Radiant Sword

by

Lee Boschen

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any person or persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Radiant Sword by Lee Boschen
ISBN 1-55316-071-1
Published by LTDBooks 
www.ltdbooks.com

Copyright (c) 2002 Lee Boschen
Artwork copyright (c) 2002 L. Gerald Brophy

Published in Canada by LTDBooks, 200 North Service Road West, Unit 1, Suite 301, Oakville, ON L6M 2Y1

All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written consent of the publisher is an infringement of the copyright law.

National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication Data

Boschen, Lee 1925-2002
	Radiant Sword [computer file]

ISBN 1-55316-071-1 (electronic)	ISBN 1-55316-931-X (REB 1100 & 1200)

I. Title.

PS3602.O85R33 2001		813'.6		C2001-902081-3

Chapter 1

	The plan to kidnap David D'Escoyne was as simple as it was bold.
	The Chairman's men waited across the street from where D'Escoyne worked until they saw him come out. A big man, late twenties, maybe early thirties, curly blond hair. He looked like he would have been right at home in the Steelers' defensive line. The Chairman's men looked at each other and nodded. They crossed the street and stopped him, blocking the sidewalk as D'Escoyne headed for the parking lot.
	"Mr. David D'Escoyne?" the larger of the two men asked. A formality. Up close he'd seen the craggy features, the hooked nose, the green eyes. No mistake. This was the man whose picture the courier had delivered.
	D'Escoyne's gaze went from one to the other, wary but not suspicious. "Yes. Who are you?"
	"FBI." The large man showed his identification. "I'm Agent Cramer." He pointed to his companion, adding, "This is Agent Salina. I wonder if you would mind coming with us, Mr. D'Escoyne."
	Cramer hadn't intended his words as a request, but D'Escoyne treated it as one.
	"Where? What for?"
	"We'd like you to identify someone for us, please."
	D'Escoyne's eyebrows rose. "Identify? Me? Identify whom?"
	Agent Salina's smile stopped short of the dark eyes behind the rimless glasses. "Well, sir, if we knew that, we wouldn't have to ask you to identify him for us."
	"Well, yes, but what makes you think I can-"
	"It'll only take a few minutes, Mr. D'Escoyne, and we'll bring you straight back to your car."
	D'Escoyne recognized the impatient edge to Cramer's voice for what it was. He sighed. "Okay." Indicating the armload of papers he was carrying, he said, "I'll just drop these off in my car, if you don't mind."
	"Of course, sir," Agent Salina said.
	A third man stood by D'Escoyne's scarlet 280ZX. D'Escoyne opened the passenger door, dropped the papers on the seat and shut the door. Straightening, he stared at the third man, then at Cramer, his expression questioning.
	"Agent Weingeld," Cramer said. "He'll be watching your car for you until we get back."
	Salina offered another smile. "We wouldn't want it stolen while you were helping us," he said with a little shrug. "Nice car like this, it could happen."
	D'Escoyne nodded. "Yes. I guess you guys know about things like that, don't you."
	The two men walked D'Escoyne to their car. They didn't hurry him, didn't crowd him, didn't say a word to him. It wasn't until he was getting into the car that D'Escoyne asked, "This guy I'm supposed to identify, he's told you that I know-Hey! What-" He slumped across the back seat, his legs hanging out of the door.
	The needle of the hypodermic syringe Salina had used was short, perhaps three eighths of an inch in length, and fastened to a soft plastic container held in the palm of Salina's hand. To a casual observer, it would appear that Salina had merely taken D'Escoyne's arm to help him into the car.
	Cramer shoved D'Escoyne's legs inside the car, then leaned over the unconscious man to fish through his pockets for his key ring. Keys in hand, he walked back to Weingeld, still waiting by the scarlet 280ZX. Twisting the car key off the ring, Cramer handed it to Weingeld. "Any question about where to leave the car?"
	Weingeld shook his head. "Nah, I've got the address. Would you believe a street called Woodsage Trace? And I've checked the map-his place will be easy to get to. It's on the south side of Indianapolis, real close to I-465." He thumped the fender of the 280ZX. "Coupla days on the Interstate, this baby will be in his parking slot."
	Cramer gazed reflectively at Weingeld for a moment, then nodded. "Okay, but if you run into trouble, and can't get there, or you're going to be late, you'll have to call Longford. Use his special number and leave a message. Don't talk to anyone else. You'll probably catch a lot of flack. You know how he gets when things don't go to suit him."
	Weingeld spread his hands. "There's always some risk in driving that many miles. You know it. I know it. How can Longford not realize that?"
	Cramer nodded sympathetically. "Yeah, I know, surely he does, but this whole thing with D'Escoyne is hot. There's been a ton of messages about him, and I've got the idea that Longford is antsy because he has mounted a really big operation." Cramer grimaced. "Which, of course, he didn't see fit to tell me a hell of a lot about. You know how big he is on 'need to know.'" He gusted a deep sigh, and then he pulled an envelope from his jacket pocket and handed it to Weingeld. "Take this with you. Put it in the mail somewhere along your way."
	Weingeld read the address. "A letter to Thornton?" His gaze moved to the name painted on the building beside the parking lot, then back to meet Cramer's eyes. "What the hell? Why not just take it over there and drop it in the mail slot?"
	Cramer pointed a thumb back to where D'Escoyne lay in the other car and said, "It's a letter from him. His resignation. We don't want Thornton to get it till D'Escoyne is on a plane headed north."
	Shrugging, Weingeld stuck the letter in his pocket and climbed into the 280ZX. "I better get started," he said. "I've got a long drive ahead of me."
	Looking into the car, Cramer pointed to the pile of papers on the passenger's seat. "You might as well pitch that stuff into the nearest dumpster." He laughed. "D'Escoyne sure won't be needing it any more."

Chapter 2

	The meeting place of the High Court scarcely looked its part. The old Maryland farm, long abandoned, lay buried in tangled undergrowth. The outbuildings sagged in ruin, and to look at it, the farmhouse, a large A-frame once considered a marvel of avant-garde architecture, shared the same air of decrepitude. The once expansive glass windows were now covered with stained and peeling plywood. Inside, on the ground floor, were a spacious common room, a kitchen and bathroom. Stairs led to a second level of empty bedrooms and amenities, hidden in darkness and no longer used.
	Centered in a lighted area of the common room, like a flower blooming in arid desert, was the chamber of the High Court. The area was sparsely furnished: a round table, polished and gleaming in the soft lighting, and five chairs covered in leather soft and smooth as melted butter. A single large ashtray. A slide projector.
	Against one wall, a projection screen, unrolled now, ready for use.
	The High Court was in session.
	The Chairman gazed at the other people seated around the table. Two women, two men. Like himself, all deputy directors, all gray and aging. He knew them well. He'd had to put up with their carping ever since he'd founded the High Court. His lip curled. What a sorry lot. Yes, he'd needed them once, but now it was all about to end. A few weeks, a couple of months at the most, and the painstakingly constructed secret network would crumble. All the secret power, so long in the making, would vanish, and he himself would be tossed on the scrap heap.
	He'd already met his successor-the deputy director designate. The man had come strolling into the Chairman's office, his eyes hard as diamonds, looking around, mouthing pabulum about "...smooth transfer of authority." Smug, self-confident bastard. But then, why not, the man still had all his hair and not a wisp of gray. And his hands didn't tremble.
	He had been like that once, the Chairman recalled. Before Wounded Knee. Before Waco. Now? Oh, he knew well enough; like Belshazzar, he had been weighed in the balances.
	And found wanting.
	Those words might as well be tattooed on his forehead.
	He glanced down at his hands, spotted and wrinkled, seeing the fine tremor. He clenched them into fists. He still held the reins of power, but this would be his last chance before his successor snatched them from him.
	He looked up, his hooded gaze lingering for a moment on the petite, almost gaunt form of the woman known to the High Court as Number Two. And there'd be time to settle with her, he thought darkly. Oh, yes.
	He rapped the table with a knuckle.
	"I called you together because we have an emergency," he said. His gaze gathered those of the other four persons seated around the table. "I have undertaken action to destroy an engineering project called Radiant Sword."
	The four of them stared at him for a moment, then at each other. Finally, Number Two closed her eyes, shaking her head in disgust. "Why do you always talk as though you were God? You know damned well you aren't going to do anything without our approval. Would you, just once, before you make your grand pronouncement, tell us about the operation you expect us to approve?"
	Number Four fancied himself sergeant at arms, and now he leaned forward to address the Chairman. "She's right. You're always trying this, as though you were somehow in charge. Well, you aren't. The first among equals, yes, but no more than that. We've had to say this before. Why do you make it necessary to say it again? Now, what are you talking about? What is Radiant Sword?"
	Her voice hard, Two broke in. "You say you've already started this operation? Without so much as a 'by your leave'? By God, Chairman-" Two choked back her temper with an obvious effort. "How long has it been running?"
	The Chairman's face flushed. Suppressed anger glimmered deep in his eyes. "Four weeks. It took that long to select and get the key people in position. Then there were certain... preparations, but now the waiting is over."
	"I'll ask you again, Chairman, what is Radiant Sword that you have to mount an operation to destroy it?" Four demanded.
	The Chairman glared at Number Four, seeing a pale man, frail and withered by the years. "We believe that Radiant Sword is a program intended to destroy military satellites."
	"Military satellites!" Number One blurted the words in a hoarse rasp. She scrubbed out her cigarette, scattering ashes from an ashtray already full of half-smoked butts. "Why don't you say what you mean? They're nuclear warheads, all stashed up there," she pointed toward the ceiling of the A-frame, "just waiting for some maniac to bring them crashing down. If you're telling us that someone has figured out a way to take those things out, well, they get my vote."
	Number Three restlessly shifted his bulk. "What's NSA think about all this, Two? Somebody after your birds?"
	Number Two shrugged. "Ask him." She indicated the Chairman with a nod of her head. "As far as I'm concerned, well, you would hardly expect me of all people to get enthusiastic about taking out satellites, but I have to say that I wouldn't care if every last nuke was grounded."
	The Chairman scowled at her. "And who says they'll stop there? Imagine NSA without your birds, Two." He laughed nastily. "You'd be out of a job. And who says they won't go after the Global Positioning System? Or weather reconnaissance satellites? What if they go after Web satellites? By God, wouldn't that put a crimp in the Internet!"
	"All right, Chairman, calm down," Number Four said. "Who is this 'they' you're talking about?"
	The Chairman took a deep breath. "The Atlas Corporation. It's an engineering research and development firm located in Indianapolis."
	Number Three hooted in derisive laughter. "Indy? You're kiddin'. That buncha cornballs? Nothin' ever happens out there except on the day they have the race at Speedway."
	"'Out there'? Really, darling-" One lit another cigarette and blew smoke across the table. "Just because it's west of the Alleghenies..."
	"No, he's right," Four said. "Anything that'll take out satellites calls for big-time research, and that means a high-powered staff, and that means money. Big-time money. Hell, there's nobody in Indy who has that kind of staff and money."
	"Oh?" The Chairman's tone grew sarcastic. "Perhaps you'd better have a look at this." He touched a button on a handset to dim the lights, then switched on a slide projector. As their eyes turned to the screen, he commented dryly, "This is the roster of the Atlas professional staff. How does that grab you?"
	Silence, then Number Four murmured, "How do they get those kinds of people out there?"
	"All those women," Three said, his tone marveling. "I've never seen such a collection of women with science PhDs."
	Number One jeered. "You still think 'kinder, kirche, küche'?"
	Three twisted to face her. "What the hell does that mean?"
	"In words you can understand? 'Keep 'em pregnant in the summer, and barefoot in the winter.'" One sneered. "That's the kind of thinking I'd expect from you. Nothing more complicated than you'd expect to find in the bottom of a shot glass. Don't give women a chance, they're liable to turn out to be smarter than you. Not that that would be saying much in your case."
	"Hear, hear," Two murmured.
	A wave of red crept up from Three's collar and he leaned toward One to snarl his answer. "You mouthy bitch. I'm sick and goddam tired of your-"
	The Chairman rapped sharply on the table with his knuckles. "If you please, ladies and gentlemen. Four, you asked how they get those kinds of people out there." He advanced to the next slide. "Well, it's simple-money! Look at the kind of money Atlas gets for an R and D team of that caliber. Especially notice that contract for six hundred seventy-six million dollars. We think that's-"
	Number Three dragged his hot look from One back to the screen. "Christ," he said, "that's more than two-thirds of a billion dollars."
	"Well, yes," the Chairman commented dryly, "as a matter of fact, it is. As I was saying, the Bureau believes that's the Radiant Sword contract."
	"Damn," Two muttered, "look at the completion date. And we're only now hearing about it? Do you know who the customer is?"
	The Chairman shook his head. "No. That's why this meeting. That's why I started the Radiant Sword operation. I want to know the identity of the customer and exactly what it is they're buying for two-thirds of a billion dollars." His voice grew hard. "If the Atlas Corporation contract is actually for Radiant Sword, and if it is capable of satellite destruction, we will destroy the project."
	Number Two's voice was rich with sarcasm. "I hope you'll have the goodness to discuss it with us before you make any moves to destroy Atlas's project. And you'd better be listening to me, Chairman, otherwise you may find yourself out on the end of a very thin limb. Now, what have you done so far? Have you tried tracing the money paid to Atlas? Two-thirds of a billion dollars has to leave tracks."
	"Of course we've tried," the Chairman snapped. "However, as you can well imagine, the name of the company listed as buyer on the contract doesn't mean a damned thing. The trail wandered from that company through one dummy corporation after another, most of them no more than a post office box, then moved offshore. Well, the FBI can't go offshore, so we turned it over to the CIA; your agency, One." His eyes gleamed sardonically as he added, "That was several weeks ago. We never heard anything back."
	 One eased back in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest, gazing at the Chairman through narrowed eyes. "Did you really?" she asked, her voice a little more than a husky whisper after nearly six decades of cigarettes. "I don't remember seeing anything other than routine requests."
	"Yes, of course it was labeled routine. Do you think we want to call attention to this court's existence?"
	"Well, no, I certainly agree. All right, when I get back-"
	 Four interrupted. "Listen, all of you. This is serious. A paper trail as labyrinthine as that is a dead giveaway. Either Atlas is up to something, or their customer is, and we've got to get somebody inside there to find out what it is. If they're really going to be knocking out satellites-"
	"We've been trying to get a look," the Chairman said. "No luck."
	 Two spoke in a tone of saccharine mixed with acid. "With the FBI's usual finesse, I suppose."
	The Chairman glared malevolently at her. He loathed Number Two. He knew she despised him too. Why else, for over forty years, would she have thrown his impotence into his face again and again?
	Impotent. Her fault.
	Long ago, years before he'd had the idea of founding the High Court, the two of them, Croton Longford III and little Mary Hardalee, had started an affair. But she wanted everything to be fun. "Sex should be fun," she'd insisted, and she refused to try some of the things he'd wanted to do. "You're too rough," she told him, "too kinky," and when he pressed her, she screamed at him, "Why do you always want to hurt me?"
	And then, one day, she'd left, "-for someone who wants to love me, not use me." He still remembered her words, the look on her face when she told him how glad she was to be rid of him. And he'd become impotent. Her fault.
	He covered his hate with a smile, a facile, practiced curving of the lips that never rose to warm his deadly cold eyes. Let her enjoy her victory while she might. He'd win in the end. Two was dying. He knew it. They all knew it. They'd seen her face grow ashen, heard her breath catch when the pain clawed at her. Soon now. His only fear was that she would die before he could exact his revenge.
	His voice was smooth, betraying nothing of his feelings. "Finesse has nothing to do with it, my dear. What do we have to work with? A rumor, whispers about 'cleansing the sky'? Scarcely probable cause; no way we could get a court order from even the most friendly judge."
	Number One's gaze sharpened. "Wait a minute; cleansing the sky. We've heard that, and more. Whispers of battles, a jihad coming, talk we could never track down to a source. But this rumor, and the talk we've heard, it comes from halfway around the world."
	The Chairman's disdainful glance spoke his opinion of what One's CIA could hope to accomplish. "Well, it's in this country now. And that puts it squarely in the Bureau's jurisdiction. The trouble is, we don't know exactly what we're looking for. How would we recognize it if we saw it? I mean, Radiant Sword? What's that?" He shrugged wearily. "The faint trace we had hinted at Atlas, and there we ran into a stone wall. There's no legal way we can get into their facility. So we had to come up with alternatives."
	"Oh, God," One said, rolling her eyes, "what have you done?"
	The Chairman waved a casual hand. "What any of you would have done. But Atlas security is amazingly competent, and there was no way we could get bugs or cameras or recorders in. Substituting one of our agents as a computer maintenance technician was as close as we could come, but even in that case Atlas had wiped the system clean before letting us have access, so we got nothing.
	"So, finally, we tried the oldest way of all. Sex. We all know sex works. The Russians were particularly successful at turning some of our people by trapping them in compromising sexual situations. Why wouldn't it work in this situation? Our intent was to compromise a certain young woman, so we sent a couple of young agents to try-"
	"Young agents?" Number Two began scowling. "You mean 'studs,' don't you?
	"Yes," the Chairman said. "Exactly. Well, the first agent-"
	"Stud!" Number Two threw the word at him as if it were a stone.
	"-struck out completely." The knuckles of the Chairman's clenched fists were white. He forced his hands to relax, so as not to give Two the satisfaction of knowing that her harassment was working. Voice calm, he continued. "The second was more zealous, muscular, if you will, but-"
	Number Two shouted at him, "Zealous? Muscular? You mean he tried to force her. Isn't that what you ordered him to do?" Disgust filled her voice. "Just the sort of thing I'd expect from you."
	The Chairman's hand cracked against the table top, the noise loud in the silence after Two's outburst. "Enough!" he shouted. He pointed a rigid finger at her. "I will not stand for your constant, back-stabbing second guessing. If what I ordered had worked, we would know about Radiant Sword, and your presence would not now be offending me."
	Number Two and the Chairman stared furiously at each other. The swollen veins on the Chairman's forehead gradually diminished to normal. Two slumped back in her chair, her face pale and twisted with pain. After a moment, the Chairman continued as if there'd been no interruption.
	"However," he added, his voice coming to life, "I have developed a way around probable cause, and court orders, and all the rest of such legal rubbish. A revolutionary new weapon. It is, regrettably, one that the Bureau could never use. But this Court, well, that's a different matter, isn't it? We aren't so concerned-" His eyes brooded for a dark, intense moment on the slight form of Number Two. "-nor so preoccupied with tender concerns." He laughed. "So we won't quibble at a new approach, will we, even one as-" Another laugh. "As mind boggling as the one I'm about to describe." His eyes stabbed at the others, one by one. "A new weapon, yet one as old as mankind. A weapon aimed at the heart of Radiant Sword."
	He triggered the slide projector to throw another picture on the screen. "This is our target." 

Chapter 3

	The woman's eyes gazing solemnly at the High Court from the projection screen were a rich, brilliant blue. Her hair was ebony, cut short and worn like a close-fitting black cap.
	Number Two thought the face, which was all the slide showed, was a little too strong to be considered beautiful in the strictest classical sense. She squinted at the firm, square jaw, the high cheekbones, the straight nose with no cute little upturn at the tip, and found herself unable to decide. It was not a face at odds with life, nor marked with sorrow. Yet neither did it radiate cheer. Two decided that life had been a mixed bag for this young woman. But now, with the Chairman after her...
	Number Two looked away from the screen to find the Chairman's cold gaze boring into hers. You merciless bastard, she thought, what do you intend to do to this woman? Two returned her gaze to the screen. Yes, the woman was beautiful, she judged finally, perhaps not in the classic sense, but hers was the beauty that demanded a second glance.
	"Not bad," Three said.
	Number Two grimaced, eyeing Number Three's corpulence with revulsion. "I wonder what she would think of you, you overblown goat." She glared at the Chairman. "She's the 'certain young woman' you sent your studs after, isn't she?"
	"What do we know about her?" One asked, sliding her question in between Two's remark and the acid response she expected from the Chairman.
	The Chairman changed slides without comment.
	"God, to be thirty again," One moaned.
	"Mmm, September twelfth," Number Two said, "A Virgo. You're not going to be able to push that one around."
	"Why do you persist in thinking in such illogical terms?" Number Four asked peevishly. "You know there's no logical basis for astrology."
	"If you say so, dear. Just remember what I told you."
	"Have these figures been confirmed?" Three asked. "I mean, is that IQ for real?"
	The Chairman opened his mouth to reply, but One interrupted.
	"Marilyn Vos Savant's is higher," she said. "But that doctorate in engineering science from the University of Illinois-MacRae sure didn't get that in her Christmas stocking."
	"Really, Chairman, was it necessary to include her measurements?" Two complained.
	"Well," the Chairman began, "in order to present a complete-"

