divided his attention
between them, kissing and licking and sucking until she could no longer
hold back those moans.  Her body twisted and arched, and her breathing
became ragged.

She was scarcely aware of when he deftly slipped her panties down her
legs, only that he was cupping her bottom in his hands and lifting her
up to his mouth.  His hair was cool on the insides of her thighs, his
mouth hot as he stabbed his tongue into her.  She was so aroused that
she began climaxing in moments, the sensation so intense that blood
roared in her ears and reality contracted until it existed only in the
sensation between her legs.

When she finally managed to open her eyeS, he was smiling at her.

"See?  " "Wow.  " She stretched languidly.  "Do you have any more
tricks?  " He laughed as he stood up.  "A few, but we'll work up to
those.  " He had taken the edge off her interest in getting dressed,
but she did it anyway, then joined him on deck.  The sun was bright on
the water.  She looked across at the crowded beach and the city beyond.
"I wish we could go into the city, " she said as she slipped her
sunglasses on her nose.

"Maybe later.  Let's see if we pick up anything else on Ron sard before
we go into the city.  " He picked up a pair of binoculars and scanned
the beach.

"Looking at the topless women?  " she asked, pinching his butt.  "I
thought you were too sophisticated for that.  " "A man never gets too
sophisticated for that, " he murmured and laughed when she pinched him
again.

Late that afternoon he got another report from the Company men on
shore.  Ron sard seemed to have pulled his men, though there was still
surveillance in place at the airports, no one was actively beating the
bushes for them.

"Looks like we can do a little sightseeing, " he said.

She was aware he was indulging her

"You've been to Nice before, haven't you?  " He shrugged.  "I've been
to most places before.  " "What do you do for relaxation?  " He thought
about that for a moment.  "Hide away on a boat on the Riviera and make
love to you, " he finally answered.  "You mean .  . .

you never just get in a car and drive?  Rent a cabin somewhere in the
mountains, go fishing, look at the scenery?  " She was aghast,
wondering how anyone could live under such unrelenting stress.

"Like a normal person?  No.  " Mr.  Medina, that's going to change,
she thought staring at him.

When he had downtime, she would make certain he relaxed some place
where he didn't have to constantly watch his back or keep up a cover.

That would probably be the only way they could be together, somewhere
so isolated they would have to make an effort to see another human
being.

John radioed in that they were going ashore.

"Do you want surveillance?  " He thought about it.  "How many men do
you have?  " "We can keep the yacht covered, or we can cover you, but
we'll be stretched thin if we try to do both.  " It was a calculated
risk, Niema knew.  Just because Ron sard's men hadn't been spotted
didn't mean they weren't there.  But everything in John's life was a
calculated risk--and lately, so was everything in hers.  This was how
it would be, she thought, this was the life she was choosing, the life
she wanted.

"Put one man on us, " John finally said.

"Will do.  " He tucked his pistol into his waistband at the small of
his back, then put on a lightweight jacket.  Niema had found a straw
tote in the cabin and she dropped her pistol into it.

The yacht had its own motorized dinghy, and they went ashore in it. The
sun was low in the sky, the light mellowing, the shadows dee pending. 
They walked for a while, strolling along with the other tourists.  They
stopped for a cup of coffee at a sidewalk cafe, she browsed through
some lovely little shops and started to buy a six-foot long, sky blue
scarf, only to realize she had no money.  "I'm broke, " she told John,
laughing as she pulled him out of the shop.

He looked back.  "I'll get the scarf for you.  " "I don't want you to
get the scarf.  I want you to get some money for me.  " "Independent
hussy, " he remarked, tugging free and going back into the shop.

She waited on the sidewalk, arms crossed and toe tapping, until he
rejoined her with the scarf wrapped in tissue paper.

He dropped the weightless package in her tote, and a kiss on her nose.
"That's from me.  As for operating money, I'll have more funds
delivered to us tomorrow.  " "Thank you.  " Over his shoulder she
caught a glimpse of a man watching them.  He quickly turned away and
entered a shop.  She said thoughtfully, "Do you know what our Company
tail looks like?  " "I spotted him when we left the dinghy.  IChaki
pants, white shirt.  " "A man wearing black pants, white shirt, and a
tan jacket was watching us.  He went in one of the shops when he saw me
looking at him.  " John moved immediately, though without haste,
curving his arm around her waist and walking with her into the nearest
shop.  Once they were inside he walked quickly through the shop, with
the owner sputtering after them, and out the rear entrance.  They were
in a narrow cobble stoned alley, dark with shadows, open at both ends.
He turned to the right, so they were going toward the shop in which
their unknown watcher had gone.

If the man followed them into the shop and out the back, he would
instinctively turn left, in the opposite direction from which he had
come.  If they could get out of the alley before he decided he'd been
made and came after them, they would shake him.

They almost made it.  The man burst into the alley when they were two
doors from the end.  The shopkeeper was squawking in his wake,
frustrated that people were using her shop as a shortcut.  He ignored
her as if she were no more than a mosquito, brushing her off as he drew
a pistol from the shoulder rig beneath his jacket.

The shopkeeper screamed and rushed back into her shop.

John shoved Niema into a recessed doorway and dove in the opposite
direction, pulling out his pistol and rolling as he hit the ground.

The first shot clanged into a metal trash can.  The second shot was
John's, but the man jerked back into the shop, "Run!  " John said, and
fired another shot at the doorway of the shop.  "I'll keep him pinned.
" She was reaching in the tote for her pistol, but at his command she
took off at a dead run, knowing any delay could hinder him.  Ahead of
her, people were scattering away from the mouth of the alley, screaming
and rushing for cover.

She reached the end and whirled around the wall, flattening herself
against it and peeking around.  John was working his way back, firing
carefully timed shots that chipped large chunks of brick off the
building.  When he was near he wheeled and grabbed her wrist and they
ran down the street, dodging through confused and alarmed
pedestrians.

All the (Queen's Men

"Do we head for the dinghy?  " she gasped, setting into stride.

"Not until we shake them.  I don't want that boat identified.  "
Meaning the boat wasn't just a place for them to crash.

It had classified stuff on board, maybe the boat itself was
classified.

As they ran she pulled the tote bag off her shoulder and dug in the
bottom of it for her pistol.

"What are you doing?  " he asked, taking a look behind them.

"Right!  " She wheeled right.  "Putting the pistol where I can get to
it without having to dig, " she growled, jamming the weapon under her
waistband in back as he had done and pulling her Tshirt out to cover
it.

A shout followed them.  Unfortunately, the streets were still crowded
with tourists, and heads turned to follow them as they ran and dodged.
All anyone chasing had to do was follow the ripple of disturbance.

"Left, " John said, and they turned left as smoothly as if they were
joined at the hip.  "Right.  " They took the next right.  If they could
get people looking in different directions it might create enough
momentary confusion for them to gain some ground and slip away.

They dodged onto a small side street, bright with flowers growing in
boxes and in pots set on narrow stoops, the doors were gaily painted,
and children wrung the last moments of sunshine from the day.

John increased his speed, they had to get off that street fast, before
any kids got hurt.

They turned right, down an alley so narrow sunlight never penetrated
it, they had to run single file.  The street ahead of them was purple
with shadows, alive with people.  Lights were winking on.

Someone barreled into John as soon as he emerged from the alley and
they went crashing to the ground.  For a split second Niema thought it
was an accident, then arms grabbed her from behind and she reacted
automatically, driving her elbow back into a gut that wasn't as hard as
it could have been.  The guy whooshed out his breath in a violent
explosion.  She ducked out of his hold, whirled, and poked him in the
little notch beside his eye.  She didn't have the proper angle, back to
front, but he went down anyway, writhing on the ground and vomiting.

John grabbed her wrist and yanked her into a run.  She looked back and
saw her assailant lying unmoving on the ground.  The man who had
tackled John was kind of half sitting, half lying against the wall.  He
wasn't moving either.

"Don't look, " John still towed her by the wrist, so fast her feet
barely touched ground.  "Just run.  " Her stomach turned over.  "I
didn't mean--" "He did, " he said briefly.

They dodged down yet another street and found themselves in a part of
town where the streets seemed to branch off each other like tangled
spaghetti.  Ahead of them a trio of men cut across an intersection,
weapons drawn.  One of the men spotted them and pointed.  John pulled
her down the nearest bisecting street.

"How many of them are there?  " she panted.

"A lot.  " He sounded grim.  He angled back toward where they had seen
the three men, hoping to come out behind them.  They ran up a narrow,
picturesque street, with flower boxes in the windows and old women
selling a few wares on their doorsteps, from tatted lace shawls to
homemade pot All the Queen's Men pour ri.  One woman shrieked at the
gun in John's hand as he and Niema ran by.  A sharp angle took them to
the left, and a dead end.  Niema whirled and started back, but John
caught her arm and pulled her toward him.