	"My God," Three said, "she's almost six feet tall. And look at those numbers: thirty-eight, twenty-six, thirty-seven."
	"Yeah," Four breathed. "Jesus, what a Playboy centerfold she'd make."
	"Why do you suppose she's cut her hair so short?" Three asked. "She wears it like a man." He tugged at his fringe of gray. "Hell, my hair's almos' as long as hers." He peered at the data on the screen. "Not married. You 'spose maybe she's gay?"
	"Oh, no," Four groaned, "surely not. What a waste."
	"Be nice if I could interest her in a position in my agency," Three said. "DEA could always use somebody with her... well, wait, maybe not, if she's gay. I've already got enough problems without that."
	"You're disgusting, the pair of you," Number One said waspishly. "Desiccated antiques. You wouldn't know what to do with a woman like that. I'm not sure you ever did." She directed her attention to the Chairman. "All right, she's attractive, she's bright and she's successful. You say she's our target? For what? What kind of scheme have you hatched?"
	"Doctor MacRae is not lesbian," the Chairman told Number Three. "In fact, she was engaged to be married to a man named, um-" He checked his notes. "Carl Hayes. However, to our great good fortune, she ended the engagement several months ago because of his philandering." He shrugged. "Not that this is important. What is important is that, as project director, she is at the very heart of what the Bureau believes is Radiant Sword. It is MacRae at whom we've aimed our weapon. Do you ask why? Simple. Who would know more about the purpose of the project than the project director herself?"
	Number Three sneered at the Chairman, "And she's gonna to tell us all about it if we ask her nice, is that it?"
	The Chairman's look at Three glowed bright with malice. "Yes, by God," he snapped, "that's exactly what she's going to do!" He paused to smooth his voice before continuing. "She's going to tell us everything we need to know about her project, and she won't have the faintest idea she's doing so. I told you she was our target. Well," he switched to the next slide, "this is the missile we've aimed at the target."
	 Number Two thought of herself as tough as old boots. Not hard, not callous, though she'd learned to be tough. And it had been decades since she had looked at a man and felt that abrupt shock, the tingling tremor that raced down the spine, the suddenly sweating palms. But when she gazed into the brilliant green eyes meeting hers from the projection screen, she felt all of them at once. She shivered, dropping her eyes, raising them again almost shyly to meet the man's gaze.
	She grew flushed from a quick anger at the Chairman. "This man... you've planned some sort of sexual entrapment thing, haven't you?"
	The Chairman bared his teeth in a mock smile. "Certainly not, my dear, knowing how you feel about such things. That's not what we're going to do at all."
	"Then you won't mind telling us what you have planned."
	"My God, Two," Three said, "how can you ask? Just try to stop him from givin' us every grisly detail." He struggled out of his chair and stood, stretching, then waddled off to the bathroom.
	Number One's reaction to the face on the screen was less intense, more approving. "Mmm," she purred huskily, settling deeper into her chair. "Where did you find this man?"
	"In our files," the Chairman said. "From the time when-"
	Number Four interrupted. "Who is this guy, anyway?"
	The Chairman triggered the projector to show the next slide.
	"D'Escoyne. Mmm, big bruiser," Four said. "And look at that IQ. Hey, this guy and that woman-they're soul mates."
	"Like hell they are," Number Two said. "Look at his birthday: November eleventh. He's a Scorpio. My God, Chairman, these two will go at each other like-you can't know what you've done."
	Number Four growled in irritation. "Damn it, Two, will you never stop dishing up such nonsense. I'm getting damned tired of listening to it."
	"Never mind," said the Chairman, laughing. "Actually we hope to make them-" His eyes veered around to meet Two's gaze. "Somewhat more intimate than mere soul mates anyway."
	Number Two's voice became as frosty as her gaze. "I have made my feelings clear on this matter before, Chairman. I'll not have any of your weird sexual tricks."
	The Chairman's narrow face grew pale at her thrust, and he snapped the words of his answer. "And I have already told you that this is not sexual entrapment. Why do you never pay attention instead of constantly interrupting?"
	Two's voice was poisoned honey. "Because you so seldom say anything worth listening to."
	Number One listened to the two of them, and again she wondered if they had once been lovers. How could they hate each other so without having once been in love? Touching a plump hand to her snowy hair, she thought of her own aging lover. God, could such furious hatred happen to them?
	She intervened to pinch off another tiresome quarrel between Two and the Chairman. "What the hell, Chairman," she rasped, "the guy lives in Daytona Beach. Why did you go there? Surely you could have found someone closer. How did you find him, anyway?"
	The Chairman switched his gaze from Two, gulped a deep breath and began to explain. "We had two psychological profiles drawn up by our staff: one from what we know about her, and another for a man who would be as compatible with her as possible. With the ideal profile in hand, we started searching for a match in our files. We never had to leave them, because he was in there from the days when he had a student loan. And he's almost perfectly compatible."
	 Three came back into the room and stopped, staring at the information on the screen. "He majored in mathematics... and music? What the hell kinda mix is that? What is he, some kinda goddamn fairy?"
	"No, he's definitely heterosexual," the Chairman assured him. "Ideal for our purposes. I'm afraid he's a bit of a dreamer, though," he added, his tone pitying. "Impractical, too, like so many idealists." He laughed. "He plans to write a textbook to teach mathematics to persons who can barely read. Can you imagine? He says that a knowledge of mathematics can open up a whole world of opportunity for the disadvantaged."
	Three's voice was thick with contempt. "Goddamn do-gooder."
	"He's probably right about that opportunity business," One said, "but what the hell kind of book does he think will teach... well, I sure don't envy D'Escoyne the job he's cut out for himself."
	Two's gaze at the Chairman was dark with suspicion. "If he ever gets a chance."
	"Well, he's certainly got some surprises in store on that score," the Chairman said. "It's all planned. And he'll never suspect a thing." His voice kindled with enthusiasm. "I mentioned 'mind-boggling,' remember?" He picked up a thick sheaf of notes and pushed his half-moon glasses back up on his long nose. "Now let me tell you what I meant, just how my new weapon will work." Reading from his notes, he began, "The secret of our operation to destroy Radiant Sword lies in the ability of the human mind to recall-"
	 Three interrupted. "Chairman, I know you want to explain every detail of this mind-bogglin' new procedure," he said, "but all I really wanna hear is how you're gonna use D'Escoyne to get MacRae to tell us all about Atlas's project."
	The Chairman pinched his lips together, gazing coldly over his glasses at Three, finally shaking his head in pity. Leafing through his notes, he pulled out most of the pages and, his face sour with pique, he reluctantly set them aside. "Very well. The bare essentials. A few years ago, one of our agents uncovered a Library Journal article that mentioned a subject dear to the Bureau-storage. We have a constantly growing need for data storage. The article our agent found was about developing an artificial brain, of all things, a device that would have the same storage capacity and speed as the human brain. As you can imagine, that caught the Bureau's interest, so we diverted some discretionary funds to the construction of such a device. And you'll be pleased to learn that we've succeeded."
	The Chairman was gratified at the reaction; his class sat open mouthed. "You mean to say that you've actually developed a device that is the equal of the human brain?" Two asked, her mouth slack.
	"Yes," the Chairman replied. "Just as fast and with the same capacity. However, that's not all. A few months later-"
	"Christ, I hope there's more," Three said. "Unless I drifted off to sleep at a critical time, I don't see the connection between this artificial brain of yours-" He snickered. "And this satellite bustin' Radiant Sword you claim Atlas is developin'."
	"And even less of a connection with the MacRae woman and your D'Escoyne missile," Number One added.
	"As I was saying," the Chairman hissed angrily, "there's more. A few months after we'd begun development of the brain, we became aware-from an article in Psychology Today-that researchers had developed a technique for tapping into the hippocampus. As I'm sure you know very well-" He gazed at them, his upper lip curling derisively, "the hippocampus is a part of the human brain. The reason for our interest in the hippocampus was because it, together with the amygdala, is used by the human brain to create and recall memories."
	He stopped, surveying his class. "No bells ringing? No light dawning?"
	"Chairman," Number Four said, "it's when you become pedantic that you become most insufferable."
	The Chairman chewed on his anger, the muscles in his jaws jumping convulsively. "All right, I'll spell it out for you. Using this technique, we can read the long-term memory in the human brain, store what we've read in an artificial brain, then write it back into that same human brain. But, and here's the crux-while the information is stored in the artificial brain we can edit it, change it if we wish, before we write it back into the human brain."
	He stared at the four of them, finally throwing up his hands. "Christ, don't you see? We can take anything out of a human's long-term memory that we wish to. And we can put anything we want back into that same human's long-term memory."
	The room was silent for a moment, then Two said slowly, "This sounds like a remarkable achievement, Chairman. And I mean that, but the connection to the Atlas project eludes me."
	The Chairman leaned forward, his elbows on the table, his chin in his hands, gazing at one after another of them. Finally he sighed. "In our Radiant Sword operation, we are taking advantage of a situation which already exists. It's made to order for us. Remember the engagement I told you MacRae ended some months ago? Well, she's a healthy, normal young woman, and right now she's very vulnerable. She's left a personal relationship, and the project that has occupied nearly her every waking hour will be winding down soon. Two big gaps in her life. How can anyone imagine that she won't become friendly with a man as completely compatible with her as D'Escoyne? Of course she will. Mother Nature will see to that. And that's the keystone of our operation; the D'Escoyne man and the MacRae woman will become friendly." His gaze settled on Number Two. "Even though their astrological signs are out of conjunction, or however that mumbo-jumbo would put it."
	He leaned back in his chair, smiling. "In fact, once they've met, we suspect that their relationship will ignite like wildfire. And that's vital to our plan, because we don't have much time before the project is due to be completed. Anyway, as friends, perhaps even lovers, they'll share confidences." The Chairman made a wide sweeping gesture. "Oh, the power of pillow talk. Yes, D'Escoyne will tell her about his progress with his book, progress that we're going to make sure he has. Inevitably, MacRae will begin to talk to him about her work. Then, from time to time, we'll pick up D'Escoyne and scan his memory to pick out the bits about MacRae's project. Then we'll delete any memory of his scan, write in new memories to cover the time we've had him, and send him out so they can talk again."
	In the silence that followed, the four of them stared at him as if he'd grown a third eye.
	"My God, do you still not see it?" He turned the projector back to show MacRae's picture and stared at it as if struck by wonder.
	"She is our agent! Our willing, unsuspecting agent at the very center of Radiant Sword." He advanced the projector to D'Escoyne's image. "And he will be the perfect courier. She will tell him what we want to know-that Radiant Sword is or is not capable of destroying satellites. D'Escoyne will bring that information to us. When we scan him, he can hold back nothing. It's perfect," he said, his voice growing louder in his enthusiasm. "She'll never suspect that she is betraying Radiant Sword. He'll never have the slightest suspicion that he is betraying her. And we," he shouted the words, "we will know everything!"
	 Number Three finally spoke into the dead silence. "That has got to be the most moronic idea I ever heard."
	The Chairman emerged from the rapt admiration of his scheme with a start. "Eh? What? What's that?"
	 Number One laughed. "You're joking, right?"
	"Really," Four said angrily, "you'd think this was April Fools' Day. How could you expect us to approve anything so preposterous?"
	"What do you mean, preposterous?" the Chairman snarled.
	 Number Two pinned the Chairman with her gaze. "Even assuming the idea of putting these two people together could lead to the shared confidences you say, has this scanning procedure been tested on humans? You know it works?"
	"Yes, it has been tested. On D'Escoyne, as a matter of fact. It was used to move him from Daytona Beach to Indianapolis."
	"Move him?" Two frowned. "How could it move him?"
	"In his mind. Actually, we airlifted him and his possessions to Indianapolis. Once we had him there, we started the scanning procedure while agents drove his car up. Then we installed new memories to cover the time he was drugged. You know the sort of thing I mean-which motels he stayed in during the drive from Daytona Beach to Indianapolis, the route he took, the weather. And we scattered a few credit card and restaurant receipts in his pockets for him to find.
	"Finally, when everything was ready, we took him to the condo he believes he leased for a year. And there we left him, with a cue to get in touch with the MacRae woman."
	Number Two stood and walked toward the kitchen, outside the lights illuminating the table. Paradoxically, even though nowadays she felt exhausted all the time, moving around seemed to help ease the pain. She sagged against the kitchen counter, raising her head at the Chairman's last words.
	"Left him a cue? In his mind?" she asked.
	His eyes found her outside the circle of light. "No, no. Something more subtle. Have any of you ever heard of an organization called 'Amateur Chamber Music Players'?"
	After another look around the table, the Chairman shook his head sorrowfully. "Well, it's an organization founded by an amateur violinist who did a lot of traveling on business. The idea is to help musicians away from home to meet other musicians and play together. They even have a directory. Since D'Escoyne plays the flute and MacRae plays the piano, and since they're both in ACMP's directory, it seemed a convenient means of bringing them together without ever seeming to do so."
	Disbelief thickened Four's voice. "Come on, Chairman, how could you know he'd ever call her? If this ACMP is big enough to have a directory, she surely won't be the only person in Indianapolis who plays the piano."
	The Chairman smiled coolly. "True, but we 'amended' his copy of the directory. When he goes looking for pianists-and we know it will be pianists he'll look for, because that's the kind of music he likes-she'll be the first he reaches. We know because, frankly, we eliminated most of the pianists in his copy. We left in a couple-our own people-to allay any doubts he may have."
	"It's stupid," Number Three insisted. "Your trouble is you're too fond of cloak and dagger to see all the problems in this idiot scheme."
	The Chairman glowered at Three. "You have a better idea?"
	Three threw up his hands. "Christ, man, don't you see the weakness? There's no way you can be sure those people will get along. What if they don't? And don't give me a bunch of crap about psychological profiles. Okay, maybe the MacRae broad is all beat up emotionally right now. Maybe that'll be enough." Three waggled a fat hand. "I dunno. And I have to believe you can do what you say about the brains. That's too goddamn crazy for anyone to make up. But why don't you keep it simple? Bring in the MacRae woman and scan her."
	"Yes," Four said. "That's the way. Sure and simple."
	"They're right," One agreed. "Your idea is too risky; it leaves too much to chance. Think of all the things that could go wrong. You say the MacRae woman is vulnerable, and, of course, she is. But her response to D'Escoyne isn't as predictable as your psychologists would have you believe. She could just as easily shun him completely, simply because he's a man, and she may not be willing to trust any man. Okay, granted, she could welcome him, to fill the gaps you mentioned. But it's a fifty-fifty proposition, and that's too risky. Keep it simple. Bring in the girl and read her directly."
	The Chairman directed his hard gaze at Number Two, obviously expecting her to chime in with other objections, but she remained silent. Finally the Chairman shook his head. "No, we can't bring her in. Oh, yes, it looks like the obvious choice, all right. I'll grant you that. But it won't work. It takes two days to run the scanning procedure, and with the hours MacRae works... she's never been away from work that long in the three years the project has been running."
	He slumped back in his chair. "But worse than that, Atlas security always checks their key people who don't show up for work. When they went looking for her, and couldn't find her..." He threw up his hands. "God, Atlas would demand the police mount a massive manhunt for her." He looked around the table. "Then, when she showed up again with a set of funny memories, or if the technicians made a mistake and wiped her clean..."
	He shook his head. "Too risky. But D'Escoyne is a different matter. He has no circle of friends yet. He's alone most of the time while he works on his book, so no one will miss him if we scan him during the week, or even over a weekend. Then, too, if the scanning procedure fails for some reason and his brain is ruined-" He shrugged. "Well, who'd miss him? Okay, his grandparents perhaps, but they don't see that much of him anyway. Essentially, the man is a throwaway."
	"Throwaway?" Number Two grimaced at the Chairman's callousness. "I understand the need to be tough, and you all know I don't quail at the occasional sacrifice, but this-why can't you use hypnosis? I don't like this talk of throwaways. He's an American citizen, you know, and he hasn't volunteered for this sort of service."
	"Your bleedin' heart would serve you better if you went to work for the Red Cross," Three muttered.
	The Chairman hastened to reassure Two. "Our psychologists tell us that hypnotic suggestion might cause a conflict in his mind," he explained, "and also that hypnosis might be uncovered, even reversed, which could be disastrous for the members of this court."
	Number Two's lips curled in disgust at his words. Sure, cover your ass, she thought. Don't worry about destroying D'Escoyne's mind.
	"Besides, Two," Number One said, "we already know the procedure works. It hasn't harmed D'Escoyne."
	"Didn't you hear him say 'if the technicians wipe her clean'?"
	 Four spoke up. "Yes, Chairman, what about that? Neither of them would be of any value to us if they were to be wiped clean."
	"It'll never happen," the Chairman assured them. "The only way it could happen...Well, during the read-out scan the synapses in certain parts of the brain are reset to zero. Like erasing the hard drive on a computer. If the technicians forget to write the memories stored in the artificial brain back into D'Escoyne's brain-" He shrugged. "You can imagine how unlikely that is."
	Four pressed him. "But if it did happen?"
	"D'Escoyne would be a total amnesiac. He wouldn't recognize his own face in the mirror."
	"But he could be restored to normal by having his scan written back in again?" Two said.
	"Absolutely," the Chairman assured her. "It has already been done to him, without any harm whatever. I think perhaps I should point out that this procedure is free of risk to us. D'Escoyne knows, literally, nothing of what has happened to him. He knows that everything that has happened in the last weeks has been of his own volition. The move to Indianapolis-his idea. The decision to wait no longer to take his sabbatical and write his book-his idea. He knows these facts because those are the memories we inserted after the preliminary scan... after we edited out everything that could possibly indicate otherwise."
	He fixed the members of the High Court with a glittering gaze. "I'm expecting word any moment confirming that these two people have met, and that the plan is in motion," he said, tapping the table with a knuckle to emphasize his words. "If we discover Atlas is developing technology that will cripple or destroy satellites, then our operation against Radiant Sword will continue until the project is destroyed."
	A last sweeping glance around the table, then he rose to his feet. "This court is adjourned sine die." 

Chapter 4

	When the doorbell announced yet another visitor, Joanne MacRae stirred slightly from where she was sagging against the doorway to her bedroom. Stupefied with fatigue, she'd been gazing at the mountain of boxes yet to be unpacked. In the kitchen and the living room, and in the spare bedroom she was using for a study, other mountains waited to be scaled. Why had she felt that she'd had to pack everything she owned in those damned boxes? Some of that stuff hadn't seen the light of day for years.
	She knew why. She'd been in a hurry to get out of the old place, with its unhappy memories. When she'd finally decided she must move, she could hardly wait, dumping drawers into cartons, hurling clothes into mover's boxes. Well, here she was, but like a turtle, she'd brought everything with her.
	"Great way to get away from old memories," she muttered wryly.
	At least she'd had the sense to make drawings for the movers. It was one thing to shove around chairs, maybe even a sofa-moving her piano quite another.
	At first, early that morning, she'd flattened each empty box vigorously, trampling them underfoot with a pleasant sense of accomplishment. However, as the day ground on and on, the trampling had become less vigorous, her feeling of achievement diminishing to something more realistic. Now the most recent empties were heaped in a helter-skelter tumble in the hallway outside her bedroom.
	And the bed. "Put the bed in the big bedroom, the books in the little bedroom," she'd told the movers. But she hadn't given them any instructions about assembly. She cast a weary gaze at the shiny brass stacked against a wall, the mattress and springs leaning against another wall. Carl would have been only too happy to help her put all that together, and then try to wrestle her into it. But he'd have a dozen reasons why he couldn't have helped with the rest.
	She sighed, looking down at the diamond solitaire on her left hand. When she'd tried to pull her hands out of the pockets of her jeans, the ring had caught, and she'd had to twist it around on her finger to free her hand. How like him, she thought. She should have known better than to put it on to move. She should have left it in her old place.
	The past tugged at her, faint now after so many months, but still there. How she'd glowed with happiness when Carl had given the ring to her. And how much less it had meant to him than she'd believed. When she discovered his betrayal she faced him with it, straight on.
	He shrugged, unabashed, unrepentant, simply rationalizing with the oldest one in the book. "I'm a man, with a man's needs. You can't expect me to live like a monk, playing second fiddle to your damned project." He'd spat the final word at her. Yet, when she sent him packing, he refused to take back the ring. "Keep it," he'd said, "in case you change your mind."
	Change my mind, and take him back again? What an incredible ego, she thought. Why had she never seen that? Did he think he was the only one who could feel lonely? The only one with needs? The image of his rugged features floated unwanted into her mind. They had almost married. Still, she thought, it could have been worse; she could have married him. Her thoughts paraded through her mind-yes, and been married to a life of seeing other women's lipstick on his handkerchief, smelling their scent on his clothes.
	Still, she thought, things had been great between them before her promotion, before she'd started working all kinds of crazy hours. Why couldn't he have tried to understand how important it was to her that she succeed at her new assignment? Why couldn't he realize that life couldn't be all play? No, when she'd really needed his help, he'd left her alone to turn into a workaholic, while he amused himself with one woman after another. Perhaps... maybe... what if she did change her mind? Should she call him? As long as she pampered his ego, they could probably... no, there would be nothing. She could never trust him
	Shaking her head, she walked into the bedroom, slipped the ring from her finger and dropped it back into the brass box she kept for trinkets, stuffing the little box deep in her dresser drawer. As if out of sight truly meant out of mind.
	For a moment's rest, she sat on a big box, one of several labeled "Misc." "Just for a minute," she promised herself, hoping her visitor at the door would go away. She desperately wanted a cup of tea, but she couldn't go into the kitchen for the pile of work on the kitchen table, work she'd brought home from her office. She'd felt guilty about taking time off to move, so she'd salved her conscience by bringing home an armful of files. Untouched, they still lay on the table, silently reproaching her.
	She groaned when the doorbell rang again. Earlier today the bell had announced a middle-aged member of the community welcoming committee. His eyes had brightened at the sight of her, and he had smiled his toothy smile-like a crocodile. He'd wanted to talk about what life offered her in her new community, while she yearned for a cup of hot, comforting tea as she stood in the open doorway, barely hearing him.
	He pressed into her hands a thick packet of coupons from local businesses, telling her, "We're a very active community, a very friendly community." His predatory gaze roamed up and down her figure, lingering here and there. She'd shrunk behind the door, thinking how very friendly it would be if he just went away, so she could sit down and put her aching feet up.
	If you really wanted to help, you'd massage my feet for me. That would really be friendly. Then she had reconsidered that thought; she didn't want to be that friendly with this lecher.
	Finally, tiring of his babble, she'd pushed the packet of coupons back into his hands and closed the door.
	In early afternoon her second caller had been the enterprising lad who delivered for the Indianapolis Star. Refreshed by his youthful enthusiasm, she'd exacted a solemn vow that he'd have the paper on her doorstep every morning before breakfast, then signed up with him.
	Now the doorbell rang for the third time, this time accompanied by a vigorous knocking. She pulled herself erect and picked her way unhappily toward the door. The impatient rapping was an almost certain sign who it would be. Sure enough, it was. Nasty Jimmy had come around. Snooping.
	"Just making sure you're all right, Doctor MacRae," he said, looking past her as she stood in the open door of her new condo, his little chocolate-drop eyes busy. "Sorry to bother you," he added, "but you know company policy says I have to check key employees who are absent during office hours."
	Yes, she knew the policy, all right, but who did he think he was kidding? Nasty Jimmy Pratt, the Atlas Director of Security, himself personally checking on her? Why not one of his men? Perhaps it wouldn't have been so bad if Nasty Jimmy had been the charmer he clearly fantasized himself. But he wasn't, and the way he looked at her always made her want to cross her arms over her chest, and made her fingers itch to button her blouse up to her neck.
	She'd scarcely managed to send him grumbling down her sidewalk when, still standing with her back against the front door, her eyes closed wearily, she heard her telephone ring.

Chapter 5

	"The hell with it," David D'Escoyne growled, "enough is enough." He flipped off his computer and shoved his chair back from his desk. "Dawn till dark every damned day, and I'm nowhere." Jumping to his feet, he clattered down the stairs of his townhouse, stomping out onto the little front porch and sat on the steps, leaning his arms on his knees, forcing himself to relax.
	It was quiet. Through the thick woods that give the Timbers condominium complex its name he could hear the faint high-pitched singing of the tires on the semis and buses circling Indianapolis on I-465.
	"I ought to be on one of those buses," he murmured, "on my way back to Daytona Beach. I should have listened to Ollie."
	Recalling his last day on the job in Daytona Beach, David still couldn't believe he'd done what he had, yet the memory was as clear as crystal in his mind. He'd marched into Ollie Thornton's office with the threat that if he didn't get his sabbatical, he'd quit. Then he'd go into business for himself... taking Thornton's programming staff with him. D'Escoyne Associates, Computer Software Service, he'd said. Blackmail, pure and simple.
	"Whatever made me think I could write a book? I'm not doing any good here. Two weeks gone." He blew out his breath in a deep sigh. "D'Escoyne, it is time for a break."
	Standing, he went inside. There he paused. What kind of break? He looked at his watch. Supper time. Go out somewhere for a meal? Yeah, eat somebody else's cooking for a change. He considered that, finally shaking his head. Nah. How about a movie? He picked up the Indianapolis Star and started paging through it, but tossed the paper down before he even found the theater section. He didn't want to go to the movies.
	Go for a walk? Damn it, do something, anything, that doesn't involve thinking about mathematics. He strode into the bedroom and was starting to change into jogging shorts when he saw his flute case lying on top of his dresser. He snapped his fingers. "Yes. Yes, that's it."
	He rummaged through his dresser for his copy of the Amateur Chamber Music Players directory, opened the little book to Indianapolis, and started down the list looking for a pianist. It didn't take long to find one. He went to the phone.
	"You've reached the Allison residence. We're sorry we can't take your call right now, but-"
	David slammed the phone down. Damned answering machines. He moved his finger down the page, found a second name, dialed. A male voice answered.
	"Mr. Lurov? My name is D'Escoyne. I wonder if I could interest you in-"
	Lurov interrupted sharply. "How did you get this number?"
	"Well, sir, it's listed in-"
	"We don't want any. You got that? None. And don't call back."
	Click.
	For a long, dangerous moment David considered suggestions he could offer Lurov, several of them physically impossible. The one he really liked was calling Lurov again, and telling him that the reason he'd called was to make sure Lurov would be home next day to receive his million-dollar check from the Publisher's Clearing House Prize Patrol. However, in view of his uncooperative attitude, they had decided to draw another name.
	He grinned, teetering....
	Nah.
	Going back to the directory for a third name, he moved his finger past violinists and oboists, hovered for a moment over an organist, finally shrugging, no music for organ. Ah, MacRae; piano. J. MacRae. Why did she do that, he wondered. Everyone knows that putting only an initial before a name in a listing indicates a woman who's trying to disguise her sex. But at least she plays the piano. If she's home.
	"That number has been changed," the recorded voice said. "The new number-"
	David dropped the phone in its cradle and stood looking at it. "What the hell, three in a row? Is somebody trying to tell me something?" He went to get a pencil, then dialed the MacRae number again. "Yeah, yeah," he told the recording, "I'll make a note of it."

	When her phone rang Joanne stared at it in astonishment. Who knew her new number? She had just gotten it. She picked her way across the room and reached a hand to pick up the instrument, then stopped. Don't answer till the third ring, she thought, people will think you've been sitting by the phone with nothing better to do.
	She took a deep breath.
	"Hello."
	"J. MacRae, please."
	A pleasant baritone voice. A stranger. Careful. "This is she."
	"J. MacRae, the pianist?"
	Pianist? She held the phone away from her ear, staring at it. Pianist? My God, she was the director of the largest project Atlas Corporation had ever had, and all this man cared about was that she played the piano.
	The thought blossomed in her mind: this was what it was like in the real world, where normal people didn't think about work all the time. Yes, it was time to start living in that world again. She couldn't help it, she laughed with pleasure at the thought.
	"Yes," she said, "the very same. And who's calling, please?"
	"My name is David D'Escoyne. I've just moved to Indianapolis. I looked you up in the directory of the Amateur Chamber Music Players. I play the flute. Would you like to try some duets this evening?"
	Oh, wouldn't she, though! An hour or two away from the cartons and boxes. She felt a remarkable lifting of her spirits, only to have them sag to a new low almost at once. "I'd love to," she said sorrowfully, "but I don't have any music for piano and flute."
	"Not to worry," he assured her, "I have tons. I'll bring a handful with me. Surely we'll find something."
	"Wonderful. Give me half an hour, I'm all-" He doesn't need to know that I need a shower. "Half an hour. 'Bye."
	Click.
	"Hey!" David stared at the phone. "Way to go, MacRae. You've moved, you have a new telephone number. I'll bet you even have a new address." Shaking his head, he dialed again the number the recording had insisted he make a note of.
	The phone was picked up on the first ring. "I know," MacRae said, "I forgot to give you my new address, didn't I?" Was that a gurgle of laughter he heard? "I just moved in here, and I'm not... um, well, give me your phone number-David, wasn't it? I'll call you right back."
	Writing his number on a pad, Joanne hung up and went to the boxes stored under the baby grand in her living room. Rooting like a terrier through the box labeled "Music," she found her copy of the directory for the Amateur Chamber Music Players. She started leafing through the pages, leaning back with a raised eyebrow at the sight of David's name. So that's how he spelled it, with an apostrophe. Well, okay, she thought, it doesn't say what kind of guy he is, but at least he's genuine. From Daytona Beach; mmm, that must be nice, if you can get it. She tossed the directory on top of the piano and headed for the telephone.
	Now if he's even a halfway decent flutist....

	David stared down at his telephone. Her voice was rich as Devon cream, he thought. The regret in her voice when she said she had no music for flute and piano was real. Strange sense of humor, though. Why had she laughed when he asked if she were J. MacRae, the pianist? The sudden thought struck him: hell, maybe the MacRae's were a family of pianists. Famous, even. Well, how was he supposed to know?
	As he gathered up his music and his instrument, he felt better than he had for the past two weeks. This was what he needed, to get out and make some new friends. He whistled a few bars of those tricky bits of fingering for the woodwinds in Haydn's Symphony Number 99. Thank Heaven for Music Minus One cassettes, he thought. How else would he ever be able to play with the Stuttgart Symphony Orchestra.
	It was a short drive to her place. He could just as easily have walked. As he started up her sidewalk, he heard the sound of a piano, and standing on her porch, he could hear her pounding out the strong rhythm of The Saints Go Marching In. Smiling, he unpacked his flute and started playing along with her in an inside-outside duet. They were really getting with it when she stopped playing and opened her door.

	David knew he'd been staring at J. MacRae, his mouth open like a high school sophomore, when he finally realized his mouth was painfully dry.
	She was wearing a snowy white poet's blouse and jeans. Her feet were bare. She had big feet, he noticed. Her gaze-a lively bright blue-struck him like a hammer. He closed his mouth, gulped hard, then opened it again to hear a strange voice croak, "Hello. I'm David, umm... D'Escoyne. Yes...D'Escoyne."
	It was a little surprising that she hadn't said anything, though, all the time he'd been standing here, his mouth agape. He saw her tongue moisten dry lips, saw her throat move as she swallowed, then she finally spoke. "Yes. Umm..."
	David cleared his throat. "It doesn't look like we'll have any trouble playing together, does it? Didn't you think we sounded like a couple of pros? So, uh, where-" He finally managed to shut off his babble.
	Joanne gazed at him for an instant longer, then stepped back, slipping her feet into loafers. Picking up her purse from where it lay on the chair beside the door, she said, "I hope you weren't expecting me to have you come in? I mean, I really don't know you."
	"Oh, no, that's all right," he said. "I understand." Actually, he felt keenly disappointed. That's exactly what he'd been expecting. Well, hoping. Wasn't that where she had her piano? 
	"We can go to the clubhouse and use the piano there. Do you have a problem with that?"
	David shrugged. "No, of course not, I understand perfectly. I read the papers too," he said, "and I realize you need to be careful. It's too bad suspicion has to come first, but... No, no problem." He held out his instrument case. "If you'll hold that a second, I'll put this away." He took the flute apart and placed it carefully in the case, then took it from her hands and snapped it shut. "Do we both drive there?" He pulled a long face. "Better, I guess, huh. You lead the way, okay?"
	Closing her front door, she pulled the strap of her purse over her shoulder. "I thought we might walk. It's only a short way." Sticking out her hand, she said, "I'm Joanne MacRae, the pianist."
	"How do you do," David said, taking her hand briefly. "There's a story that goes along with that 'pianist' business if you want to hear it."
	"Of course," she said. "A good story is always welcome."
	"You weren't the first person I called tonight," he told her. He described the answering machine he'd reached, then the response he'd gotten from Lurov, and the wild desire he'd had to call Lurov back.
	"The Publisher's Clearing House Prize Patrol?" She laughed. "Oh, you're wicked, you are."
	"Well, no, I didn't do it. I still feel as though I should have," he grumbled. "I mean, if he's going to list his name... Anyway, you're the third name in the directory, so I guess it's all for the best."
	She let the implicit compliment slide by without comment. "The third name? Come on, you're joking, right?"
	"No. Oh, not the third name, the third pianist in the directory. That's why I asked if you were J. MacRae, the pianist. And incidentally, why do you only use J in front-"
	"But there are dozens of pianists whose names come before mine."
	His forehead creased in exasperation. "Oh, well, yes, but I mean in Indianapolis."
	Joanne frowned at him. "So do I."
	He stared down at her. "But that isn't so. You're the third one."
	She spoke sharply. "I'm not! I know better!"
	"Mmm." She heard his soft growl, and saw his lips thin as he clamped them shut over a fiery retort, visibly making an effort to keep the peace. His nostrils flared as he drew a deep breath. "Okay," he said finally. "I don't suppose it really matters anyway."
	He's simply mistaken, she thought. Give the guy a break. "You're right. I shouldn't have made such a big thing out of it. We'll have a look in the directory some time."
	They finished the five-minute walk to the clubhouse in silence.

	In the clubhouse, nearly empty this close to dinner time, Joanne sat at the piano, an upright which clearly had seen better days. She'd never played on the instrument before, so she began running scales to get a feel for it. David began sorting through the thick stack of music he'd taken from his jacket pocket. She saw him wince when she touched a key that sounded noticeably flat. "Uh-oh," she said.
	He shrugged, smiling. "Just have to make do." He sat a sheet of music on the piano stand. "Here's one for warming up. It's so easy I could play both our parts myself."
	"Really? Would you do it for me? I didn't think anyone could play chords on a flute. You must be very good." She sat on the piano bench, looking up at him, her eyes wide, obviously waiting for him to perform.
	His smile dwindled to zero, and he straightened from putting the music on the piano, looking down at her warily. She knew it wasn't possible to play chords on a flute. Why was she needling him? Shouldn't he have said this was an easy piece? He thought back. No, it was that business about the damned directory; maybe he had come on too strong. Or maybe she's just sensitive. Hell.
	"You're quite right, Ms. MacRae, I can't play chords. It was only a figure of speech. I meant that the piece is very-"
	She shook her head. "Not Ms. MacRae, please. Ms. MacRae is my mother. You can call me Jo."
	"Jo...." Lips pursed, his gaze played over her face as he considered that. "Sure. I like that. It fits you somehow."
	She frowned at him quizzically. "It does?"
	"Yes, it does. I don't know why. I'm David, then." He pointed to the music on the piano. "And I really can't play that without you."
	Her sudden smile wrapped David in a warm blanket. He noticed the small space between her front teeth. Sexy, he thought. She looks sexy. He ran his finger around inside his collar.
	"Okay," she said, "let's play it together."

	There is a magic about making music, an intimacy almost sexual in its intensity, a close partnership in which one gives one's best only to get it back magnified. As pleasant as it can be to hear music well played, this pleasure pales beside the joy of playing, of making it all come out right.
	For an hour they shared the magic, then she said, and the expression on her face echoed the words, "You're good. You know that, really good."
	Pleased, he grinned. "I was thinking the same thing about you."
	Neither of them noticed that they had gained an audience until they heard the sound of applause. "Wonderful," an older woman said. "Do you do requests?"
	David looked around at the group of listeners, then at Joanne. He arched his eyebrows questioningly. "Do we?"
	She stared at him for a moment, recognizing the graceful way he had deferred the decision to her. Suddenly, she made up her mind.
	I like this guy.
	"Sure we do," she said. "What we don't know we can fake, right?"

	Half an hour later they finally paused, and Joanne slid off the piano bench and stood to whisper in his ear. "Can we get out of here? I didn't have any dinner, and I'm starving. Would you join me for some scrambled eggs?"
	His eyes widened. "I sure will," he said. "I haven't had anything to eat either. I'll even clean up after."
	She threw her arms out wide in a melodramatic gesture. "Well, well, what have we here? A man who'll help in the kitchen? You're quite a change from the last-" She turned away abruptly, heading for the exit.
	There she went with that needle of hers again, David thought, following her out of the clubhouse. There was more to it than just helping out in the kitchen. The last what? Guy? Sure, that was it, he was taking the rap for some other guy. Must have been a real prince for her to have an attitude like that. Or is it that maybe she's just a little full of herself? Either way, who needs it?
	At her apartment Joanne began explaining as she unlocked her front door. "You'll have to be careful where you put your feet," she said. "I haven't finished unpacking from my move."
	David eyed the stacks of cartons, glancing down the hallway to note the haphazard mounding of empties, finally turning his gaze to her. She was watching him steadily. What was she waiting for, he wondered, for him to say something smartass? "Want me to flatten those empties in the hallway?"
	A little half grin appeared. "Great," she said.
	He nodded. "I just moved up here myself two weeks ago. I'm still wondering why I put some of my things where I did." He paused, reflecting. "If I didn't know better, I'd swear someone else unpacked for me. I'm not kidding. I don't remember having any of this hassle."
	Another grin. "Your mind just rejected the memories."
	He laughed. "Yeah, I guess. But, two weeks? I still remember the move before that, and it was six years ago." He stepped around boxes to start toward the hallway. As he passed by the piano, he laid on its gleaming surface the thick sheaf of music they'd used in the clubhouse. Noticing the ACMP directory lying there, he picked it up and put it in his shirt pocket. We'll get this pianist business settled right now.
	Once in the hallway he started effortlessly tearing apart boxes. Glancing into her bedroom, he noticed the brass bed parts. He turned back to her, but she'd already gone into the kitchen. He called out, "You want a hand putting your bed together?"
	She poked her head around the doorway. "No, thanks."
	He looked back into the bedroom, grimaced, then returned his gaze to her. "Are you sure? This looks like maybe queen size, and box springs that big can be a real bear to tackle by yourself."
	She turned back into the kitchen and he heard her voice. "I can handle it okay. No help required. Thanks anyway."
	Shrugging, he finished the last of the boxes, and joined her in the kitchen. Sitting at the table, out of her way, he pulled the directory out of his pocket and started to page through it. After a moment he asked, "This ACMP directory, is it a recent copy?"
	She looked away from where she was breaking eggs into a bowl, glancing over her shoulder. "Are you back on that again? Yes, it's a recent directory."
	"Then it should be just like mine." He leafed through until he found the pages listing ACMP members in Indianapolis. "Let me show you what... Whoa," he said. His eyebrows rose in surprise as he stared at the profusion of names. "It's not like mine at all. Here's the Allisons; I told you about them. Yes, and here's Lurov. But look at all the names in between. None of these names are in mine." He kept turning pages until he came to her name. "You're way back here. In my copy, you're on the second page under Indianapolis."
	"You've got some pages missing."
	"Sure looks like it." David leafed slowly through the directory again, scanning the pages carefully, finally shaking his head. "No. Not pages, pianists." His eyes were puzzled when they rose to meet hers. "What's missing in my directory is pianists. Only pianists. Isn't that crazy?"
	Crazy? More like impossible, Joanne thought. Rather than start their disagreement again, she changed the subject. She sat down the bowl of eggs and eased the directory from his hands. "When you called, I looked you up in here." She leafed through pages. "D'Escoyne. French, isn't it?"
	He nodded.
	"Says here you play the flute." She smiled. "Well, they got that right, anyway." She looked at him curiously. "Why the flute?"
	His turn to grin. "You think maybe the tuba would be more suitable? Maybe the bass drum?"
	She blushed slightly. "Well, no, but I had this image of what you'd look like, and-"
	"I don't fit? Well, frankly, I had a picture of you in my mind too-from talking to you over the phone, and-"
	"I don't fit either, I suppose." She looked at him askance. "Do I want to ask?"
	He made a little open-hand gesture. "I thought you'd be short. I knew you wouldn't be skinny. I imagined long, light-brown hair." He raised his gaze to her hair. "I never imagined you'd look so... neat."
	She stared at him for a moment. "Not skinny? How could you possibly tell that over the phone?"
	"Well...." He cleared his throat, recognizing belatedly that he was in the middle of a mine field. "Your voice, you see. Um, the reason why the flute, and not the tuba? I think I was turned on to the flute when I first heard-no, when I first listened to Debussy's Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun. I was thirteen. I got goose bumps. I wanted to be able to make music like that."
	She nodded animatedly. "Ahh, yes. Yes. I know exactly what you mean. With me it was Grieg's First Piano Concerto. I first heard it on one of Dad's old LPs. I had shivers. I wore out that LP."
	They stared at each other, the eye contact becoming intense.
	"I didn't think you'd be so big, er, tall," she said, "and I thought you'd have a big Adam's apple, and...well-" She dropped her eyes to the directory, nervously riffling the pages. "Daytona Beach. So what brings you here?"
	"I've taken a year off to write a book."
	"Oh? What kind of book?"
	"A math textbook for disadvantaged kids."
	"Really? Oh, that's neat," she said. "That's something that needs doing."
	"Yes," he said, hunching forward on his elbows, "you wouldn't believe the need. And we're not talking about some place far away. I know of one company, Lincoln Electric-they're in Ohio-they've had to reject twenty thousand job applicants because they couldn't handle basic high school algebra. Basic high school algebra!" He grimaced. "That number came right out of the Wall Street Journal." Silent for a moment, he added, "And that's not the only case. Makes you want to do something."
	She considered that idea for a while, one eye squinted almost shut. "Disadvantaged, you say. You know, I can see a real problem there. I don't remember many user-friendly math textbooks. How are your pupils going to get anything out of a math book if they can't read very well?"
	"Hey, you're as quick as the brown fox. That's exactly what my problem is. Before I can go any further, I've got to figure out how I'm going to teach. The kind of math books I was raised on just won't do it. But what will?" He sighed. "I should have thought all this out before I came up here."
	"You certainly have a big job ahead of you. I wish you the best of luck." She cocked her head quizzically. "But why Indianapolis? Why come all the way up here from Daytona Beach to write a textbook? What's so great about Indy?"
	David stared at her long enough that she blushed at her outspoken curiosity. "Well," she said, her face pink, "I'm only interested. It's okay. About Indianapolis, I mean."
	"It's the lightning capital of the world," he said.
	She gaped at him. "... what?"
	"Daytona Beach. Did you know that?"
	She shook her head dumbly.
	"It is. Or close to it, anyway. People always getting struck down there," he said. "Anyway, I was born here. In Indianapolis. Our family moved south when I was little and I've lived there ever since. My grandparents still live here, in Brownsburg, and I come up for a visit every once in a while," he smiled, "when it gets too hot on the beach. Sometimes to get away from a hurricane." A shrug. "Even so, why not here? You think Memphis would have been better? Or Tucson?"
	"You wouldn't have me on your case there."
	One shoulder lifted a little. "I don't mind your being on my case."
	She thought about that for a moment. Was he saying more than his words indicated? She put the directory on the table and poured the eggs into a skillet. She saw him pick up the little book again.
	"I think you've just got an older version of that," she said.
	"No," he said, "I sent them the money for a new one, and I got it just before I came up here."
	"Then you've got some pages missing. What's the big deal?"
	His voice was sharp. "It offends my sense of order."
	She turned to look at him. If there was anything she could share sympathetically, it was a sense of order-a need for things to be right, and the nagging feeling she felt when they weren't. "I can buy that," she said. "I know exactly what you mean."
	She turned back to the stove. "Come on, David, admit it, you just tore out all the pages to get to my name."
	You sure don't lack for ego, David thought. His eyes glinted as he raised them from the directory to look at her, his gaze pausing appreciatively to trace the smooth curve of her hips in the tight jeans. They fit her like the skin on a green apple, he thought. Very nice-and no one knows it better than you, eh, Joanne MacRae? He imagined an expectant grin on her lips as she awaited his response.
	"Tear out pages? Nah," he said casually, "I don't think that's very likely. Actually, you're not my type."
	She paused in her stirring. "Oh?"
	"I like my women petite."
	He could see the angry red creep up the back of her neck.
	"Petite?" she said. "You want to be able to pick them up with one hand?"
	"Oh, no, nothing like that. Hey, now don't go getting the wrong idea. You're okay, just not my-"
	"Aren't you a little old to be playing with dolls?" she said.
	Her voice sounded natural enough. Although as she sat his eggs in front of him, he wondered if perhaps she hadn't slammed his plate down a bit harder than necessary.
	He looked up at her with a gaze as blandly innocent as a baby's. "Now I've offended you. I'm sorry."
	"Not at all," she said lightly. "It's nothing to me if you like little women, although I really can't see-well, everyone to their own taste. Then again, doesn't that only apply to food? Well, maybe to drink? Surely not women."
	David tweaked her nerves a little tighter. "No, you're probably right, it probably does apply to all three. Yes, especially women. These eggs are very good, by the way."
	Oh, yes, by the way. Liar. They're excellent. Petite! Hah! So I'm okay anyway, am I? Even if I'm not your type? You just wait till I fix you eggs again, David D'Escoyne. You'll starve to death first! 
	"Thank you," she said. "It's kind of you to say so."
	David didn't push his luck. He did the dishes with a brisk efficiency that spoke of long practice, putting them away where she indicated with a remarkable economy of words. Then he picked up his flute and said his good-byes.
	Tight lipped and glowering, Joanne considered their evening. Just as she was beginning to think he was a nice guy, he had to belt her with-not his type. Egocentric lump! Just who the hell did he think he was, God's gift to women? 
	The day's fatigue, gone while they'd been busy together, descended again. I suppose he expects me to wrestle with those box springs and mattress all night. It would have been child's play for him, she thought. The big grunt, the least he could have done was to insist on helping.
	Simmering, watching from the window as he drove away, Joanne's gaze followed the car that started up and, lights out, trailed after David as he drove from the parking lot. 