She heard what he heard.  The street behind them slowly fell silent as
the old women grabbed up their wares and vanished into their houses.
The sounds of traffic came from a distance, but here there was
nothing.

Louis Ron sard strolled into view, a slight smile on his sculpted lips
and a Glock-l 7 in his hand.  The big pistol was leveled at Niema's
head.

John immediately moved at a right angle away from her.

The gun didn't waver from her head.  "Stop right there, " Ron sard
said, and John obeyed.

"My friends, " he said lightly, "you left without saying goodbye.  "
"Good-bye, " John said, without expression.  He made no move with the
weapon in his hand, not with that big 9mm locked dead center on Niema's
forehead.

"Drop your weapon, " Ron sard said to John.  His dark blue eyes were
arctic.  John obeyed, letting the pistol drop to the street.  "You
abused my hospitality.  If the guard hadn't surprised you, you would
have gotten away with it.  I never would have known you got into my
computer.  You did, didn't you?

Otherwise you wouldn't have been leaving my office at that time, you
would still have been in there working.  " John shrugged.  There was no
point denying it.  "I got what I went after.  I copied everything, I
know what you know.  " "To what point, my friend?  Blackmail?  Or did
you want exclusive access to the RDX-a?  " It was Temple who answered.
As Niema watched, John's face altered ever so slightly, his eyes taking
on a flat quality.

"Whoever has the compound will make a lot of money in a very short
time.  Plus .  . . I have some uses for it.  " "You could have bought
whatever amount you needed.  " "And you would make the money.  " "So
that's what this is all about?  Just money?  " "It's always about
money.  " "And her?  " Ron sard indicated Niema.  "I assume she's your
partner.  " "I don't have partners.  " "Then she is .  . . ?  " "She
isn't involved in this.  Let her go, " John said softly.

In a heartbeat Ron sard had the gun off Niema and on John, his finger
already on the trigger.  "Don't play me for a fool, " he said, his
voice low and deadly.

Niema slipped her right hand up behind her back and gripped the pistol
tucked in her waistband.  Ron sard caught the motion out of the corner
of his eye and started to turn, but she already had the pistol out and
leveled at his head.

"Perhaps, " she murmured in her best Medina imitation, "you should be
asking me the questions.  Drop the pistol.  " "I don't think so, " Ron
sard said, still holding his weapon on John.  Are you willing to risk
your lover's life?  He wasn't willing to risk yours.  " She shrugged,
as if it didn't matter.  "Just move over there beside him.  " Both men
froze.  John seemed to have stopped breathing, his face going white. 
Ron sard stared at her in astonishment, then began laughing
mirthlessly.  Niema didn't dare take her eyes off Ron sard, but she was
almost paralyzed herself by the risk she was taking.  With John's
history, a wife he had killed rather than let her betray two men, for
another lover to betray him would be devastating, so devastating that
not even his super All the (Sue en's Men human control could hold.  His
reaction was crucial, because Ron sard had to believe it.

"My apologies, Monsieur Temple, " Ron sard said to John.  "It appears
we were both used.  " "Sorry, darling.  " She gave John an insincere
smile.  "I have the disk.  While you were sleeping last night, I sort
of confiscated it.  " He knew that was a lie.  Not only had she not
left the bed last night except to visit the head, getting the disk
didn't mean anything now that the information had already been sent to
Langley.

She looked back at Ron sard, to keep his attention on her instead of on
John.  "I would introduce myself, but it's better if I don't.

I'd like to put a proposition to you, Louis--one that would benefit
both of us.  " "In what way?  " She smiled again.  "The CIA is very
interested in .  . . reaching an agreement with you.  We don't want to
put you out of business.  You could be very valuable to us, and vice
versa.  You have access to a lot of very interesting information--and
we're willing to pay you well for it.  " "So would other governments, "
he said, his eyes still cold.

Niema kept an eye on John as well as Ron sard, willing him not to spoil
the setup.  "Not as much as we can.  And there's an added bonus.  "
"Such as?  " "A heart.  " The softly spoken words fell into a silence
that seemed complete.

John started, then halted himself.  Ron sard's face twisted with
hatred.