Chapter 6

	The following Monday morning, David stood in the Racquets Four sports club banging tennis balls against a practice backboard. This early in the morning he was alone, the only sounds in the arching dome the pok as his racket slammed the ball, bam, against the backboard. His strokes grew surer as his muscles remembered the drill. Faster and faster. Pok! Bam! Pok-Bam! Pokbam! 
	He smiled with pleasure. After weeks of parking his backside in front of a computer from sunup to sundown, it felt good to get into something physical. Catching the ball in his hand, he tucked it in the pocket of his shorts, then peeled off his T-shirt to cool down a bit.
	A sudden clatter behind him caused him to turn. Joanne had dropped her racket, and now she straightened from picking it up. No crisp white poet's blouse this time, she wore a loose tank top. But it wasn't that loose. And while her shorts weren't as snug as her jeans had been, they were certainly, well, er, shorter.
	My God, he thought in wonder, she's... fantastic.
	Her hands had become slack on her racket when he'd removed his T-shirt, and she'd stared at David, open mouthed. His muscles flowed the length of him as smoothly as water in a millpond. Magnificent! The word echoed through her mind like the rumble after a flash of lightning. "His head finest gold, his locks luxuriant, black as the raven-" 
	Her mind jarred to a stop, the Song of Solomon fading. Locks? Yes, and luxuriant indeed, but blond as a Viking. She drew a deep breath, determined to ignore the little tremor she'd felt in her belly. Thinking like this was silly. She didn't know anything about him. Besides, she wasn't his type. She bent to picket up her racket.
	"Morning, Jo." David put his T-shirt on. "You, uh, you're a member of this club?"
	She wiped her hands on her shorts and clutched the racket firmly. "Yes, you too?"
	He nodded. "Joined a couple of weeks ago. My first time here. Nice place."
	"Would you like to play a few games?"
	"Sure. I'll help you warm up. Hitting them back to me is bound to be more fun than that backboard."
	Ten minutes later she called out, "Okay, I'm ready if you are."
	David walked up to the net. "Call it," he said, spinning his racket on the court surface.
	"Smooth."
	He looked at his racket lying at his feet. "Smooth it is. Your serve." He hesitated. "Oh, how do you want to keep score, the new way or the old way?"
	"Well," she said, "I don't like sudden death, so since I get to choose, I'll take the old way. If it gets to five all, winner has to win by two games."
	He nodded. "Okay by me. Good luck," he said.
	Why did he say that, she wondered as she prepared to serve. He's the one who'll need the luck. As big as he is he's bound to be slow. Her secret little smile was like Mona Lisa. Not his type, huh? Poor guy.
	Wrong. It was hell putting a ball where he couldn't reach it to send it back so fast she'd swear it smoked. Still, she did manage finally to save her service.
	But she couldn't break his service, and they ended up one-one at the end of two long games. Her smile was slack now, as though she'd pasted it in place and had forgotten it was there.
	He'd never played better, but damned if he could break her service to pick up the two games in a row he needed to win.
	She was brilliant, but for the life of her she couldn't string together two games to win. But at 8-7 she had a chance. She'd won her serve and she'd finally managed to break his service. Well, she'd almost managed it. It was set point; one more point and the set was hers. They'd run each other all over the court. Her heart was pounding furiously and her throat was burning. And except for his heaving chest, he didn't seem fazed. She gritted her teeth, determined to win.
	His serve was like a bullet, and she felt the solid impact against her racket as she slammed a shot to his backhand that sent him scrambling. His return was a potential disaster for him-a high, arching lob to her near the net. And she was waiting. Her smile blossomed as she waited for the ball to descend to where she could smash it like a bolt of lightning at his feet, where he wouldn't have a prayer of returning it.
	He saw her smile and knew in an instant what she was going to do, so he did the last thing in the world she expected. He charged the net, beginning his stroke before she had even completed hers, swinging high over his head at a ball he hoped would be where he'd thought it would.
	It was. PokPok. The sounds of the two rackets hitting the ball were barely separable, and the ball ricocheted off the court on her side, safely in... by a couple of inches.
	"Good by a country mile," he gasped.
	"Oh, no," she groaned. They were standing almost chest to chest, and she sagged, leaning on the wire holding up the net, panting for breath. "How could you make such a shot?"
	He bent over, his hands on his knees, gasping for breath. "I saw you grin while you waited for the ball to come down, and I knew what you were going to do." He straightened. "You were going to ram your win down my throat, weren't you? 'Go for broke, David,' and it worked."
	"Bravo," a voice shouted, "A fantastic play!" Looking up they discovered they'd attracted a sizeable audience during their marathon duel.
	It was then that she realized she had never even considered the possibility that he could have cheated, calling the shot good when it might have been out. She knew he hadn't; she hadn't needed the witnesses' confirmation to prove it. She scowled, not understanding why that was so.
	This close to her he could smell the scent of her perfume, and it stirred him, weakening his resolve to win. Almost he was tempted to let her have her victory, then he stuck out his chin. Like hell, he thought. Imagine the contempt she'd feel if she suspected that's what I'd done. I know I'd hate it if I ever thought she'd done that to me. Besides, he admitted it to himself, she may win anyway.
	"You almost had me," he said quietly. "I was lucky."
	The clean smell of fresh sweat was pleasant, and she wanted to reach out and touch him. Suddenly her mind flashed across the years to a course she'd taken as a sophomore: Human Physiology. Old Doc Keppey, surely the only person in the world who could make the human body seem dull. She remembered the dusty old voice droning.
	"Pheromones; a chemical substance released by one human which serves to influence the physiology or behavior of other humans of the opposite sex." And the oddly humorous example the old guy had used to make a point of the power of pheromones. "It's just like being bitten by a bug," he'd said, "and catching a disease called love, for which man fortunately has not been able to devise a cure. Heh, heh, heh."
	Pheromones! She stared at David. He was looking at her with a determined expression. She felt her heart skip a beat. She leaned toward him and came up against the cable that held up the net.
	He turned away, starting for the baseline. "Enough rest," he called over his shoulder. "Still my serve, right."
	She stumbled back to her baseline and kept him waiting until she was breathing easily.
	He won his service finally, to make the score 8-8. Later, four hard-fought games later, tied again at 10-10, neither could get to set point, they agreed to call it quits. For the moment
	"We'll have to do this again, you know," she said. "To get this settled."
	He nodded. He understood all right. "Say when."
	"Same time, day after tomorrow?"
	"Wednesday. Six-thirty. See you then," he said, swinging away.
	"Oh, David," she called out, waiting till he'd turned back. Just the merest prick of the needle. "Good luck."
	A slow grin built on the rugged features. "Touché," he said.

	It was later that morning, when she was busy in her office, that Joanne's mind tied together the two events. She had come out of the club building as David pulled out onto Southport Road. They'd waved, then she'd had to wait for the second car leaving the lot and turning in the same direction as David-the same kind, the same color of car as the one she'd seen pull out of her condo parking lot last night, lights out, following David.
	Remembering Pratt's constant yammering about security, she went to his office for a conference.
	He listened to her story.
	"Okay," she said, summing up, "it could be happenstance that he's moved to Indianapolis. And it could be simple coincidence that he called me out of the ACMP directory-" She paused, frowning at a memory. "Although there's something funny there too. He says his directory is different from mine. But anyway, it's beginning to be a little too coincidental when he joins the same sports club I belong to." She drew a deep breath. "Now we both know he wouldn't be the first guy who tried to get next to me. I'm not flattered. If I weren't project director for the superlaser I'd never have seen these guys. Okay, I can live with that, but D'Escoyne's being followed. Not me, him. Twice I've seen the same car following his. Coincidence? I wonder. Who, or what is he that someone would want to follow him? And who's doing it? Is it you?"
	Pratt's eyes were the color of chocolate to which too much milk had been added. And wet looking. And too close together. He reminded her of a flounder. "What do you know about this guy?" he asked.
	"Answer my question," she said sharply. "Are you following him?"
	Her question hung in the air. "No," Pratt said finally, his gaze darting away from hers. "You been seeing this guy? Whatever happened to the other one?" He waggled a hand, visibly searching his mind. "The guy by the name of Harles. No... Haines. Yeah, that's it. Haines. Used to see him come by the plant to pick you up once in a while."
	"Hayes!" she snapped, scowling. "That's been-you haven't seen him for months. We're not talking about Carl Hayes. And I'm not seeing D'Escoyne, not the way you mean. Haven't you been listening? He just keeps showing up where I am. That's why I want you to check him out. I know he's being followed and I want to know why. I could see some reason if someone were following me, but why him? And I want to know who's doing it. He could be a threat. You know how close we are to prototype testing. I don't want anyone invoking that security penalty at this stage of the project."
	"Never any security problem with Haines," Pratt muttered. "Everybody knew what he was after, and we all thought he was-" He quailed before the glacial anger in her eyes. "Well, okay," he muttered, "I'll check D'Escoyne out."
	"Now?"
	Pratt nodded. "I'll get back to you when I know something."
	After Joanne left his office Pratt closed his door, pulled his cell phone out of his desk drawer and dialed a number he'd committed to memory.
	"Whoever's watching the man, David D'Escoyne, has got to be more careful. MacRae's nervous about him. She's seen someone following him and she wants me to check on him."
	He listened for a moment. "But if it's not us, who is it?"
	More listening. "I don't like it. Him showing up just as the Sword prototype is being installed in the aircraft. I don't want anything-"
	He was interrupted and listened briefly.
	"What do you mean, 'disappear'? You mean-" Sweat beaded on his forehead and he rubbed it away. "Don't you think we ought to check him out first, see who's behind him?"
	The telephone squawked in his ear.
	"I know we shouldn't take any chances. But if we, uh, if he goes away without our knowing who sent him, what's to stop whoever's behind him from sending others? At least this way, we know who to-"
	The voice spoke in measured tones, and Pratt gulped at the words.
	"Yes," he answered finally, "I know I'm responsible." He wiped his forehead on his shirtsleeve. "Why not let me put one of the team on him to see who's following him and what he's up to?"
	At last, hanging up the phone, he sat back in his chair. D'Escoyne, you are on the edge. One little puff, and you're gone. 

Chapter 7

	Wednesday morning Joanne and David battled to another exhausting draw on the Racquets Four tennis courts; 11-11 this time, before they finally quit. Neither had wanted to stop, but Joanne had to get to work.
	"Jo, not only are you one helluva tennis player, you're also stubborn as a Missouri mule," David said admiringly, toweling his streaming face as they walked off the courts.
	"Stubborn?" She shook her head. "That's not it at all," she confessed. "I keep thinking I'll wear you out, but you just keep hitting them back."
	"You might as well get used to it. I'm the one who's going to wear you down." His voice carefully neutral, he added, "How about making some more music, say, tomorrow night?"
	They walked a few paces before she answered, and he found himself more concerned about her answer than he had thought he would be.
	"Yes," she said, "I'd like that."
	Why is he being followed? she asked herself. Was it because of her? Was he sent to try to get the superlaser too? Was that what all the coincidences were about?
	She looked up at him. "You left your music on my piano, you know."
	He nodded. "Mmm. Probably something Freudian. I wish you could bring your piano to my place," he said. "I'd fix you dinner."
	She examined his face carefully for a moment, then, "We don't need my piano to have dinner."
	David's eyebrows rose, and he nodded, smiling. "Good thinking, MacRae. All right, dinner, my place, seven p.m. After that, whenever we're ready, your place for music. Okay?"
	This time Joanne wrote down the license number of the car that followed him out of the parking lot.

	It was that afternoon when David finally got the idea for a way to package his mathematics course. He was in the Greenwood Plaza shopping mall, where he'd been wandering in and out of bookstores. He'd been thinking textbook-after all, that's how everyone did it, never mind that the mere sight of a math textbook scared away poor readers. Stopping for a cup of coffee, he was watching absently as a youth read, seeing his lips move as he hunched intently over his comic book. He's really working at that, David thought, too bad he can't learn something besides Biff! Bam! Pow! 
	The idea leaped from David's mind like Minerva springing full-grown from the head of Jupiter.
	Preoccupied with tumbling the idea over and over in his mind, already looking for possible problems, David may have watched the youth a little too intently, for he raised his head from his comic book to stare unblinkingly at David.
	"You want something, buddy?"
	David nodded. "Well, yes, as a matter of fact. How much do you know about mathematics?"
	Short and husky, his head shaven, the youth stared squinty eyed at David. "What?"
	"How much do you know-"
	"I heard you. Why do you want to know?"
	"Would you like to know more?"
	"I ain't buyin' nothin'."
	"I ain't sellin' nothin'."
	"Uh...?"
	"Would you like to know more about mathematics?"
	A shrug.
	"Seems to me knowing math would open a lot of job opportunities."
	The youth's eyes narrowed. "You some kinda do-gooder?"
	David grinned. "Do-gooder." He thought about that for a moment. "Yeah, I'm some kinda do-gooder. You want to help me do some good?"
	The answer was prompt. "No."
	"Oh. No?" Naively, David hadn't considered such a blanket refusal. Excuses, sure, he knew mathematics' bad reputation, but this rejection seemed to spring from something deeper. An unwillingness to become involved? Perhaps a reluctance to start something which might end in failure... another failure? 
	"Well...." The youth had second thoughts. "Maybe. What's in it for me?"
	"You'll learn mathematics."
	"Oh, wow." The young man waved his finger in a circle in the air. "Who needs it? I mean, what kind of money we talking about?"
	"Money?" David had to think about that. There wasn't any money and might never be. "Well, I'll give you ten percent of the net royalties and all the math you can learn."
	The young man scoffed at David's offer. While he had no idea what David was proposing-royalties?-he did know that if he was offered ten percent, maybe he could get twenty. Or thirty.
	"No way. Fifty-fifty or nothing."
	David knew he had to have students-he hated thinking in terms like guinea pig. What had they been called when he was in school? Oh, yes-experimental subjects. He needed them, but he didn't intend to let himself be hustled like some rube who'd just ridden into town in a stake truck full of tomatoes. He settled down to negotiate.
	"Okay," he said amiably, "to hell with you. Take nothing then."
	That got him a dark frown-a turtle surveying the hostile world from inside its shell. "You don't sound like no do-gooder I ever heard of."
	"Probably not. Ten percent. You're not the only one who's going to be in on this. If I decide to take you. I want somebody who has enough sense to realize that what you store in your head you can spend over and over again. Not like money." He shook his head doubtfully. "Nah, forget it. Go back to your comic book."
	The turtle stuck its nose out of its shell. "What is it you'd want me to do?"
	David waved away the question. "Nothing. Forget it. I'm sorry I bothered you. You'd probably bail out anyway when the going gets a little tough."
	"I've never quit nothing just because-"
	"Bull," David jeered. "What's eleven percent of ten dollars?"
	"Uh... well."
	"You're gonna tell me you never had a chance to learn. And I'll bet that's right, too, because you'd already quit before they got around to percents, hadn't you?"
	"Go to hell."
	"Not me, buddy, I know the answer; one dollar and ten cents. How do you like knowing that you'll never be able to work out a fifteen percent tip for a waitress when she gives you a bill for thirty-two dollars and seventy cents?"
	The turtle nosed out again. "All right, wise guy, how much would it be?"
	David's eyebrows rose at the unexpected spark. "Well, I can't work it out in my head." He could, but the point he wanted to make was that anyone could learn to do it. He reached into his pocket for a pen. "Let me have your book to write on."
	He turned to the lurid back cover of the comic book and began to write along the side of the page. "Okay, the bill was thirty-two dollars, seventy cents, right. Fifteen percent-that's fifteen hundredths; one percent is one hundredth-did you know that?"
	"Well-"
	"It is. You write down fifteen percent as .15, like so. Now you start multiplying to get fifteen hundredths of thirty-two dollars, seventy cents," his pen wrote down the numbers neatly as he described what he was doing, "so we end up with 4.9050; four dollars, ninety and a half cents." He grinned at the youth. "What the hell, let's be generous, maybe the waitress is a friend of yours. Make it five dollars even."
	If he'd really wanted to be generous, or if the service had been especially good, he'd have gone to twenty percent, but that was a social issue and David was concentrating on arithmetic. And his mind was busy with how he could use comic books to teach mathematics. Well, not comic books exactly, but-yes, and he could print the small number of books he'd need on his own bubble jet printer. Elated, he jumped to his feet. "Well, sorry you couldn't see your way to helping me with this project, and good luck with-"
	"What would I have to do?" The turtle stuck his neck out. It was hard to do, trust somebody who asked for your help and didn't promise the moon. How could he help, he didn't know anything about mathematics.
	Surprised, David turned back to him. "We're going to create a math course. All you have to do is learn: do all your work yourself, and promise to stick it out to the end."
	The comic book had been rolled up into a tube. Now the tube was squeezed, rolled tighter. "What if I can't do it?"
	David waved away his objection. "That's the whole point of this exercise," he said, "to make sure you can do it. Your job will be to stick with it. Mine will be to give you all the help you need. You'll have to bring all your questions to me. No one else. If you get help from anyone else I'll never know about the problem you had and I'll never be able to fix it."
	The youth nodded. "Figures. Well-"
	"And if we ever get published, I'll put your name on the credits page as a research assistant."
	Their eyes met and David's heart went out to the young man. Was it hunger he saw naked in the youth's eyes, hunger to learn? 
	"And I get ten percent of the net?"
	With a pang David accepted that the love of learning would have to wait. Perhaps indefinitely. Still, some of his own attitudes were bound to appear in the lessons he'd be writing, and maybe they'd rub off.
	His mind reeled with a sudden realization. Lessons! God, there'd be hundreds of them. Okay, they wouldn't be comic books, but they would need to be very visual; bite-sized, single-concept booklets for this guy and whoever else he could find. And he'd have to write every single one of them. And revise them. All so he could teach math.
	He remembered a cartoon he'd seen once-a man using a sledgehammer to pound a wedge labeled "knowledge" into some other guy's head. Wouldn't it be wonderful if there were some way to pour knowledge directly into people's brains. He drew a deep breath, thinking of the year ahead.
	"Okay, ten percent, but only if you stick it out until the end. And with what you'll have learned, you'll be able to check the figures yourself."
	He started away again, then returned. He wiggled the comic book from the youth's hand, wrote his telephone number on the back cover and handed it back. "What's your name?" he asked.
	"Tim."
	"Okay, Tim, this is my phone number. I've just decided to put you in charge of recruiting five more people. I want people just like you. They'll have to promise to stick it out, and they get the same deal as you."
	"The same deal? And I have to do all the work? How about I get one of their ten percent? That's only one hundredth, you said. They'd never miss it."
	"You mean they'd only get nine percent?"
	"Yeah."
	"Tim... yes, one percent is one hundredth, but taking one of their ten percent would be taking one tenth, right? That would be ten percent of what I'm offering each of them."
	"Uh...."
	"The answer is no. Everyone does the same work and gets the same deal. And, Tim, I'll be checking with whoever you recruit." He smiled. "But don't get too uptight about it, it'll be a miracle if our math course earns any of us a nickel."

	That afternoon Pratt reported to Joanne's office. "The D'Escoyne guy-you said you wanted him checked out. I spent the whole morning on the phone and here it is. First-why did he move to Indy?" He shrugged. "He told you the truth about that. He's got relatives here. They live out in Brownsburg, and he's been out to see them a couple of times since he's been here. Nothing strange there, once you accept the fact that he wanted to get away from Daytona Beach. Though it beats me why couldn't he write a math book down there.
	"Distractions? Maybe." His wet eyes examined Joanne's neckline. "I hear the beach down there is covered with chicks." Another shrug. "But, yes, he had talked about taking a year off to write a math book, and he wrote his boss a letter about it when he took off. In fact, that was all the notice he gave him, a letter saying 'I'm gone.' His boss, guy by the name of Oliver Thornton, was all bent out of shape about his not giving any more notice than that. Said he was surprised too. He'd always thought they were friends. He'd never figured D'Escoyne to leave like that-just that lousy letter. Does that jibe with D'Escoyne's story?"
	She shook her head. "He never mentioned his work." That's when he changed the subject, she mused, when I asked why Indianapolis. Was it because he was ashamed of the way he'd left with scarcely any notice? "He told me Daytona Beach was the lightning capital of the world. Did you know that?"
	Pratt shook his head. "That's not right. Actually it's nearer Ocala, in the lightning belt, about seventy miles west of Daytona Beach."
	"How come I never heard about this?"
	"I dunno. Common knowledge."
	She glared at him as he bent over his notebook.
	"He ever ask you about what you do or where you work?"
	"No."
	Pratt grunted. "Okay, second-why did he call you to play music? We called the names you said he told you about. We got a recording first and a guy who didn't want whatever it was we were selling second, just like he said he did. I don't like it that he didn't call any of the other pianists in your directory. Maybe his ACMP directory is different. You think you could get a look at it?"
	"I'm having dinner at his place tomorrow night. I'll do it then."
	Pratt stared at her. "I thought you said you weren't seeing him."
	There was something about him; Joanne suddenly realized what it was. A thin, narrow-faced man, Pratt reminded her of a Gestapo agent in a sad film she had seen about life in Nazi Germany. The film had been made in the style of cinéma vérité, and the heroine had been killed toward the very end. Joanne had wept buckets. "You were making a report," she said curtly.
	Pratt dropped his eyes to his notes. "There doesn't seem anything sinister in his choice of sports club. The Racquets Four Sports Center is the closest one to where he lives. I'm a lot more interested in why he just happened to move into the Timbers condominium complex." He raised his eyes to hers. "Practically on your doorstep."
	Back to his notes. "However, inquiries about his lifestyle in Daytona Beach show the same interests as here. He likes sports, but only one-on-one sports. He's not a team man, that's for sure. Never belonged to a fraternity in school..."
	Not a team man, she thought. Yes, that's one way to look at it, she acknowledged. Another way is that he doesn't run with the pack. A rogue? Or just independent? Whatever, he's sure one heck of a tennis player.
	Pratt interrupted her thoughts. "He plays chess. He tell you that?"
	She shook her head. Figures, she thought, it's about the ultimate one-on-one. Wonder if he's any good? She remembered seeing him take off his T-shirt. Remembered, too, her visceral schoolgirl reaction. Why should that have been, she wondered. Even as a schoolgirl I wasn't like that. Could he really exude pheromones? The Song of Solomon-what nonsense-she would deny ever having thought that. Anyway, those muscles wouldn't do him any good across a chess board. She felt a certain gleeful anticipation. Tomorrow night, instead of music. Not his type, eh? She'd give him petite! Oh, revenge would be sweet.
	She surfaced again at the sound of Pratt's voice asking, "-he mention that he's a computer programmer?"
	"No."
	"You might ask. Might be interesting to see what he says. His boss, Thornton, says he's good as they come. Told me he graduated summa cum laude from the University of Florida."
	Joanne sat a little straighter behind her desk. "He did? Really?"
	"Yes, and get this-he had a double major, mathematics... and music." Pratt snickered. "Music, for Christ's sake. Guy's smart, all right. Brainy, and a real poof."
	Joanne hadn't sensed that about David. Was he? Was that why he hadn't hit on her? That business of her not being his type; was that only a cover? She recalled their music making; lovely. Still, she didn't care much for Pratt's logic; how did it follow that D'Escoyne was gay because he had studied music? 
	"So what else? Why is he being followed? And who's following him?"
	"I don't know."
	She shook her head slowly. "Isn't that what I asked you to find out?"
	Pratt opened his mouth to answer, but Joanne spoke first. "Never mind, I've been doing your work for you." She shoved a paper across her desk. "That's the license number of the car that's following D'Escoyne. I want to know who it belongs to. What I really want to know is, is D'Escoyne after the superlaser?"
	"All right," Pratt said. "You know, of course, that I can't assign my personnel outside this building, but you-"
	"Nonsense," Joanne said sharply. "I've been here six years. You think I don't know that your people do what you say?"
	Pratt continued. "You have an in with the guy. If he's an agent for someone, and he's been assigned the job of seeing you to get information on the superlaser, then let him keep seeing you until we can find out who he's working for. You say you're seeing him tomorrow night for dinner; start feeling him out then."
	Joanne stared at him. "What are you saying? You want me to be your spy? No! I won't do it."
	"Why not? It's your project, your responsibility-who better?"
	She glared angrily at Pratt. He had ruined it for her. Tomorrow night was going to be fun, now it would be sly and dirty. But he was right-who better? The next thought was unbidden; why was it so important that she knew about David?
	The answer leaped into her mind; the superlaser project.
	Well, yes, she thought, that too.
	"All right," she said dully. "I'll do your dirty work for you, but I'm putting you on notice here and now-you'll have a man watching D'Escoyne all the time I'm not around him. Do you understand me?"
	Her mouth was an angry, unhappy slash across her face. "I want to know what he's up to, and if you won't find out, I'll go to the board of directors. By God, your successor will find out for me."

	Furious, Jimmy Pratt stomped down the hallway into his office, slamming the door. Bitch! My successor! She could do it, too. Yes, director of the biggest project Atlas has ever had. Yes, they'd listen to her, all right. I've got to be careful. Oh, yes, Doctor MacRae, you'll get your way, I can't let you force me out of here just now. No, not yet.
	He dialed a contact at the Bureau of Motor Vehicles. "Hi, this is Jim Pratt," he said, "I need a favor, a quick ID on a tag." Reading off the number on the slip of paper MacRae had given him, he added, "Call me back when you know, eh?"
	It didn't take long to have an answer.
	"You've got a problem, Pratt. When I queried the computer I triggered off an automatic alarm... to the FBI, Pratt. The Feds! What the hell was so special about that number?"
	"FBI?" Astounded, Pratt stammered, "N-Nothing. That car has been following a guy who's getting cozy with, uh, one of our project directors. I thought it was just a routine security check. Why the hell would the FBI be interested in the guy?"
	"Don't ask me, Pratt, I don't know. But whatever it is, I don't want any part of it." There was a sharp click as his contact hung up.
	Pratt dropped his phone back in its cradle, snatching his hand back and staring at the phone as if it had suddenly grown fangs. "The FBI!" He buried his face in his hands, groaning. "Oh, my God-this close to the end. What has she gotten us into?"
	Thoughts swirled through his mind. Why was the FBI keeping tabs on D'Escoyne? Did they want him for something, and were they watching him to see who he contacted? And he contacted MacRae! Was he here to find out about the superlaser project? Or did the FBI suspect something else? Oh, Christ, surely they can't know about...
	He thought about the voice over the telephone. No use calling him. I know what he'll say, 'D'Escoyne has to go!'
	He lifted the phone and began to make arrangements.

	Joanne gaped at Pratt. "The FBI? Why would they be following him? Did you turn up something in your check on him that you haven't told me about? So help me, if you did-"
	"Nothing!" Pratt snapped. "You know everything about him that I do. Except for some minor coincidences he's clean as a whistle."
	Joanne spoke flatly. "The FBI must have heard about the superlaser."
	"Of course. What else? But how does D'Escoyne fit into this?"
	"He has to be FBI. Who else would have the ability to give him such a completely innocent cover? Only they would think to build in such clever little coincidences." She wadded a sheet of paper into a tight ball, squeezing it tighter. "Damn him. A dirty rat spy, and it's only a handful of days until we deliver. If the FBI blabs their suspicions-" She buried her face in her hands, "that'll give the customer a perfect right to invoke that God-awful penalty clause. Oh, my God."
	"So what are you going to do?" Pratt asked.
	Joanne rose to her feet and began pacing around her office. She stopped behind Pratt's chair. "Who else knows about this?"
	Pratt nervously craned his neck around to look up at her. "Nobody. I didn't give my contact at the BMV your name, just the license number you gave me."
	Joanne resumed her pacing. "Then let's keep it that way for the time being. I'll see what I can find out from him." She drew a deep breath. "If I have to, I'll ask him to his face why he's being followed." Her face screwed into a grimace of distaste. "So few days to go. I suppose I can make myself stand him well enough to string it out that long. After we deliver the prototype, he'll probably vanish like smoke."
	Pratt looked up at her. Vanish? If you only knew, Doctor. After tonight, D'Escoyne is history. When he turns up missing, the FBI is bound to be confused. With his disappearance to worry about, maybe they'll keep busy and off our back long enough for us to complete... our project. Sorry about your dinner date tomorrow.

	The attempt on his life didn't even take a minute. David was noisily bemoaning the fact that he'd taken this rotten county road as a short cut home from his grandparent's house in Brownsburg. Drifting along in the early dusk, he'd already come to the conclusion that short wasn't always better, and now he was trying to avoid the worst of the potholes, keeping an eye on the lights of the car coming up fast behind him.
	"Damn!"
	When he first heard the sharp crack, David believed the car passing him had simply thrown up a rock that which had smacked against the side window. And when he noticed, from the edge of his vision, the flash of light wink from the nondescript Ford passing him, he thought the driver was merely lighting a cigarette.

	When the Ford drew abreast of him and stayed there, swerving even closer, David slowed, easing the 280ZX away from the Ford, closer to the edge of the road. He glanced out his open window to see what the hell the Ford's damn-fool driver was doing.
	That's when he saw the passenger in the Ford, and saw the man's pistol, and saw the pistol wink again. Another sharp crack. He felt a tug on his shirt, and a small hole appeared in the window on the passenger's side.
	It took David most of a second to realize the man was shooting at him. Before he could do anything, the Ford bounced in and out of a deep pothole, and the shooter's arm bobbed up and down. When the gunman turned to shout at the driver, David saw his chance, and he took it. He steered the 280ZX hard against the Ford, trapping the shooter's arm between the two cars. He heard the man's agonized scream as the Ford and the 280ZX ground together.
	The two cars had scarcely rebounded apart when another car slammed into the rear of the Ford, butting it well ahead of the 280ZX. David saw the Ford driver's head whip around to look behind him, then the driver bent to his task and the Ford leaped ahead. The other car-a dark Chevy, David noted in part of his mind-stayed close on its tail, even butting the Ford again.
	David jammed on his brakes, and the 280ZX slid to a stop. The Ford and the Chevy jolted around a curve where the road followed a section line. Another sharp bend and both were out of sight, but not before he heard the loud sound of a pistol firing. As he sat there, he recalled that there'd been no loud sound to accompany the winking pistol in the Ford. A silenced pistol. He twisted around to look at the side window behind him-yes, a star of fractured glass surrounding a small, round hole. And in the rear window on the other side of the car, a larger hole.
	David sat with his hands gripping the steering wheel, the 280ZX's engine idling, his mind struggling to accept the unacceptable. Someone had tried to kill him. His skin crawled. Who? Why?
	He'd been lucky, he knew that; the rough road surface that he'd been complaining about... even so, given enough tries the shooter would have succeeded in-his mind veered away from that thought.
	Pushing itself insistently into his mind was the question: who was in the Chevy? How had they come to be there at precisely the right time? More luck? He couldn't make himself believe that.
	He didn't think he wanted to keep going on this road-who was going to be waiting around the next bend? Turning the 280ZX around, he drove back to a farmhouse to call the sheriff.

	Hendricks County Sheriff's Investigator Boudreau waved his notebook. "This is it? You're driving along, slow and easy, when this car comes up beside you and this guy starts shooting. You manage to wound the guy with the gun, then another car comes along and chases the shooters away. And you don't have any idea who was in either car, or why they were at the scene? And you have no idea why anyone would want to shoot at you? Is that right?"
	Sitting beside him in the deputy's car, David wearily nodded. The adrenaline had burned out and left him a husk. Boudreau had all the facts David could furnish, but it was plain that Boudreau believed David could reach into his past and come up with someone or some reason. They'd been circling around this point for half an hour.
	"No. I've told you and told you. I'm not into drugs. I don't have a woman whose old boyfriend could be after me. I don't owe any gambling debts. Hell, I've only been up here from Daytona Beach for three weeks or so, and nobody knows me. No, I can't think of a thing."
	Boudreau regarded him doubtfully. "Mistaken identity?"
	David shrugged. "How would I know that?"
	David had done more than wound the shooter. Seeing the bloody smear on the side of David's car, Boudreau had called for help, and a forensic team had swept the road where David claimed he'd been attacked. The attitude of the sheriff's people had changed perceptibly when they'd found two shell casings that would just fit the holes in the 280ZX's windows. More, they'd found the pistol-with most of a man's hand still clutching it. That's when Boudreau had brought up drugs. Now he tried again. "You figure the Buick that rammed the shooter's car was following them? Or was it maybe following you?"
	David sighed. " I told you, Boudreau. It was a Chevy. Hey, wait a minute. I just remembered; it was running without lights. Dark color, it was practically invisible. I never noticed it until it hit the Ford. And the guys in the Ford didn't know it was there either."
	Boudreau made a note, then looked up expectantly.
	David shook his head. "Following me? Or the Ford? I don't know. How could I? No, I didn't get license numbers." He stared out the car window into the night. He'd been sick when he'd seen the mangled hand. "No, nothing else," he said finally.
	Boudreau didn't want to quit, but eventually David could see that nothing meaningful was going to happen, and when he told Boudreau he was leaving, the man shrugged. "I'll tell you what I think, Mr. D'Escoyne. I've heard stranger stories, and they were true. So I don't doubt your word about what happened here. But I can't help thinking you know more than these bare facts you've given me. I wish you'd think hard about what you remember... while you still can." Boudreau reached across and opened the door on David's side. "Kinda folks that do what you've told me about, well, they just don't stop till they're done."

	Late that night, David lay in bed, his hands clasped under his head, staring into the dark bedroom. But he wasn't alone. He had a new companion at his shoulder, as much a part of him now as his shadow, and he knew his companion's name.
	Fear. 

Chapter 8

	"We must act swiftly," the Chairman said. "The agent assigned to report D'Escoyne's activities has been discovered."
	"What," Number Four said, "D'Escoyne knows?"
	"No, not D'Escoyne. The director of security at Atlas, a man named Pratt, submitted a license number inquiry to the Indiana BMV. We had the number flagged, which is how we learned about his inquiry."
	One groaned. "So now he knows we were following D'Escoyne."
	"And we must assume that this, uh, Pratt told MacRae about it," Four said.
	The Chairman nodded gravely. "She won't know why he's being followed, of course."
	Three sneered. "Don't be foolish, Chairman. How long do you think it will take her to reason that he's there because of Radiant Sword?"
	The Chairman's face grew tight with anger as he stared at Three. You oily bastard! You've changed your mind, eh? Now you believe those cornballs could create Radiant Sword.
	"Will she tell him he's being followed?" One asked.
	"Our psychologists say no," the Chairman said. "Based on our agent's reports, they believe that while she doesn't know him well enough yet to confide in him, she does have enough... interest in him not to confront him. She won't drive him away, they say, until she knows more."
	"So he's still useful," Three said.
	"I believe so," the Chairman answered, "but we must scan him, and soon, to learn what he knows."
	"Mind you don't allow any 'accidents,' Chairman," Four warned. "He won't be of any use to us if he's wiped clean."
	"My dear sir," the Chairman said, smiling at Four, "of course not." He looked around the table, his eyes sparkling. "But there's more. We've definitely gotten close to something that someone doesn't want us to know about. Last night, an attempt was made on D'Escoyne's life."
	Two frowned. "An attempt?"
	"Foiled by agent Shoreham, the man assigned to watch D'Escoyne. Ironically, Shoreham is the agent who was seen following D'Escoyne. He tried to capture D'Escoyne's assailants, but was unsuccessful."
	"Where does this leave D'Escoyne?" Four wanted to know.
	"At risk, to be frank," the Chairman said. "But in view of his importance to this operation, I have assigned a second agent to mind him." He paused. "Now then, we are agreed to scan D'Escoyne and-"
	"There's a loose end here, Chairman," Number Two said.
	The Chairman closed his eyes briefly. "What?"
	"That booklet, the amended Amateur Chamber Music Players directory. Right now, MacRae probably thinks he's just mistaken about the number of pianists in his copy, but if she ever sees it, she'll have all the proof she needs that we, or someone, has been meddling with his life."
	"Oh, hell," Three said, "she's right. We gotta get it back."
	The Chairman nodded. "Yes, I'll order it picked up at once." Standing, he said, "This court stands adjourned sine die."

	"You are a fool," the silky voice informed Jimmy Pratt. "If any federal agency had even the slightest interest in the Atlas project, you have intensified it with your foolish attempt to kill D'Escoyne."
	Pratt shivered at the sudden chill that crawled up his spine. "What? It was you who said to take him out when I first told you he was being followed. I suggested that we keep him alive to see who he was working-"
	"My exact words were that he must disappear. Disappear, Mr. Pratt, not that he was to be gunned down on the highway. Do you not perceive a difference? Perhaps I have been mistaken in my estimate of your capacity to make appropriate decisions and take suitable action in the face of changing conditions. Now there will be investigations, evidence gathered, reports written. Your fault, Mr. Pratt."
	The sweat trickling down Pratt's face felt icy cold. He scrubbed his face dry with his handkerchief. "Well, he was going to disappear, and he would have, and without a trace, too, if it hadn't been-"
	"If? Why could you not manage to remember that D'Escoyne was being watched, the very fact that brought him to your attention in the first place? But, no, I am remembering that this discovery wasn't due to your efforts either, was it? Doctor MacRae had to point out to you that D'Escoyne was being followed. I am sorely disappointed in you, Mr. Pratt."
	Pratt's stomach cramped painfully. "I'm sorry. The way I had it planned-I never thought he'd get away," he mumbled. "It won't happen again."
	"Indeed, Mr. Pratt. You have already cost us an operative. The man died as a result of your ... your plan. Be warned, Mr. Pratt, if your foolishness has endangered our operation-" The soft voice hardened. "Here are your orders; you are not to waste your people on D'Escoyne. Watch his watcher; that is where the threat lies. The FBI, not the man, is the danger. Do you understand me this time?"
	Pratt gulped. "Yes sir. I'll change the team assignment to surveillance."
	Click.
	Slumping back in his chair, Pratt furiously squeezed his telephone in his hand, finally slamming it back into its cradle. God damn you, D'Escoyne, this is your fault. I'll see you off if it's the last thing I ever do. Oh yes, when this is over, I'll find a way. 

Chapter 9

	David's morning was pure hassle.
	First it had been Boudreau trying to dig more out of him, and only grudgingly, finally, having a statement typed for David to sign.
	Next it was the insurance adjuster, when David presented his claim for the damage to the 280ZX. The adjuster had been aghast when David suggested that they not only repair his car but also pay for a rental car while repairing his car. "No way," the adjuster said, shaking his jowls vigorously after he'd read a copy of David's police statement. "You can't expect us to pay for damage incurred in your gang wars. And then to ask for a rental car-you should be ashamed."
	"It wasn't a gang war," David said. "Read the statement again."
	"It's right here," the adjuster said, tapping the policy, "under 'Exclusions: War, declared or undeclared.'"
	"It was attempted murder, not war," David snapped. "Read the damned state-"
	"And if that didn't cover it, it's bound to be excluded under 'Insurrection.' Or maybe 'Rebellion or revolution.' Has to be excluded under one of them, what with bullet holes in your windows." His plump face shiny with perspiration, he glared at David.
	David's eyes narrowed, and he nodded slowly as he leaned back in his seat. "I see. You know, down in Daytona Beach, I used to see all kind of lawyer's ads on TV. 'Let us help you in your search for fair treatment,' they used to say. Oh, what a pious-looking bunch they were. 'The insurance company isn't your friend,' they always said, 'and you'll need a friend.' You reckon there's lawyers up here that want to be a friend to folks having trouble with-"
	"Well," the adjuster huffed, "there's no reason for you to be a bad sport about it."
	David smiled. "Maybe I'll just make a list of 'em tonight as they show up on the TV. Let them handle my claim?"
	His rental car wasn't as nice as the 280ZX, David thought, but it would do until he could get the two estimates the adjuster had insisted he needed before he'd authorize repairs. Still, for a while, the morning hassle had kept David from thinking about last night, from wondering who, and why, the attempt on his life.

	That afternoon, returning from the market with his arms full of grocery sacks, David almost stepped on the animal. He felt something move against his leg and, startled, he jumped back, looking down to see what it was.
	A cat. A very large cat. Wide, dark brown stripes against lighter brown, with rings around its tail. Like a raccoon. And big feet. Sitting staring up at him, only the very tip of the tail twitching.
	"Go away," David said, "I don't need a cat." He pushed the animal gently away from the door with his foot. The cat moved away obligingly, then sat down again and the two looked at each other.
	"Scram," David said. He fitted his key into the lock and started to open the door, then stopped and looked down at the big cat. "Go on, git!" He stomped his foot and the cat stood up as if to walk away.
	Satisfied, David opened the door. A blur of stripes as the cat brushed by David's legs, easily beating him into the house. David stood by the open door, calling to the animal walking down the hall with its tail sticking straight up. It was obviously a male.
	"Come on out of there," David growled. "Even if I wanted a cat I wouldn't want a tomcat. Now get out of here."
	Nothing. David voiced threats promising grievous bodily harm. Useless. In fact, a perfect waste of breath. Finally recognizing this, he closed the door, went into the kitchen and dumped his groceries on the table. The animal was only just completing his survey of the condo, strolling into the kitchen with that lordly air which so infuriates those who are otherwise indifferent to cats.
	"Come on, you, out! I don't have mice, and I'm not going to have a free-loading cat shedding hair all over the place." David bent to pick up the animal, only to have his hand batted aside with surprising force. The cat stood still, alert, watching.
	"Tough guy, huh? Okay, so sit there. See if I care." He went around the kitchen putting things away, put on the kettle and set out the makings for a pot of tea, and sat at the table to address the problem of the cat. "I don't know anything about cats," he told the animal at last. "You wouldn't be very happy here."
	There was a long silence. Finally, he got up and made his tea.
	"I don't have any cat food and I've heard it's not good for animals to eat human food. So maybe you'd better go." He got up and opened the front door. The cat appeared at the door to the kitchen, staring down the hall at him. "Come on, outta here."
	Finally, David shut the door. "Okay, so you're stubborn, but I'm stubborn too." He went back to the table and sat down, the two staring at each other. Finally, David sighed, went to the fridge and took out the milk, picked up a napkin from the table and sat down on the floor, crossing his legs.
	"Now, here's the way it's going to be around here." Forming his hand into a bowl, he poured some milk into it and held it out to the cat. The napkin he held in his other hand, using it to catch the milk dripping slowly from his hand. "First you've got to take it from my hand, and you have until it all drips away to make up your mind."
	He sat still as stone. "I hope you don't do it," he murmured. "I hope you stay hungry and thirsty and get tired of it and leave. I know cats are supposed to be independent, but I guarantee you, brother, if you don't take it from me, you won't get it at all."
	It was a full minute before the big cat moved to sniff his hand carefully, then finally began to lap daintily at the milk. When it was gone, David refilled his hand, watching as the cat finished off the second helping too. A third offer was accepted, after which the cat retreated, sitting, licking its mouth and looking up at him. In a moment David heard a steady rumbling sound, as though the cat was growling at him. It was so loud that it took him a while to realize the animal was simply purring.
	He smiled, pleased somehow. He didn't realize he was being trained as countless generations of cats have trained their slaves. "Is that how cats say thanks? Okay, you're welcome. Now that you've conned me out of a bellyful of milk, you probably want to go, right?"
	He got up and went to the front door, holding it open. The cat followed him out of the kitchen and sat while David held the door open.
	"Come on, kitty," he coaxed, "out you go, huh?" It didn't work, of course. He glared at the cat. "Come on, blast you, leave. I've got company coming for dinner and she may be allergic to cats."
	When that failed he tried nudging the cat toward the door with his foot, but the animal simply walked around his foot and sat down again. Finally David closed the door and stood looking down disgustedly at the cat. "Trouble. That's you. I can see it now. You're not going to be anything but trouble. Well, buddy, I am not going to coddle you."

	By that evening, when Joanne was due to arrive, David and Trouble had had several brisk skirmishes about where Trouble was allowed and where he wasn't. All furniture was off limits, David's study also. David's weapon was a broom; he simply pushed the cat off of furniture and out of rooms where he wasn't to go. Trouble's weapons were long, needle-tipped teeth and razor sharp claws, and he knew how to use them. He did not like being pushed around, and the broom caught hell. After a few hours the broom was in sad disarray, but an uneasy calm reigned. Whether a temporary truce David couldn't tell. He had opened the door several times, offering escape to the animal, but his offers had been coolly rejected. Maybe he hates the broom instead of me, David thought.
	When Joanne rang the front door bell, David had everything ready: the wine was cool, the salad prepared, and the potatoes for baking were scrubbed and skewered. He ducked into the bathroom to make sure his tie was straight, then answered the door.
	There he paused, his mouth suddenly dry.
 	She had decided on a snug-fitting, one-piece white dress, with a scoop neck, three-quarter length fitted sleeves, and a hem perhaps half a hands-breadth above her knees. Small silver ankhs swung from her ears and a third hung from a fine silver chain around her neck. Against the white dress, and the black of her hair, her blue eyes were devastating.
	The two stared at each other. It wasn't a contest, but something quite different, and it went on long enough for both of them to recognize that. David stepped back from the door in silent invitation, and at last Joanne gave a little nod and stepped inside.
	There she met Trouble. "Ooh, what a darling you are," she said to the animal twining around her calves. She crouched and stroked the cat. Looking up at David, she said, "You didn't tell me about her."
	"Him! And I don't have a cat. He has a sucker he can free-load off of. He just showed up here this morning and I can't get him to leave."
	"He likes you, David, that's why he doesn't leave."
	"Humph." David packed a wealth of deep cynicism into that utterance.
	Joanne strolled into the living room, looking around. On the telephone stand lay his copy of the ACMP directory. "Neat. I wasn't sure whether I'd be walking into a murky bachelor's den." She picked up the directory, casually flipping the pages with her thumb.
	"Come on," he said, "you must have known I'd clean up the place."
	"Threw out all the copies of Playboy, I suppose."
	"Well, at least hid them until you're gone." He took the directory from her hand and laid it back by the telephone. "We won't need that unless a certain pianist I know gets fed up with me tonight. Could I interest you in a glass of wine? And will you keep me company in the kitchen while I fix dinner? I've got a real treat for you: Gouda steak, and I'll show you how to fix it. And for dessert, an English trifle, with genuine Bird's custard."