"You dare, " he whispered.  "You dare bargain with my daughter's life?
" "I'm offering the services of the United States government in finding
a heart for her.  Those are services you can't match, no matter how
much money you have.  Even a new heart might not save her, but at least
she'll have a chance to hold on until other cures can be found.  " He
hung there, a father's anguish on his face.  "Done, " he said roughly,
no haggling, no jockeying for position.  His love for Laure was genuine
and absolute.  He would do anything, even sell his soul to the devil,
to save her.  Working with the CIA was nothing in comparison.  He
lowered his weapon and nodded toward John.  "What about him?  " "Mr.
Temple?  " Niema shrugged as she lowered her own weapon.  It was a
risk, but one she felt she had to take to make this agreement work.
"He's .  . . a bonus, so to speak.  I wasn't expecting to have his aid
in the job, but since he was there, and so good at it, I let him do it.
" She had to keep John's cover, she thought.  His identity as Joseph
Temple couldn't be questioned.

John bent down and scooped up his pistol.  Niema couldn't read his
expression.  His face was still pale, his eyes as dead as she had ever
seen them.  He started toward Ron sard.

"Temple!  " she said sharply, just as a sound drew her attention to the
right.

Two of Ron sard's men came around the corner.  Their gazes locked
immediately on John, he was the prime target of their hunt.  They saw
the pistol in his hand, saw him moving toward Ron sard.  Niema knew, in
a nanosecond of stark vision, what was going to happen.  She saw their
weapons train on him.  He was momentarily too focused on Ron sard to
react as quickly as he normally would have.

She didn't hear herself scream, a hoarse sound of rage and terror.

She didn't know she was moving, didn't feel her hand holding the pistol
as it began to rise.  All she could hear was her heartbeat, slow and
ponderous, as if it pumped molasses instead of blood.  All she knew
was--not again.  She couldn't watch him die.  She couldn't.

There was a distant roar.  A blue haze of gun smoke.  The stench of
cordite burning her nostrils.  The buck of the weapon in her hand as
she fired, and kept firing.  A crushing force hit her, knocked her
down.  She tried to stagger to her feet, but her legs wouldn't work.

She fired again.

Someone else was shooting, she thought.  There was a deeper roar .

. . wasn't there?  John.  Yes, John was shooting.

Good.  He was still alive.  . . .

The lights seemed to go out, though maybe not.  She wasn't certain.
There was a lot of formless noise that gradually reshaped itself into
words.  Something was tugging at her, and it hurt worse than anything
she'd ever felt in her life, pain so sharp and all-consuming she almost
couldn't breathe.

"--damn you, don't you die on me, " John was raging as he tore at her
clothes.  "Do you hear?  Don't you god damn die on me.  " John rarely
swore, she thought, fighting through the pain, he must be really upset.
What on earth had happened?

She was hurt.  She remembered now, remembered that crushing blow that
knocked her down.  Something had hit her.

Shot.  She'd been shot.  So this was what it felt like.  It was worse
than she had ever imagined.

"Don't die, " John was snarling as he pressed down hard on her side.

She wet her lips, and managed to say, "I might not, if you'll hurry and
get help.  " His head jerked around and he stared at her.  His pupils
were pinpoints of shock, his face white and strained.  "Just hold on, "
he said roughly.  "I'll stop the bleeding.  " He looked beyond her, and
his expression was savage.  "You'd better use all the influence you
have and get the best doctors in Europe, Ron sard, " he said in a low,
guttural tone, "because if she dies, I'll fillet you into fish bait.  "
Washington, D. C. , three weeks later Niema carefully got out of bed
and made her way over to the lone chair in the hospital room.  Her legs
were steadier, she was walking more every day now, though "more" in
this case meant a few minutes longer, not any great distance.  She had
come to hate that bed, though, and was spending as much time as she
could in the chair.  sitting in a chair made her feel less like an
invalid.

The last IV drip had come out that morning.  She was scheduled to be
dismissed from the hospital the next day.  She would complete her
recovery at home, Frank vi nay had visited and said it had been
arranged for her to have help at home until she was strong enough to
manage by herself again.

Being home again would be nice, she thought.  Excitement was one thing,
but a woman needed peace and quiet when she was recovering from a
gunshot wound.  Too much of the past three weeks was a blur, at best,
or a huge blank forever lost from her memory.  She vaguely remembered
being in intensive care in some hospital in France.  Louis Ron sard
might have been there.  He had held her hand once, she thought.

Then she had been flown from France to the States, back to D. C. , and
brought here.  She didn't remember the flight at all, but the nurses
told her that was what had happened.  She had gone to sleep in France
and woke up in D. C. That was enough to disorient anyone.

Every time she surfaced it had been to incredible pain, but she had
stopped taking any painkiller a week ago, when she was moved out of
intensive care into a regular room.  The first All the Queen's Men
couple of days had been rough, but after that every day had been
easier.