	As an after dinner treat, he'd had a big wedge of Brie warming all day, and now they were enjoying it, soft and runny, with chunks of crusty French bread. When he'd poured tea, he'd watched her take just a little helping of sugar, then a second, smaller, helping, and finally a third helping-tiny.
	"Tell me," he said, "was your dad always on your case if you took a spoon full of sugar?"
	Surprised at the question, she looked at him, then at her tea cup, finally at the spoon in her hand. He had perched his chin on his hand and was smilingly regarding her. She shook her head. "My mother."
	"With me it was dad. But if I took just a little, then went back for another little, maybe even another-"
	"She never seemed to notice," Joanne murmured. Suddenly a warm liking for him gushed through her like water erupting from geyser. He noticed things, little things. She remembered feeling this warmth before, when they'd only just met, only to have him tell her she wasn't his type.
 	She hardened her heart. Of course he noticed things. He was supposed to notice things-he was a spy. A dirty rat spy. He'd been trained to observe, and he was damned good at his job. She was not to get sentimental about the big lug.
	She sighed. "I haven't enjoyed anything so much in years, David, and I mean that. Thank you for asking me."
	He was looking down, frowning at a fleck of Russian dressing that had appeared out of nowhere to land on his shirtsleeve, but now he smiled. "We French know it isn't just food that makes a good meal. It's the company. Thank you for coming. And I mean that too."
	He started to flick off the dab of dressing but she caught his hand. "Let it dry. It may just lift off. If you rub it in..."
	He looked at her, his eyebrows arching questioningly. "Mother?"
	"Oh, God," Joanne said, rolling her eyes. "Yes, straight from her mouth."
	She was warmed by the genuineness of his laugh. Then she realized her hand was still on his, and she was getting sensations from the touch that she didn't want. She snatched her hand back and put it in her lap, confused by conflicting signals. She liked him, and she'd enjoyed the way he looked at her, as though she were a Hershey bar and he a chocoholic. But, subtly as the serpent in the Garden of Eden, the sly thought slithered into her mind: Remember, he's a spy. The only reason he invited me here was to pry into my project. She recalled her meeting with Nasty Jimmy, and the pleasure of the evening began to drain out of her. It was time to start probing.
	"How are you coming along with your book?"
	David's face lit up. "You wouldn't believe." He told her about watching Tim read his comic book, and their subsequent negotiations. "That's where I got the idea how to do the course-as a series of lessons, like comic books. Very visual. I don't mean Mickey Mouse stuff; I mean solid meat, only in small bites. What do you think?"
	You're smooth, D'Escoyne. If I didn't know you were FBI I'd believe you completely. "Well, I'm certainly no expert in that field, but it sounds to me like it should work. If all your pupils are like Tim." She laughed. "He really wanted a cut of the percentage from the people he's supposed to find for you?"
	David nodded. "I tried to tell him that ten percent of nothing-"
	"Yes, zip. And Tim will learn that, too, soon enough. I really think what you're trying to do is praiseworthy, David." She hesitated. "But won't it take an awful lot of lessons? You've only got-didn't you say you had a year in which to do it? You're going to have a very busy year. Even at that, I envy you. A sabbatical. I can just see me getting a year off. How did you work that?"
	"Blackmail. I feel sort of ashamed of myself."
	"What? Blackmail? What did you do?"
	David explained the interview with Oliver Thornton in which he'd threatened to open his own shop with Thornton's people. "I should have just quit and been done with it," he said. "There's no way I'm ever going back there. I've finally realized that."
	Lying comes as easily as breathing to you, doesn't it? I know about the letter. She offered him some rope with which to hang himself. "Why didn't you just write him a letter and tell him you were quitting?"
	David shook his head. "I wanted to leave on a friendly basis. Couldn't do that with a letter." He shrugged. "Might as well have, though, my approach didn't work any better."
	She drew a deep breath at his blatant lie. "I've been with Atlas for six years." Come on, Mr. FBI Agent, ask me what I do there.
	"Hey, nowadays lots of companies will give a sabbatical year. In universities, it's every seven years. Maybe you could convince Atlas to let you have a sabbatical on your seventh year."
	She scoffed. "Fat chance. They tell me I'm too important to them." Get it over with, damn you, ask me what I do that I'm so important.
	"That's crazy. Oh, I don't mean you aren't important, but what would they do if you were to get sick, or injured in an accident? Think about it. Anyway, what would you do if you had a year off?"
	What's the matter with you? Do I have to beg you to ask what I do at Atlas? "I'd just lie around and grow fat."
	He scowled sternly at her. "I don't believe it. Tell you what, you get the year off and we'll go to France. I've a million cousins there."
	She shook her head sorrowfully. "You'll be back at work by then. Lots of work available for good computer programmers."
	His eyebrows rose. "How did you know I'm a computer programmer?"
	Stupid! She felt her face warm at the realization that she'd been caught. Some agent you are, MacRae. "Uh... Didn't you tell me?"
	"I don't think so. When would I have told you?"
	"Well. I must have guessed, I suppose. Are you?"
	"Well, yes, as a matter of fact. That's some lucky guess. I suppose you could tell by the otherworldly look on my face." He leaned his chair back on two legs, clasping his hands behind his head. "I've been thinking about trying to write a game for personal computers. Something big, really good, say, like Quake, except maybe not so violent."
	She laughed. "There goes another year."
	"Hah! Make that two. No, three." He sighed. "After I finish the math course. My future is beginning to look like unrelenting labor."
	"Like my past," she said.
	He cocked his head quizzically. "Jo, that's the third or fourth allusion to your work at Atlas. I think I finally got the hint. Please tell me what you do."
	At last it begins. "I'm a project director."
	"Mmm, sounds important. Does being a project director pay a lot of money?"
	What the hell kind of spy question is that? "Well, yes, it does."
	"Enough to support a guy while he writes a fantastic computer game that'll earn him tons of money?"
	"What?" She stared at him, flabbergasted. "David, is that a proposal?"
	With a thump, his chair landed back on four legs. "Oh God no! Uh, well, I mean, er, no, it isn't. Didn't you hear me the other day? You aren't, uh-"
	"Your type," she snapped. "Yes, I know. I'm not petite enough, right?"
	"Well, actually, I've been thinking about... maybe we should go to your place now. Don't you think it's time we made music?" 

Chapter 10

	Not his type! In the few minutes it took her to drive back to her apartment, Joanne had worked up a full head of steam. She would give him type. She was going to chew him up, spit him out, and stomp him into the mud. Then she was going to tell him that she knew he was FBI, sneaking around to check on her project, and then she was going to tell him to get lost.
	Yeah!
	When David arrived a moment later, she let him in, and her smile friendly, she asked, "I wonder if you'd mind if I suggested a change? Instead of music, how about a game or two of chess? You do play, don't you?"
	David gazed at her for a moment. "Well, yes," he said, "not very well, I'm afraid, but I'll try to give you a game."
	"Wonderful. I'll give you the pieces. If you'll set up the board, I'll make us a pot of tea."
	"I'm already a winner then," David said. "If I don't get all the pieces right, will you set me straight?"
	When she came back with the tea tray, she checked the board. "Tsk, tsk," she clucked, "the queen goes on her own color, David. You know that."
	"Oh. Right." He changed the pieces to their proper squares, then picked up a black pawn and a white pawn, cupped his hands around them and shook them. Holding one pawn hidden in each hand, he held his hands out toward her. "Choose for color."
	Joanne touched his left hand. The white pawn. Her move first. She smiled grimly. You're dead meat, D'Escoyne. She advanced a pawn to king's pawn four.
	David promptly mirrored her move and the two pawns stood nose to nose in the middle of the board. "You know," he said, "this might have escaped your attention, since you aren't a programmer, but have you ever heard of IBM's chess program named Deep Thought?"
	She raised her gaze from the board, eyes narrowing, suspicion plain in her face. "Deep Thought? That's positively bawdy," she said. She moved her knight to king's bishop three. "Are you telling me that the suits at Big Blue actually allowed a name like Deep Thought?"
	David responded with his knight to queen's bishop three. "Yep," he said, his head bobbing, "Nice piece of work too. In nineteen eighty-eight it defeated at least one grand master that I know of. And I suppose you've heard that the world champion, Gary Kasparov, was defeated by a chess program in September of ninety-four." He sighed. "On the other hand, I just read the other day where that same program blew its rematch with Kasparov. Lost the first game and drew the second."
	Joanne placed her bishop on bishop four. "Didn't I read not too long ago that Kasparov defeated a special IBM system? Let's see, what was it called?"
	David accepted her gambit; bishop to bishop four. "You're thinking of Deep Blue: won once, drew three games, and lost two."
	Joanne advanced a pawn to queen's knight four. We'll go with the Evans Gambit. Strap yourself in for some wild and woolly chess, D'Escoyne. "That ought to prove something about men versus machines," she said.
	"Come on, how many Kasparovs are there? How many other men could do that? Besides, the machine beat him later in another match." He captured her pawn with his bishop. "I'm convinced, computers will be taking over before long. Good thing I'm a programmer."
	The action became more heated, and pieces fell like the gunfight at the OK Corral. It was after thirty-nine minutes that David asked, "Will you accept a draw?"
	"What?" Joanne looked down her patrician nose at him. "You want me to give you a draw?"
	"No, no. I mean, would you accept a draw."
	Startled, Joanne glared at him. "You think that's the best I can do? A draw?"
	"Well, you really have only one move-one good move anyway." David pointed. He seemed apologetic. "Any other piece will put you a move behind, and then I think I see, um, you'll lose."
	"Lose?" Shocked from her game strategy, she scanned the board, working out her options, seeing how he'd maneuvered her. After a while she nodded, looking up from the board, her eyes slits, seeking some sign, however slight, of "gotcha." His expression revealed nothing.
	You sandbagged me, you- "Yes, I see it now. Well played, Mr. D'Escoyne."
	He smiled benignly. "I was really lucky, wasn't I, to get a draw from a player of your caliber?"
	She bit back a sharp retort. "If I don't get the pieces right," my fanny. She showed her teeth in a thin smile. "I'll make us some fresh tea."
	"Coffee would make a nice change, if you don't mind. Every once in a while, I enjoy-"
	He was talking to himself. She had whirled out of her chair and stomped into the kitchen, leaving him sitting there.
	He trailed after her, slouching against the doorjamb with his hands in his pockets, watching her bang things around for a moment. He spoke finally. "Is something wrong? You seem-do you mind if we have coffee?"
	"Of course I don't mind. Not if that's what you want." She drew a deep, unhappy breath. Probe the items where he says one thing and you know another is true. "Okay, there is something I don't understand. The other day, you said-why did you say there weren't any other pianists in your copy of the ACMP directory?"
	David blinked at the change of subject. "Why? Because there aren't. Not for Indianapolis, anyway. In my copy, your name is on the second page. In yours, you show up on, what, the fifth or sixth page? Yet mine is the most recent edition."
	"That's crazy. Are all the pages in yours?"
	"Yes, Jo, they are. I didn't tear any out to get to your name. What's more, there aren't any page numbers missing."
	"Knock it off, David!" She scowled at him. "You talk about something offending your sense of order. Well, that bugs me. It can't be true."
	He stuck out his jaw. "Well, it is. You saw it. You had it in your hand."
	"I didn't get a chance to look at it," she said stubbornly.
	He stared squinty eyed at her for a moment, then he reached out and jerked the plug for the Mr. Coffee machine out of the socket. "All right! I don't know an awful lot about you, Jo MacRae, and I haven't any idea why it's so important that you have to be right about this, but I do know you well enough to realize that there'll never be any peace until you're satisfied that I'm wrong."
	He took her by the hand, shoving his face right into hers. "Come on, we're going back to my place so you can look at that damned directory till you get sick of it."

	David opened his front door, stood aside for her to enter. "I'll get the lights. The directory is on the phone stand, right where I put it before we left. You'll pardon me if I don't share your interest in-"
	He wasn't prepared for the dark figure that hurled itself at him in the dim hallway. He was slammed against the wall and took a couple of hard punches to the belly before he could grapple with the wildly flailing figure. Close up, the shadowy figure changed tactics, grabbing David around the throat and squeezing until David saw little white and yellow spots.
	Joanne had moved in to help. David could feel his assailant shifting from side to side to evade her hammering, but the choking grip never loosened. In desperation, David managed to grab one of the gloved fingers around his throat and bend it back until he felt it snap.
	The figure yowled in pain and jerked his hands away. David got in a couple of good punches to the man's body, but then he caught a knee in the groin and promptly lost interest in the whole affair. The man whirled, David heard Joanne gasp as the wind was punched out of her, and the man ran out the open front door. They heard a car start, tires squealing as the driver raced out of the parking lot.
	"Jo?" David tried to straighten. No way. "Oh, Jesus," he moaned. He managed to crab along the wall, reaching up with one hand to scrabble for the wall switch. The hall flooded with light and he saw Joanne lying on the floor, curled into a tight ball, her arms clamped tightly around her middle.
	"Jo!" Suddenly he was frightened. "Jo, answer me."
	Her eyes opened into slits, and she groaned. "Ohhh," she said. "Be... okay," she gasped, "... minute."
	Trouble appeared around the doorway, rubbing against David. "Go away," David mumbled. He wanted to be alone with his pain.
	The condo was quiet for a moment before Joanne was able to uncurl and go to the phone, dial 911 and explain the situation. Then she helped a hunched-over David to a chair and sat herself on the couch to wait for the police.
	It was Joanne who told patrol officers Sveyev and Bailey how the intruder had beat up the two of them, then fled.
	"We marked him, though," she said. "David broke one of the fingers on the guy's-" She paused.
	"The middle finger of his left hand," David said. "He had it around my neck at the time."
	They waited while Sveyev and Bailey searched David's condo for other prowlers. When the two officers returned to the living room, Sveyev asked David, "You look like you're in pain, sir. Were you injured? Shall I call for an ambulance?"
	David shook his head. "No. I'll be okay. It's just that the bastard caught me with a knee square in the-"
	"Unh!" Sveyev flinched visibly. His partner, Officer Joy Bailey, shrugged and caught Joanne's eyes. "Was anything taken?"
	Joanne looked down at David. He shrugged. "I don't know. I haven't, uh, really felt like looking," he said. "Maybe I was lucky-" His eyes rose to meet Sveyev's, who smiled in sympathy. "I mean, maybe we came home too soon, and he hadn't had a chance to go through the place."
	"I had a look at your door lock," policewoman Bailey said. "There are some scratches near the keyhole that shouldn't be there. I think your lock was picked, Mr. D'Escoyne."
	David looked up at her. "So? How else would he get in?"
	"They usually enter by breaking a back window, then reaching in and unlocking the window," she said. "But this guy didn't want to leave tracks, and it's easy to miss the marks made by lock picks."
	David stared at her blankly. "What? Leave tracks...?"
	"What have you got that someone would want to steal without your knowing it had been stolen? Or maybe copy without your knowing it had been copied?"
	"Oh, hell," David gasped. He started to get up then thought better of it. "Jo, look for me, will you?"
	At last they had gotten to it, she thought gleefully. "Look for what, David?"
	"In my computer desk. Right-hand drawer, a stack of papers. See if they're there, will you?"
	Joanne returned in a couple of minutes with a thick handful of loose pages from a computer printer. "These?"
	David shuffled through them and his relief was palpable. "My course outline. Two weeks work." He raised his gaze to the police. "I wouldn't care if this has been copied. It's first draft stuff anyway, but I don't have a copy myself and I'd hate to have to do it over." He thought a minute. "Credit cards and things like that I have on me. There isn't anything else I'd miss."

	It was after the police had gone that Joanne mentioned casually, "There is one thing missing that I know of."
	"What?"
	"Your copy of the Amateur Chamber Music Players directory."
	He scowled at her. "Come on, not that again. It's right there by the phone. You saw me put it there before we had dinner."
	"Well, it's not there."
	"Jo-"
	"Why would someone pick the lock on your door, steal your ACMP directory, and nothing else?"
	"They wouldn't. Hell, maybe the police-"
	"David, it wasn't there when I used the phone to call the police."
	"Jo, you know that's where it was when we left here."
	"Yes."
	He looked at her quizzically. "Well?"
	"So who came and got it? And what would they want with it? What was there about it that no one could be allowed to see?"
	"What the hell are you talking about?" He gazed at her speculatively for a moment, his eyes narrowing. "Wait a minute. You're making too much out of this. There's something going on here that's a lot bigger than a copy of that directory. What is it, Jo? What are you into?"
	"Me? It's not me. It's you."
	His voice grew shrill in denial. "Me? That's crazy. I'm not into anything." His eyes widened in dawning awareness. "That damned directory; you were looking at it before dinner. You couldn't wait to get back here for another look. What was in it, Jo? What did you see that's got you so uptight?"
	This was nutty. He was acting like he didn't understand any of this. "It isn't what was in it, it's what you told me wasn't in it."
	He stared at her. "Pianists," he said finally. His frown grew deeper on his brow. "Jo, there were only two names ahead of yours. I told you about them. But in your book, there were dozens." His gaze locked on hers. "Why would somebody fix my directory so you'd be the one I called? Who are you, what are you, that I've been guided to you?"
	What was going on? Was it possible that he really didn't know about the superlaser, or the FBI shadow? Could she be completely wrong about him? It was time for her to back off. She could be giving away more than she was learning.
	She threw her hands up in the air. "This is crazy. We're making something sinister out of something innocent. Well, except maybe this break in. Maybe Trouble carried off your directory. I'm sorry, David, I did want to see it. I'd hoped you had torn out the pages to get to me, and that was simply ego. Guided to me? Can you imagine anyone less likely? Not your type, remember?"

	She was covering up... backing away too fast. Jo MacRae eating crow? Huh-uh, no way. She meant every word she said. Something was going on-"something sinister," she said, and he was right in the middle of it. And so is she. But what is it?
	The memory flooded into his mind-the pistol winking on the deserted county road, and he stared at her in vast disillusion. Oh God, no, don't let her be a part of that.
	He dissembled. "Hell," he said, "I've done it again. Sorry. I guess I had my mouth running without my brain engaged. But I did mean what I said; you're okay, Jo, even if you aren't my type." 
	"If you say that again," she said, "I'll begin to think 'the man doth protest too much.'"

	He wasn't buying it. She'd pushed too hard, and she hadn't backed off soon enough. But he wasn't telling her to get lost. Why? 
	She forced a smile. "What I'm really wondering is if all this is just a way to get out of our tennis date tomorrow morning."
	"Huh-uh! I'll be there. I'll be fine by then. You'll see."
	"Sure? I wouldn't want to take advantage of you."
	"Listen, lady, you be there. I wouldn't miss another chance to wipe your clock for anything."

	Jo stared into the intense green eyes. She hated this. The evening that could have been so much fun, her first date since-but nothing else could explain it, he had to be a spy. Oh, yes, David, she'd be there tomorrow. She'd be there just so she could watch him.
	
	And something else, David thought, of all the things he could be, she simply guessed that he was a computer programmer? Sure, and pigs fly. 

Chapter 11

	Friday morning, Joanne was late getting to her office.
	"Good morning, Doctor MacRae," her secretary said.
	"Where the hell did you get that idea?" Joanne snarled as she stalked into her office, slamming the door with a thunderous crash.
	"Damn him," she muttered as she stared, unseeing, at her blank computer screen, "the least he could have done was call and tell me he wasn't coming." She sneered at her reflection in the screen. "No, he did the least he could do. Nothing."
	Realizing she hadn't turned on her computer, she switched it on, striding angrily around her office while it booted up. It's probably all for the best, she thought. If he stays away for a few more days it'll all be over. He'll disappear into whatever hole FBI spies hide in, and I'll never see him again. She lashed out with a foot and kicked the wastebasket clanging into the corner.
	The clatter brought her secretary to the door of her office.
	"What do you want?" Joanne snapped.
	"Just wanted to be sure you were... I heard the noise and I thought you might have fallen."
	Joanne's anger deflated like a punctured balloon. "No, I, uh, kicked the wastebasket."
	Her secretary's grin grew slowly. "Good," she said.
	"What?"
	"It was long overdue. I was about to give up on you... It is a man, I take it."
	"No! Certainly not. Why would you think that? Yes. No, he's a-I can't tell you."
	Her secretary nodded, frowning. "Security, I suppose. Nasty Jimmy wouldn't like it." She turned away, shutting the door.
	Joanne threw herself into her chair, then suddenly she scribbled a number on a slip of paper, sprang to her feet, and marched out to her secretary's desk. "Will you please call this number and tell the man who answers that Joanne MacRae does not enjoy being stood up." She banged her hand on the desk. "Tell it to the man, not to his answering machine. Then hang up."
	It didn't help any when her secretary told her that evening that she had been unable to reach anyone at the number Joanne had given her. 

Chapter 12

	The following Sunday morning, David sat on the kitchen floor, his legs crossed tailor fashion while he sawed a round hole in the back door of his condo. The cutaway piece clattered to the floor, and he turned to Trouble. "Try that. You'll have to lower your tail. I'm not going to cut away the whole door so you can march out with your flag flying."
	Trouble went to the opening and stood, sniffing carefully and surveying the outside world. He didn't move through the opening fast enough to suit David, so he put his hand on Trouble's rump and pushed. An angry hiss, a big paw shot out, and David snatched back a hand with four long scratches, already welling blood. Trouble crouched, ready, his ears back, his teeth bared.
	The doorbell rang.
	David lowered his face to within inches of Trouble, and in a voice laden with menace, he promised the animal, "You ever do that again, you're out. You got that? Out!"
	The two stared at each other, bristling with hostility. Trouble inched back a little.
	The doorbell rang again.
	David straightened and bellowed, "Come in, it's not locked." He turned back to Trouble. Cross because he had awakened with a headache that morning, his words grated like a file on stainless steel. "Have we got an understanding, buddy, or would you like to move out right now?"
	Trouble held his ground, staring at him unblinkingly.
	David heard the sound of heels tapping and a pair of shapely legs appeared in his peripheral vision. He had never paid much attention to knees before, but these were spectacular. He stared in silent homage, finally raising his eyes to see Joanne looking sternly down at him.
	She wore a suit, a navy hip-stitched pleated skirt and single-breasted jacket, and a snowy white blouse with ruffles at the vee neckline. And navy pumps with two-inch heels. She looked...
	"Gorgeous," he said, his eyes traveling slowly up to meet hers. "My God, Jo, you look absolutely fantastic this morning."
	 Something changed in her face. Something barely discernible. Perhaps something around the blue eyes. She looked at his hand. "What happened to you?"
	"That animal clawed me."
	She frowned. "What did you do to him?"
	"That's right, take his side."
	"I'm not taking his side, but cats don't claw without a reason."
	David explained what had happened.
	"Well, how would you like it if somebody tried to shove you someplace you weren't ready to go?"
	"I'd love it if he just went to live somewhere else," he muttered. "He didn't ask me when he moved in."
	She was quiet for a minute, watching David scrape up the sawdust, then she burst out, "I don't understand you, David."
	"What?"
	"What was the matter, were you afraid of losing?"
	He looked up at her, his eyes narrowing. "You're going to start on me again, aren't you?"
	She leaned over, her hands on her hips, and shot her words at him like bullets. "You've got it coming. You stood me up Friday, and now here this morning it's like it never happened. Well, I don't-"
	"Whoa! Wait a minute. What do you mean, I stood you up? When?"
	"We had a date for tennis Friday. You said you'd be there and you never came. Why couldn't you at least call, so I wouldn't hang around waiting? I was late to work that morning, thanks to you."
	"We didn't have a date for tennis, Jo. I was in Chicago Friday and Saturday."
	"Chicago? What were you doing-we did have a date!" She jerked her day timer out of her purse, flipped it open and pointed with a rigid finger. "Look, right there, 'David - Tennis 6:30 a.m.'"
	"I don't care," he said stubbornly, "I wouldn't have said I'd be there and then not come, and I knew I was going to Chicago."
	"Do you keep an appointment book?" she challenged.
	He climbed to his feet and led the way to his computer. He turned it on and they stood waiting for it to boot up.
	"Ooh, something's bitten you on the neck," she said.
	"I know," he said. "Sore as hell. Same thing happened two or three weeks ago. Whatever it is gives me a headache. I had one then and I have one now. And that's funny, because I never have-ah, here we go."
	He bent to tap on the computer keyboard. A personal scheduler filled the screen and he tapped in the date for Friday. Two short lines appeared on the screen:

Tennis - 6:30 am (Jo)
Mall - Noon (Tim)

	Watching him closely, Joanne saw the chagrin in his face. And watched his jaw drop in surprise. His gaze turned to her. "You're right, Jo. I'm sorry. I apologize." He turned back to the screen of his computer. "I don't understand," he said slowly. "That's not like me, to go without letting you know. But I did, didn't I? And I missed Tim, too. He probably wonders-"
	"What was so important that you had to go to Chicago?"
	"Research. For my math course."
	Like any successful doctoral candidate, Joanne understood about research. Ready to forgive, she asked, "And did you get what you needed?"
	He shrugged. "Yes. I met a guy at McCormick Inn, and we talked and talked. Well, he talked. I listened. Then I drove back."
	Tiny lines formed around Joanne's eyes. "You drove up to Chicago? You didn't fly?"
	"It's only a four-hour drive from here. I'm only five minutes from I-465, and from there-" He shrugged. "Flying doesn't save all that much if you count the time you spend messing around in O'Hare. I suppose Midway or Meigs Field might be a little better, but with them talking about closing Meigs, it-"
	Joanne yelled at him. "Why are you telling me all this? You know you weren't in Chicago."
	He looked at her, startled at her reaction. "I was! Look-" He dragged her into his bedroom, rifled his jacket pocket and spilled out credit card receipts for McCormick Inn and for gas for his car, plus a matchbook from a Bob Evans restaurant. He puzzled over the latter. "Now why do you suppose I picked up matches? But anyway, I was in Chicago."
	She stamped a foot angrily. "I should have known better than to come here. You're lying. Oh, yes, you're a consummate actor. And a liar." Joanne spun on her heel and started for the front door.
	"Hey, who do you think you are, calling me-"
	She stood in the open doorway, her face closed, her voice chill. "I came by here twice, once Friday, once Saturday, looking for you, wondering what had happened. Your car was here both times. You never drove to Chicago."
	She slammed the front door shut behind her.
	David stared at the closed door. What she had said was clearly impossible; he'd had his car with him in Chicago. Yet she seemed so certain. He went through the pockets of his jacket again. Yes, there it was, the stub of the parking receipt where he'd parked his car in the McCormick Inn. She couldn't possibly have seen his car here.
	And he remembered being in Chicago.
	What was the matter with her? He moved his head from side to side, turning it to relieve the dull pain of his headache. It was worse this time than the first time. It was hanging on longer too.
	He snapped his fingers. By God, he could prove that he'd had his car in Chicago. He went out to where the 280ZX was parked, wrote down the mileage figure showing on the odometer, then began leafing through the thick sheaf of credit card receipts in the glove compartment. Each one had a mileage figure on it, written in when he'd filled his tank-a habit he'd developed over the years to make it easy to check mileage.
	Yes, there was one for Wednesday, the day he'd met Tim in the mall, just two days before he'd left for Chicago. Now to compare-the odometer reading should be maybe 450 miles higher, and it was...
	"Fourteen miles?" He said the words aloud. "No. No, that can't be right." He leaned over to check the odometer reading again, checked several gas receipts for one with an obviously mistaken mileage entry. But there weren't any.
	"This is crazy," he muttered. Wild, impossible crazy. He remembered being in Chicago. The memories were clear and sharp-driving along Lake Shore Drive, seeing the waves trying to beat the rocks into pebbles, envying the sailors already hull down over the blue-gray water of Lake Michigan this early in the day. Driving into McCormick Inn and parking his car, this car. Looking down from the window of his room early next morning at the scanty Saturday traffic along the Dan Ryan. And his meeting-where else could he have gotten so much useful guidance on the design of the lessons for his math course? 
	He had to have been in Chicago. Joanne had to be wrong. But... fourteen miles? He felt the first tremor of anger. She set this up. And that business of the ACMP directory.
	She's playing mind games with me.
	Why? He slumped back against the seat, a sorrow he didn't understand wrenching at him.
	Why, Jo? 

Chapter 13

	Monday morning Joanne passed up tennis and went directly to the Atlas plant, striding past the careful gaze of her secretary into her office. She paced. Finally she sat, toying with the jade necklace she'd worn.
	Why should I care if he lied about going to Chicago? As long as he stays away from me and doesn't threaten the security of the superlaser, I couldn't care less about what he does.
	She picked up the phone and called Nasty Jimmy.
	When he had seated himself across from her desk, she asked, "What have your people told you about D'Escoyne's activities over Friday and Saturday?"
	A look in her eyes convinced him that this wasn't the time to flex his muscles. "For all practical purposes, there weren't any."
	Her eyes narrowed. "Don't play games with me, Pratt. We were supposed to play tennis Friday morning and he didn't show up. When I asked him about it, he told me he'd gone to Chicago to do research for his math course. Yet I happen to know-"
	Pratt was shaking his head emphatically. "No way. I had a man there before dawn Friday. He never came out all that day or the next. That's what I meant by no activities. His car was still there when my guy got there, and there were no lights in his place at any time Friday or Saturday.
	"Now here's the only thing that's funny. Late Saturday night a car pulled up to his place, two big bruisers got out and helped D'Escoyne into his house. My guy said it looked like he was stumbling drunk, and they were bringing him home to bed. Obviously he'd been out, but it was before we started watching. Thursday night late would be my guess. Incidentally, we did see you when you went by his place Friday morning and again on Saturday. And again Sunday morning."
	Joanne absorbed this in silence. David drunk? She didn't believe it. No way. She'd seen people on the Monday after a lost weekend, and they still stank of booze. He hadn't. No, it was something else.
	She frowned at her hands. "Then he must have left his place just after I did on Thursday night. And he must have known that's what he was going to do before we parted. Yet he never said a word, even though he knew we had a tennis meeting scheduled for Friday morning. To make it worse, Sunday morning he told me we weren't supposed to meet for tennis on Friday."
	She would have sworn his surprise was genuine when he'd seen that note in his computer. But of course it couldn't have been real. Just more play acting.
	She raised her gaze to meet Pratt's. "How does this fit in? He has receipts that show he was in McCormick Inn in Chicago Friday night, and for gasoline bought on the way up and back."
	"He rented a car," Pratt said.
	"I got the idea he wanted me to think he'd driven his own car up. And did you see his car? Long scrape marks up on the driver's side, holes in the windows-it looks like he was in a war."
	Pratt's head was bowed over his notes. "Yeah, I saw the car," he said shortly. "He was lying about the rental."
	She nodded. "Yes, you're probably right. He seems to prefer to lie even when he doesn't need to. He could have told me he'd been out on the town. A lost weekend. Or why not simply tell me to get lost? No, he had to make up a fantastic trip to Chicago."
	Yet he always seemed so incredibly open and aboveboard. A sharp twist of disappointment passed through her. How could she have been so wrong about him?
	"I think you'd better keep an eye on him," Pratt said. "He seems to have gone to an awful lot of trouble-"
	She interrupted. "You don't know the half of it."
	She described the fight in David's condo, how they'd both been punched out, and what the police had told David about having had his front door lock picked. "I think the FBI stole his ACMP directory to cover his story about missing pianists. But why go to all that trouble? Why not simply throw it away and tell me that it wasn't any good and he'll get a new one."
	She paused. "Yet it was he who suggested we go back so I could see the directory for myself. Was that just a clever bit of doublethink, knowing that his buddies would have taken it away? If we'd gotten there a half-hour later it would simply have disappeared. Surely he wouldn't have tried to cut it that close. Now we'll never know if he was lying about it."
	"He probably was," Pratt said. He frowned. "But doesn't it seem a little excessive that the guy would try to choke him? Or that he'd break the guy's finger?" His look at her was sharp. "Are you sure about that?"
	"I heard it snap." She shivered. "Ugly sound."
	Pratt was silent for a moment, then he cleared his throat and said, "Look, there's nothing right about this guy, about this whole situation. I know you'd rather not see him, but if you let it show that you're on to him, the FBI will just try something else. Frankly, Doctor, from the security point of view, better the devil we know-"
	"Easy for you to say."
	"Just don't confront him," Pratt said. "Don't let on, even when you know he's lying. In fact, you might even want to consider dropping some remarks about the project. Let him think he's making some progress. You know better than anyone what it's safe to say. You won't have to put up with him for long, it's only a few days till we deliver the superlaser, and after that-"
	He stopped, shaking his head. "Wait a minute. Maybe I'm asking more than I've got any right to. Forget him. Stay away from him. What can he do if we freeze him out? I'll clamp down a security lid on this plant that'll make the Manhattan Project look like kindergarten. What the hell, for no longer than we've got to go..."
	"No, it's all right," Joanne answered. "I'll try to avoid him, and if he calls me I'll... I don't know what I'll do. As you say, better the devil we know, and it's only for a few more days."
	She pointed a warning finger at Pratt. "But you keep your people on him. I don't want him squirming out from under where we can watch him. If he has another lost weekend, I want to know exactly where he spends it."
	"Or who he spends it with," Pratt said dryly.
	Joanne's eyes popped open. "My God, talk about vanity. I never thought of that. There's no telling how many other women he could be chasing after for information."
	"Or guys."
	Joanne grimaced. "I wish we'd started watching him earlier. I'd love to know where he really went on that Chicago trip of his." 

Chapter 14

	"We should turn over what we know to Director Gruener, Chairman, and back out of this Radiant Sword thing."
	The Chairman stared at Number Four, one finger tapping lightly on his copy of the "Eyes Only" field report. "You know we have nothing to turn over to him. Only surmise. Only a rumor. It'll get put on hold, and shortly after that Atlas will deliver Radiant Sword."
	"So what," Three drawled. "Four could be right. Even if there really is a Radiant Sword, what is it?"
	"It's worth six hundred seventy-six million dollars to someone," Two said. "To me that's a definite clue. The Chairman is right, it's got to be military hardware. For whom? I don't see how we can ignore that question. You all know the national policy; we're not supposed to be working on Star Wars hardware. Yet, 'cleanse the sky.' Of what? What does that mean exactly? And who's the customer, the people who are going to do the cleansing? Echelon hasn't told us. Carnivore is silent on the subject. At least so far. Maybe it's DoD, but then, maybe not. There are too many unknowns. We need answers, and depending on what we learn, well, we may have to 'cleanse' Atlas of Radiant Sword."
	The Chairman gaped at this unexpected support from Two.
	"But look at this report of D'Escoyne's scan," Four argued. "That business of the ACMP directory-D'Escoyne is becoming suspicious of her, and apparently she feels the same way about him. And who tried to kill him? That just appeared out of nowhere. But it's plain that he wonders if she might have some connection with it. If they don't trust each other, then there'll be no meaningful conversation between them and no point in our continuing to use him. I say, drop it."
	"Perhaps," Two said, "but not yet. Remember, we only get D'Escoyne's memories from the scan. His attitudes aren't so easily come by. And what is she thinking? All we know of her attitudes is what we see filtered through his memory. We need to give him longer, more of a chance. I say, scan him again in a week or so, then decide on the basis of that scan whether we should drop it. Or institute our own cleansing.
	"But before we do anything that drastic we have to know who the customer is. One, you must find out for us. Can you imagine the tempest if we destroy a favorite toy of the Department of Defense, one that's been secretly authorized by the Administration with the connivance of Congress? It would make the Iran-Contra affair seem like a Sunday afternoon tea social."
	She turned her attention to the Chairman. "Chairman, that Chicago business was sloppy, and may have led to real trouble. Why didn't you have someone call her and leave a message about their date the next day? I said a minute ago that we didn't know what MacRae is thinking, but I can tell you one thing for sure; she's bound to be angry because he stood her up. Four is right, if there's antagonism between them, D'Escoyne will simply avoid her, or she him, and we'll get no conversations to scan. It's going to be hard enough to get them to be friends after that attempt on his life." She stopped, staring at the Chairman in dark suspicion. "What do you know about that? Surely you wouldn't try to kill him."
	"Of course not," he snapped. "After going to all this trouble? We don't know any more about that than you do."
	Two drew a deep breath, finally dropping her eyes to her copy of the field report. "Your agent fighting with them, Chairman. Disgraceful. Entirely out of line."
	"Yes, yes, Two," the Chairman said, exasperated. "Next time we'll handle the whole exercise better. We'll not make that mistake again. We will send him to Chicago again, but we'll handle it better."
	"Better?" Four challenged. "How?"
	"For one thing, we know from our agent there that they play tennis three days a week. We'll take D'Escoyne in for a scan when he isn't scheduled for a game. We should have paid attention to details like that last time. We could have covered it with a phone call on her recorder saying that he was going to be out of town for a couple of days. We won't make that mistake again. Also we'll beef up the details he'll remember about his trip, give him more documents to show. And, yes, wind up his odometer. Whatever it takes to avoid making her angry or suspicious. I agree, if she won't talk to him, this whole exercise will be futile."
	"All right," Four said, "I withdraw my objection. One more scan, then we decide what to do about Radiant Sword."
	"I've got a better idea," Three said. "Haul the MacRae woman in and scan her. Save all this trouble. It would be easy to do. She can be arrested by the Indianapolis Police Department on some pretext or other-anything. We could sell them some nice-soundin' story-bunch of hicks, what would they know? That gets her isolated, away from Atlas security. Next we send in federal agents to take her from the IPD on the basis of some high-level security investigation, whisk her out to your facility and have her scanned, then release her, tellin' everyone she was cleared and all is well. And we'd know everything!"
	The room was quiet for a moment.
	"Hmm," said the Chairman, "I have to admit the idea is tempting."
	"What if IPD won't release her to your federal agents?" One asked.
	Number Three's lips curled scornfully. "Come on," he rasped, "we're talkin' Indianapolis here. The sticks. I know these people. A team of feds goes in and starts making a lot of noise about national security, promisin' big trouble if they interfere with an on-goin' investigation, tossin' around threats of careers bein' stalled-you think those cornballs won't cave in?"
	More silence.
	"Mmm. Something to be said for a bold stroke," the Chairman said.
	"What if they don't cave in?" Four asked.
	You pusillanimous bastard, the Chairman thought. "I agree with Three. They will fold."
	"Answer the question, Three," One insisted. "What if they don't?"
	"I'll answer for you, Three," Number Two said. "Somebody who doesn't love the FBI gets his back up at all the pressure and starts checking on the national security investigation. That somebody gets a lot of 'No Comment' answers all the way up the ladder because nobody will know about it, right? So eventually he ends up talking with Niels Gruener, and right after that this court will find itself on trial in a real federal court just dying to put us away."
	Number Four nodded. "Yes, that's how I see it too. And if the police check isn't enough, we'll also be choking on the legal staff which Atlas Corporation will be jamming down our throats."
	One added, "Washington history is littered with the careers of people who said their opponents were certain to react in a specific fashion. You know that's so, don't you, Three? You've watched it happen dozens of times, haven't you?"
	Three nodded, his baby-blue eyes staring sourly at One through the rolls of fat on his face.
	The Chairman allowed himself to wallow for an instant in an orgy of choking hatred for Two and One. Clearly Three's plan was the more sound, he thought, the ideal utilization of the scanning procedure. Why couldn't those other two see that? No, they were acting like that to spite him. And Four, the Chairman thought, Four was a typical spineless bureaucrat, afraid to act.
	Finally the Chairman was able to speak calmly. "I think, Three, that the consensus at this time is to allow prudence to rule over valor. I will order one more scan at the earliest opportunity, and then, as Two suggests, we shall decide what to do about Radiant Sword." 

Chapter 15

	It was six-thirty Monday morning when Joanne saw David come in the Racquets Four club entrance, his towel draped casually across one shoulder. He carried his racket and a can of balls in a carry case in one hand, a small flat package in the other. He saw her watching and stopped, weighing the package in his hand. She could sense his indecision clear across the four courts. Obviously he hadn't forgotten their Sunday morning confrontation. Finally he walked across the empty courts, stopping in front of her.
	"Good morning," he said politely.
	She nodded her greeting-not warm, not cold.
	"Warmed up yet?"
	"I was waiting for you," she said.
	Possibly she only imagined that she saw something move in his eyes. "Okay, let's have at it."
	They stood at their baselines, whacking forehand and backhand shots to each other until finally she called out, "I'm ready if you are."
	He spun his racket. "Call it."
	"Smooth."
	"You always say smooth," he said. Looking down, he added, "Well, smooth it is." He hit the balls across the net to her so she could serve. Then he paused. "Good luck."
	Angry thoughts swirled through Joanne's mind. He was the one who was smooth. A smooth liar who wanted to steal her project. A rat spy, and she wasn't going to let him get away with it.
	"It's not going to be luck, David."
	Perhaps it wasn't luck, but they each needed something they didn't have that morning, and though they played with grim determination, neither could break the other's serve and pile up the winning two game margin. Finally, they had to surrender the court to other players.
	"I guess you know that the longer this goes on, the worse it's going to be for you when you finally lose," David said as they walked off the court. "And these marathon sets. Maybe we ought to go to sudden death scoring."
	"I don't want sudden death scoring," she snapped. "When I finally beat you, I don't want to listen to a lot of crying how one lousy shot in one lousy game was all that made the difference. Besides, it's not going on like this much longer. It'll all be over soon."
	He walked along for a few more steps, then stopped, looking oddly at her. "You make that sound ominous," he said. "Foreboding. Are you going away?"
	She had kept walking and now she stopped and turned to look back at him. "No, I'm not going away. I thought you'd be leaving."
	Surely his bosses wouldn't keep him here after Atlas had delivered the superlaser. There wouldn't be anything left for him to spy on.
	"But not for a year. Perhaps never. I thought I'd told you that. I may not go back to Daytona Beach."
	Liar. She shrugged. "Aren't I the lucky one," she said lightly, "that you'll be staying."
	"Yeah." Smiling, he came up to her and put his hand on her arm. "Come on, you lucky woman, I'll buy breakfast this morning, then you can go direct your project and I can start writing lessons. I know a place fairly close by that does better pancakes than mine, if you can believe that."
	She moved away from his touch. "I don't think so. I've got to get to the office."
	He pulled a long face, finally shrugging. "Okay. Maybe next time." Then he shook his head slowly. "I wonder what it must be like to be essential. I hope Atlas appreciates your dedication."
	"They do," she said coolly, "and they show it in my check."
	David smiled, remembering how she'd asked him if he were proposing when he'd wondered about her income. He nodded and waved a hand, and turned to leave.
	He'd only gotten few steps when Joanne remembered Pratt's suggestion that she talk with D'Escoyne, possibly dropping scraps of information so he'll think he's making progress. Better the devil we know...
	"Well, wait a minute," she called after him. "Let me call my office and leave a message for my secretary. Then you lead the way."

	On the way to the Cracker Barrel Old Country Store, David tumbled over and over in his mind the same thoughts he'd been wrestling with since the night they had been attacked in his house.
	Who was she, really? It was obvious that she hadn't wanted to come with him this morning, yet she'd changed her mind. Why? What was he to her? Why did she insist that he hadn't gone to Chicago, even after he'd proved he'd been there? 
	That odometer reading-he'd have sworn he took his own car. And no receipt for a rental car. Wouldn't he have saved it as he had the others? And he had a receipt for parking a car-whose car had he parked if not his own? 
	His mind tried to shy away from his brush with death so few nights ago. He forced himself to confront the memory. He needed to encourage her to talk. See what was behind those games of hers.

	"These people make thin, chewy pancakes," David said, "just the way I like them. At home mine all come out light and fluffy."
	His joke fell flat on its face. He looked at her intently. Her gaze was on her coffee cup, her fingers tapping restlessly against the cup. He wondered if she'd heard a word he'd said since they'd sat down.
	She sipped at her coffee. It wasn't very good; it had sat on the warmer too long. I should have gotten tea, except they never get the water hot enough and... Unhappy, she remembered why she was there. Drop little scraps, she thought. Okay, she had already given a hint that the project is nearing completion, so now...
	"It's a heavy responsibility, being a project director," she said.
	"I suppose so," he said, "but what gets me is what would happen to your project if something happens to you?"
	He's mentioned that before, she thought. My God, is that what he's here for, to make something happen to me? She felt a little tremor of fear. "It would go on, I'm sure." She met his gaze. "You think something's going to happen to me?"
	"I certainly hope not. But it doesn't seem good management practice to wrap up so much in one package." Smiling, he added lightly, "Even so lovely and competent a package. Don't you have a backup, or an understudy, or whatever they call it in your business?"
	She ignored his graceful compliment, her mind filled with glee. So that's what he's after-not me, my assistant. Oh, very clever. Well, no way, you weaselly rat spy. "No," she said coolly, "I don't need one. The engineering staff would pick up the pieces and run with them. It would just mean more overtime for them."
	"Good," he said, "then that's settled. Obviously I don't need to know what they'd do with the pieces, so there isn't much point in talking about that any more, is there? I have to tell you, I've been almost afraid to talk about your job-you seem so protective I thought you'd feel I was prying." He gazed ruefully at her. "At the same time I was concerned that if I never mentioned it, you'd be offended that I didn't think it was worth talking about."
	He smiled at the expression on her face. "You seem surprised. Look, it's simple. I know you as Jo MacRae, a good pianist, a fair tennis player, and a reasonably competent chess player. And a pleasant companion. Isn't that enough? You can be a project director on Atlas's time. Okay?"
	What kind of spy are you? she thought. She almost blurted the words aloud. Now she couldn't talk about Atlas, or the project. Her mind tumbled in confusion-how was he going to provoke a security violation if he wouldn't let her talk about her work? "Um...a reasonably competent chess player? I feel like I've been damned with faint praise. I notice you didn't walk away with my scalp."
	David grinned. "If you'd been really good, I'd have bled all the way home from my own scalp wound."
	"Yeah. Well, next time...." I'll bet your bosses would love to know that we're testing the prototype next week. Oh, yes, that'd be all they would need to invoke the penalty clause.
	"Yeah," he said, "next time I won't go so easy on you."
	He was surprised when she didn't flare up at that, instead falling silent. "Are you familiar with the Indianapolis Symphony Orchestra?" she said finally.
	Now where is she going? He nodded. "Sure, I even have some of their tapes."
	"Well, they and the Indianapolis Symphonic Choir are performing Beethoven's Ninth Symphony Friday night. Would you like to go?"
	His face lit up. "I'd love it." He hesitated. "With you?"
	"Yes."
	"Fantastic. Uh, what about tickets? Won't they be hard to get this close to the performance?"
	"I have tickets. One of the perks of being a... a you-know-what for Atlas."
	He chased a fugitive bit of pancake through the syrup on his plate. "Well, then, we'd better get you off to work so you stay in their good graces. Will I see you for tennis Wednesday?"
	She nodded. "And Friday. Six-thirty, same as usual." She fixed him with her gaze. "You going to be there?"
	"Absolutely. If I can't come, I'll let you know." He hesitated, then slid the flat package he'd been carrying across the table toward her. "Before you go, I've brought you a present."
	"No," she said sharply, "I can't accept it. You don't know me well enough to give me presents."
	"Yes, I do. This one, anyway. Open it."
	She hesitated, then peeled off the Kraft paper wrapping and found herself holding a case containing a compact disk and a booklet of music. She read the label and looked up at him. "MMO?"
	"It's a Music Minus One recording," he explained. "A CD recording of a symphony orchestra playing Grieg's First Piano Concerto-but minus the piano part. You put the CD on your hi-fi then play the piano part along with the orchestra." He nodded toward the booklet. "That's the sheet music you'll need."
	"I've heard of these," she said. "I always wondered what it would be like to try one." She turned the compact disk case over and over in her hands. "Why did you give me this?"
	He was a long time coming up with an answer. At last he sighed deeply. "I don't know." One shoulder rose in a little shrug. "I just thought-" His words came out in a rush. "You seem so serious. I thought you needed a little pleasure." He gazed at her quizzically. "I was wrong, huh?"
	Her blue eyes met and held his in a devastating look that felt to him as though it reached into the very center of his soul. Then she dropped her gaze and paused, silent for so long it became almost painful.
	"No," she said at last, "you weren't wrong. It was very thoughtful of you." She jumped to her feet and picked up her purse, the CD and the booklet. "Thank you," she said, and hurried away.
	He sat staring after her. His gift to her hadn't been the pleasure he'd wanted it to be. And the way she stared at him for so long-he believed that for a moment they had had really communed with each other. He shrugged off his feelings. More of her tricks. I can't trust you, Jo. Okay, you're a bright lady, but I'm bright too. I'm going to get to the bottom of this mind game business, and when I do, you're going to get what you've got coming to you.