The last time she'd seen John w'S when she'd been lying in that narrow,
dead end street in Nice.  He'd had to disappear, of course.  He
couldn't hang around, either as Joseph Temple or John Medina.  She
hadn't asked Mr.  vi nay about him, either.

John would either show up, or he wouldn't.

Only a small lamp was on in the room, after the bright lights of
intensive care shining on her day and night, she wanted only dim lights
now.  She turned on the radio to an instrumental station and turned the
volume low.  Easing back in the chair, she closed her eyes and let her
mind drift with the music.

She didn't hear any strange noise or feel a draft from the door
opening, but slowly she became aware of John's presence.

She opened her eyes and smiled at him, not at all surprised to find him
standing in the shadows across the room.

"Finally, " she said, holding out her hand to him.

He came to her so silently he might have been drifting on smoke, his
gaze moving hungrily over her, darkening with pain as he catalogued
each pound she had lost.  He cupped her face, rubbing his thumb over
her bloodless cheek as he bent down and lightly pressed his mouth to
hers.  She put her hand on the back of his neck, something in her
easing as she felt him warm and vital under her touch.

"I couldn't stay away any longer, " he said in a low, rough tone.

"Frank kept me informed, but I--it wasn't the same as being here.  " "I
understood.  " She tried to stroke away the new lines that bracketed
his mouth.

"When you go home tomorrow, I'll be there.  " "Someone is staying with
me--" "I know.  I'm the someone.  " He crouched down in front of her
and folded her hand in his.

"Good.  You can help me get back on my feet.  The physical therapists
here won't let me do as much as I need to be doing.  " "If you think
I'm going to do anything more than let you sleep and eat, you're way
off base.  " "Really?  I thought you'd have incentive to get me up to
my fighting weight again.  " "Why's that?  " "So you can show me the
rest of your tricks.  " She grinned at him.

"I can't wait.  I've been Lying here for the past week wondering what
they are.  " The tension in his face relaxed as a smile touched his
mouth.

"It'll be a while before you're in shape for any of that.  " "Depends
on how fast you get me into shape, doesn't it?  " "We're going to take
it nice and easy.  A ruptured liver isn't something you get over in a
day or two.  " She was also missing part of her spleen, and the bullet
had shattered two ribs.  On the other hand, John was still alive, and
that was the most important thing.  He'd have been shot down in front
of her if she hadn't drawn their attention.

"What were you doing?  " she asked, drawing back and frowning at him as
she was finally able to ask the question that had been nagging at her
since she'd regained consciousness.  "Why were you going for Ron sard
like that?  " "The bastard held a gun to your head, " he said simply.
"And I lost control.  I do that a lot where you're concerned.  " "This
can't keep happening.  " "I'll try to do better.  " The tone was dry
now--very dry.

"The deal I made with Ron sard--I haven't talked to Mr.  vinity about
it. Will it hold?  " "Hold?  They're ecstatic.  " all sns vursn r
lvlrr

"The whole thing seemed like a good idea at the time.  All he wants is
money to take care of Laure, he doesn't care where it comes from or how
he gets it.  " She paused.  "can you find her a heart?  " "We're
trying.  The odds are against it, but we're trying.  " He sighed.  "And
if we find her a heart, that means a healthier child somewhere won't
have that chance.  " "With the information Ron sard can provide, a lot
of other lives will be saved, though.  " They were both silent, the
ethical considerations weighing heavy on each side of the argument.
Where one stood, she suspected, depended on whether or not one's child
was involved.

She understood Ron sard's single-minded devotion to his daughter,
someone else whose child was waiting on a heart wouldn't be at all
understanding.

She put her hands on the arms of the chair and slowly pushed herself to
a standing position.  John stood also, his face anxious, his hands
outstretched to catch her as if she were a toddler taking her first
steps.  She grinned up at him.  "I'm not that fragile.  " "You are to
me, " he said, and remembered terror swept over his face.  "Damn you,
no more heroics, do you hear me?  " "Leave them to you, is that it?  "
He took a deep breath.  "Yeah.  Leave them to me.  " "I can't.  " She
put her arms around him, resting her head on his chest.  "Heroes are
few and far between.  When you find one, you gotta take care of him.  "
How fortunate she had been, she thought, to have loved and been loved
by two such men as Dallas and John--extraordinary men by any
standard.

Slowly his hands stroked up her back, his touch light so he wouldn't
accidentally hurt her.  "That's exactly what I was thinking.  " the
end.