	Outside she moved her car so that she could watch him leave. It was a different car that followed him out this time, but she saw the driver clearly. He had a splint on his left hand. And he looked familiar.
	It was the FBI who stole his directory, she thought. Why? Could he have been telling the truth? Was his directory different? Could he be an unknowing pawn? Her face grew hard. No, he's deliberately lied too many times. Chicago? Yeah. Right.
	She looked down at the compact disk lying on the seat. He gave me that to soften me up. The dirty rat spy, he remembered what I told him about Grieg's First Piano Concerto the night we met.
	"But soften me up for what," she cried. "He doesn't want to hear about my project. If it's not the security penalty, what does he want?"
	At last she drove home, bathed and changed, and went to work.

	Wednesday morning they battled to another standstill, playing until they had to surrender the court. She wasn't sure what they were trying to prove, but it wasn't nearly as much fun as it had been at first. Now it was war, a grueling war of attrition both were determined to win.
	Friday morning, another sweaty battle to another tie. And they settled their plans for that night at the symphony; she was going to pick him up at his place in Timbers so that only one of them would need to drive. He was all smiles as he thanked her for asking him, and they parted, each looking forward to that evening.

Chapter 16

	The Chairman stared at Number Two. How can she still be alive, he wondered. She looks like a survivor of Nazi Belsen. Not for the first time he wondered if she knew she was dying.
	But Two's gray eyes, sunk deep in their sockets, still burned brightly, and her tongue could still cut like a whiplash.
	"As agreed," the Chairman said, "we are bringing D'Escoyne in for scanning again. Tomorrow, as soon as they go their separate ways after their morning game. I have already voice-mailed instructions to that effect."
	"When will we have feedback?" Four asked.
	"Monday morning I should have a full report. I will share it with you that afternoon. In the meantime-"
	Number Two spoke. "Your instructions concerning D'Escoyne-"
	"Were explicit, my dear. No harm is to come to the man."
	Number Two's words sliced at him. "'If all goes well,' you say. In the event of any 'tragic mistake,' such as those we've experienced in the past, Chairman, I shall hold you responsible."
	The room fell silent at Two's direct challenge. The Chairman leaned back in his chair, one hand rising to pull away his half-moon glasses. He laid them on the gleaming surface of the table, then put his hands together, tenting his fingers as he gazed calmly at Two. His voice mild, he said, "You?" A little smile appeared on his face. "You will hold me responsible?"
	He looked away, his gaze moving idly around the room, scarcely noticing the others as his rage blossomed in his mind, brilliant as a diamond, hot as flame, flooding through his body. No more. I'm not going to wait any longer for you to die. As chairman of this court, I sentence you to death. I want the satisfaction of causing your life to end. As soon as I can arrange it, you will die. What a pleasure to be rid of you.
	Decision made, his smile became beatific. "Of course, my dear. I will be responsible. Who else?" 

Chapter 17

	Joanne was looking forward to a pleasant evening when she rang David's doorbell. No worries about superlasers. Just an evening with a guy who could be very pleasant company, even if he was a spy. She wasn't disturbed that she had to ring again. But a dark suspicion began to form when he didn't answer the third ring.
	She walked out to the parking lot. Yes, his car was still there.
	She began to seethe with anger. He'd stood her up again. He was off on another lost weekend. The dirty son of-he was going to tell her that he'd had to go to Chicago again. Well, she was going to put an end to that lie before he ever got a chance to use it.
	She walked to her car and got out her flashlight, shining it through the window of David's rental car onto his odometer-79842. She wrote the number down. Just let him tell me he drove this car to Chicago. I'll kill him.
	No. She smiled. It would not have given David any pleasure to see it.
	She opened the trunk of her car and pulled out her tool kit, then went to each of David's tires and used a screwdriver in the valve stem to let the air out. When all four tires were completely flat, she put her tools away, wiping her hands carefully before starting her car and driving away.
	It wouldn't do to be late for the concert. 

Chapter 18

	Monday morning.
	She's late, David thought. Maybe she isn't coming this morning. Just as well. He felt lousy. He had awakened this morning with a fierce headache. And grumpy-the least she could have done was to call him.
	He rubbed the back of his neck gingerly, turning his head from side to side as far as it would go in a vain effort to find relief. This was the third headache he'd had in the last couple of weeks, and looking at his haggard image in his morning mirror he had seen the two red spots again. I'm going to have to see a doctor, he thought glumly, they're getting worse each time.
	She came in and he watched as her eyes found him. Something in her stance alerted him that she was angry. Why is she angry, he wondered, she's the one who's late.
	She walked across the empty courts until she was an arms length from him. There she stopped. She held her arms rigidly at her side, her body stiff as a sentry on guard outside the palace. Oh, angry, yes, but somehow more than that. When she finally spoke her voice was soft, carefully controlled.
	"Chicago again, I suppose."
	It wasn't a question. Her eyes, icy blue, searched his face as if he were some curious object she'd found in a little-used desk drawer. Then she turned on her heel and walked back across the courts and left the club building, her heels punching little dents in the Deco-Turf.
	He had been mute in the face of her anger. "A soft answer," his parents had taught, but it hadn't done much for his own gathering wrath. He ran after her, across the courts and out of the building, racing toward the parking lot exit. What in the hell was wrong with his having gone to Chicago for another meeting anyway?
	He stood in the exit, blocking her way out, tensing as she drove up close to him, almost touching him with her bumper before she stopped. "Why are you so pissed off about my going to Chicago?" he yelled. "I told you I was going."
	Her lips thinned into a hard, straight line and her knuckles grew white where she gripped the wheel, but she said nothing. When she didn't respond, he paced angrily around beside her car, leaning down to yell at her some more. She didn't give him a chance, but drove away, tires squealing, and left him standing there.

	It was late morning before Joanne could get around to Pratt's message that he needed to see her. She called him to her office and before he could say a word, she told him what she wanted to hear.
	"I want to know every single detail of D'Escoyne's weekend from the time I left him Friday morning through this morning."
	"That's what I wanted to see you about. There is something very screwy about that guy. At the Racquets Four sports club Friday morning you were hardly out of sight before these two guys came up alongside of him in the parking lot. One of them put his arm around him, like they were old buddies, you know, except D'Escoyne dropped like a stone."
	"What?"
	Pratt nodded. "Dunno what they used on him, but he was out cold. They loaded him into their car, an old beat-up Chevy, and took him to a place in Beech Grove. Looks just like an ordinary house-Sixteen Adams Drive-right next to St. Francis hospital. One of the men went in the house and I guess he must have made a phone call because a few minutes later a couple of other guys-well, one guy and one woman, they were dressed in white jackets, like doctors, you know. Well, they came down the street from the hospital and helped D'Escoyne out of the Chevy and into the house. It was like he couldn't walk right. Same as we saw him being helped into his condo last week. That's why we thought maybe he was drunk. Guess he wasn't.
	"The guys in the Chevy took D'Escoyne's car back to his house. Now get this, Doctor, D'Escoyne never came out of that place in Beech Grove till four o'clock this morning. So now we know where he went last Friday, huh, the last time he stood you up? It sure as hell wasn't Chicago."
	She looked daggers at him as he sat grinning.
	"Oh, yes, we saw you go to his place Friday night, saw you check his odometer-you were wondering if he was going to come up with his Chicago story again, weren't you? Then we noticed the job you did on his tires." Pratt shook his head. "Really, Doctor. Scarcely the sort of professional conduct I'd expect from a project director."
	"What else?" Joanne's voice was cool. Nasty Jimmy's scolding affected her like a mortician telling jokes beside the coffin.
	"We thought we might as well note his odometer reading too. 79842, right?"
	She nodded. "And it hadn't changed by Saturday night or Sunday night when I checked again. And the tires were still flat Sunday night."
	"Yes, we know. Well, here's something that'll interest you. If you had checked his odometer at five o'clock this morning, you'd have read 80312; four hundred seventy miles difference. But his car hadn't moved an inch. We know because we kept an eye on it."
	He smiled at her expression. "Wonder how he got to Racquets Four this morning with four flat tires? Well, here's something else you'll find interesting. Just after four o'clock this morning a wrecker came into the parking lot, pumped up all four tires and turned his odometer ahead four hundred seventy miles-and that's illegal, in case you didn't know. But 80312 is just about what his odometer should read after a trip to Chicago plus a little driving around."
	Her eyes wandered over Nasty Jimmy's face. No, she'd been wrong; he didn't look like a flounder. He looked more like a ferret; beady brown eyes darting, nasty little teeth grinning.
	Pratt continued. "In fact, the guys were just helping D'Escoyne into his condo when the wrecker came. 'Tim's Amoco,' it said on the cab. And a phone number. Well, there isn't any Tim's Amoco in Indianapolis, and the phone number on the wrecker isn't in service."
	He closed his notebook and slipped it into his jacket pocket, then leaned back in his chair, looking at her.
	Joanne broke the silence. "FBI?"
	"Who else? At least, that's the car with the FBI plate."
	"The parking lot at Racquets Four-you said D'Escoyne dropped like a stone. Are you telling me they kidnapped him? In broad daylight?"
	"Sure looked like it."
	"Their own agent?"
	Pratt shrugged.
	Joanne frowned down at her hands, nervously turning a pen round and round. "That doesn't make any sense at all. Why would they-what's in that house in Beech Grove?"
	"I don't know. And I'll tell you right now, Doctor, I'm not going to send my people into that house. That's way off limits."
	"I know. In fact, I think you can call off your men altogether. The answer to who or what he is lies inside that house and we can't go in there. Doesn't matter, we know what we need to know. He's their agent. How they treat him is their business. I'll just have to be careful what I say around him. Although I must say, he certainly isn't much of a spy. Friday he as much as told me he didn't want me talking about my work any more."
	Pratt stared at her. "D'Escoyne said that?" He pulled idly at an earlobe as he mulled over what she'd said. "That guy makes me nervous. There's nothing right about him. He ever make a pass at you?"
	"No."
	"I guess you realize that's what he could be up to, um... if you know what I mean."
	"I do, and it won't work. Do they think I'm some giggly schoolgirl? How could they think-with him, of all men? He is the most irritating-" She thought of the evening he'd fixed dinner for them. "Well, it won't work."

	That evening Joanne sat in her car gazing at a white frame house in Beech Grove. Sixteen Adams Drive was very much like all the homes in the old neighborhood except for the vacant lot on each side.
	What do they want with you in there, David, that they have to drug you to get you in there? And why will you insist that you went away-to Chicago again-when you see me? You would have told me that this morning, wouldn't you, if I had given you a chance.
	But I'll have to keep seeing you, won't I, or your bosses may find another way to compromise the security of the superlaser.
	No, Nasty Jimmy is right; better the devil we know... 

Chapter 19

	"We've got to back out of Radiant Sword now, Chairman," Number Four said. "Your sloppy work in the first scan-how could you think he wouldn't realize that somebody was jerking him around? To fail to cover the memories you planted about Chicago by not adjusting his odometer-inexcusable. And Two was right. Leaving his car in the parking lot where MacRae could see it-indefensible. She was furious at being stood up and she threw the fact that his car never moved right in his face. She has to know he's lying when he tells her about Chicago. And the scan shows clearly that he feels she's to blame somehow for that ACMP directory business. What good does it do us if they play chess and tennis together? He doesn't trust her. He doesn't even want to talk to her about her work. What good is he to us? I say we back out now."
	"What do you propose to do instead?" Number Three blared at him, "just abandon Radiant Sword? What if it's not DoD? Are we goin' to let some bastards shoot our satellites out of the sky? Is that what you want?"
	Number Two spoke up. "It's worse than you said, Four. Didn't you see where they had a date to go to the symphony the night we pulled him in for a scan? She thinks he stood her up again. That's twice. I can just imagine how angry she must be."
	"What the hell," Three said, "there's no way Chairman could have known about the symphony when he ordered the scan. You can't blame him for that."
	"The hell I can't. He was supposed to have MacRae informed that D'Escoyne would be out of town for a couple of days before we pulled him in for a scan. Okay, Chairman, I can't blame you for not knowing about the symphony date, but since you couldn't know if they'd planned something, anything, why didn't you take the simple precaution of leaving a message on her answering machine at home telling her that he'd be gone?"
	The Chairman anger began swelling inside him. But Two hadn't finished.
	"In view of Chairman's frequent mistakes and slipshod handling of this and other affairs before this court in the past, I think we should consider electing a new Chairman."
	"Yeah," Three said, "I'll bet you would. I suppose you'd like the job, huh?"
	"No, but One could handle it very well. Much better, in fact."
	"God damn you, Mary Hardalee," the Chairman shouted at Number Two. "I've had it with your vindictive second guessing. The matter before this court is Radiant Sword, and that's what we're going to handle."
	"Do you call what you've been doing 'handling it,' dear?"
	Number One slammed her hand on the table. "Stop it, you two," she said. "Settle your differences elsewhere. I'm tired of listening to you scream at each other. We need to decide, for once and for all, whether Radiant Sword is the threat the Chairman believes it is. Let's address that question."
	"The answer to that is simple," Four said. "Three told us long ago. Bring in the MacRae woman and scan her."
	"Yes," Three said. "Sure, cover it up somehow, but get it done."
	"Why not," the Chairman said. "We can snatch her right off the street if we have to, scan her and have her back home in forty-eight hours. And she won't remember a thing about it."
	"What about D'Escoyne?" Four asked.
	"Wipe out his mind and turn him loose," Three said. "That's a good way to cover any loose ends. Hell, as far as that goes, wipe her clean too. That way they could never prove a thing. Be a good way to derail Radiant Sword, too."
	"I don't like that," One said. "These are American citizens. Okay, if they were part of the intelligence community and knew what risks they were taking, I might look at it differently-"
	"But they aren't," Number Two said sharply. "We aren't here to cover our asses, Three, but to handle threats no one else can touch."
	"Stop being holier than thou, Two," Four said. "You're no angel, you know. The issue here is what are we to do about Radiant Sword."
	"Scan the woman, I say," Three said.
	"I concur," Four said.
	"A very practical suggestion," the Chairman said. "That makes three in favor, a majority. We will scan the MacRae woman. If the two are together we'll take them both in."
	"But they're not to be wiped, Chairman," Two said.
	Number Three suddenly burst out laughing. "I've got the perfect answer," he said. "Since Two and One don't mind 'em being scanned but don't want 'em wiped-" He started laughing again. "Let's scan 'em and then write her memory back into his mind and his into hers. That way, even if they remain sane, who will believe the tales they'll babble?"
	The Chairman's eyes turned slowly to meet Number Two's gaze. "Yes," he said, his smile growing slowly, "who would believe anything so crazy?" 

Chapter 20

	On Wednesday, Joanne was first to arrive at Racquets Four. She waited nervously, not sure that David would come after the way she'd acted Monday. Finally he appeared in the entrance, pausing, still for a long moment. Then he crossed the courts and approached her.
	"I didn't think you'd be here this morning," he said.
	"I've been coming here for nearly three years," she said. "Why wouldn't I come?" She started bouncing a ball and catching it. "I wondered if you'd be here."
	"I've been coming here for nearly three weeks. Why wouldn't I come?" She glanced at him quickly. His mocking didn't seem malicious-something about his eyes. His hand flicked out and captured the ball. "Feel like playing tennis?" He handed her the ball.
	Her spirit brightened. She didn't know why; nothing had changed. We're both here and we're speaking, she thought. Is that why? Even though it doesn't make anything different. "This is my day, D'Escoyne," she said. "Ten minutes to warm up, then I'm going to wipe you out."
	He gave a great shout of laughter that boomed and echoed in the empty building. "Never happen, MacRae. Call it, rough or smooth?"
	It didn't happen. For either of them, and David was complaining about it as they walked away from the courts. "This is ridiculous," he grumbled. "I've never played anyone this long without beating them at least once. You must be all pumped up and playing way over your head."
	 She leaned her head back to glare at him down the length of her nose. "You big lump, you've probably just picked the easy ones before. It's your tough luck that I'm a woman. That's why your ego is taking such a drubbing. Well, I happen to know that the bigger they are-"
	"Yeah, yeah." He looked at her from the corners of his eyes, then he decided. "I want to tell you something. I probably shouldn't, it'll make you impossible to live with, but, well, I've been watching you for the last couple of weeks, running around on these courts, even simply walking, and I've decided; you're a very lovely, very graceful woman."
	Her heart thumped painfully. She tossed her head disdainfully. "Knock it off, D'Escoyne. You're not going to sweet talk me into letting you win."
	"Well, shoot," he murmured, "it was worth a try."
	She made up her mind suddenly to confront him. I shouldn't do this. I'm giving away what we know about him. "Are you familiar with Beech Grove?"
	"Oh, yes, sort of. From my place I can walk there in a few minutes. Why?"
	"You know where St. Francis hospital is?"
	He pushed open the door to the club and the two of them started toward the parking lot. "The hospital? Sure, corner of Albany and Seventeenth. I think you should always know where places like that are. Never can tell when somebody-"
	"How about Adams Drive?"
	He was silent for a few steps, then he took a deep breath and said, "You're starting on me again, aren't you?"
	The sight of the two men leaning against their cars, one in front of hers, one beyond, didn't ring any alarm bells. She was talking to David as they walked past the first man, "That's where you were last Friday and Saturday. We were supposed to go to a concert and you stood me up again. And I know you're going to tell me you went-"
	"I already did tell you. I told you I was going to Chicago to meet-"
	"Don't tell me Chicago again," she screeched. "I know better than that. I know exactly where-David, watch out!"
	The man they had passed shouldered past her to get to David, and when he raised his hand as if to clap David on the shoulder in a friendly gesture, she'd seen the splinted middle finger. Her cry came too late. As the man's hand came down she saw the glint of a needle, and seconds later David collapsed in a heap.
	The man bent to stick the needle into David again but Joanne was already in action. She kicked the assailant behind the knee as hard as she could, and he lurched off balance against her car, shouting with pain. However, he recovered swiftly and, spinning on his good leg, he launched a punch at her face. She deflected it and kicked him squarely in the groin as hard as if she were trying for a ninety-five yard field goal.
	"Hunh!" He grunted in agony and dropped to the ground, curled into a tight ball, utterly disabled.
	But not his partner. He approached her with caution, sidling around the two men on the ground, his hands held to protect himself from her kick. She feinted a kick and when he reached out to grab her leg, she jammed her fingers hard into his eyes. He screamed, covering his eyes with his hands, and she tried for another ninety-five yarder.
	She stared down at the man with the splint. Here he is again. After David. No-the thought blossomed in her mind-he couldn't have walked away and left me staring after them. He was after both of us. What does the FBI want with David that they have to drug him to take him in?
	David lay where he had fallen, sprawled like a giant rag doll. Grunting and straining, she managed to lift him into her car, bundling his limp body unceremoniously into the back seat, then got in and drove away. I'll take him home with me. Not that it will make any difference. They know who I am and where I live.
	She was nearly home when the reaction began, and by the time she parked she was trembling uncontrollably as adrenaline worked its way through her bloodstream. She sat clutching the steering wheel fiercely until she could stand the nervous jittering no longer. She got out of the car and began running in the parking lot until she was breathless and sweaty. She leaned on her hands against the car, her head hanging, drained, her pulse slowing finally.
	Recalling the hectic scramble in the tennis club parking lot, once again Joanne gave thanks to the tough little black woman who'd taught the class in self defense. "Hit first, hit hard, be merciless," she'd preached. "Or be raped. Or killed. Or both."
	She looked inside the car at David. Still unconscious. How do I get him in the house?
	In the end it was as simple as telling the neighbors that he was her fiancé, and that the two of them had been playing tennis when he'd had an epileptic episode and would they please help her get him inside where she could take care of him.
	"Of course," they said, murmuring sympathetically.
	He lay on her bed, still wearing his tennis shorts and T-shirt. The minute her neighbors had gone she had put her ear to his chest. Reassured by the strong, regular beat, she had sat staring at him for several minutes before she finally went to shower.
	When she came back to dress, he hadn't moved. She checked him again. Still out. She dithered, irresolute for a moment, then turned her back to him, dropped her robe and stepped into the skirt of a blue windowpane suit, tucked herself into a bra and pulled on a pleated white blouse. When she turned back to him his eyes were open and he was looking at her.
	She felt the red wave creep up her face. She put her fists on her hips and scowled at him. "How long have you been awake?"
	His eyes sagged closed.
	She put on the jacket to the suit and went to sit on the edge of the bed next to him. He hadn't seen anything, she thought. He was still out of it.
	She reached out a hand to touch his chest and his eyes opened. She snatched her hand back.
	He looked around the room, his head barely moving. "Where?"
	"My place."
	After a moment he asked, "What happened?"
	She explained what she had seen them do to him and what she'd done to them. His eyes closed midway through her story. After a long pause, "One of them... busted finger?"
	She nodded.
	"Mmm." He seemed pleased.
	"I must get to my office," she said. "But I have a lot to tell you and a lot to ask you. Will you give me your word that you'll stay here till I get back?"
	His eyes opened and he appeared sleepily amused. "Would you take it?"
	She was surprised to find that she would. "Yes."
	The amusement faded from his face and for an instant the languor induced by the assailant's needle vanished. She was shocked at the intensity of the intellect gazing at her from the green eyes. She should have known that, she thought. He acts like a big, easy-going lump as a cover-up. How easy it would be to underestimate him.
	"What's going on, Jo?" he asked. "What are we into?"
	"We need to talk." She got up from the edge of the bed. "If you're here when I get back, we'll talk. If not..." She shrugged.
	His eyes closed. "Mmm," he said. The languor was back now, the drug in control again. "Did I tell you how graceful you are?" He was babbling. "My mother told me never to keep anything nice about someone a secret from them. Thanks for taking care of... mmm." His eyes closed again and his head rolled a little to one side as he went back to sleep.
	Her eyes misted as she gazed at him. You rat, she thought. Was all that just to keep from promising to stay here? All right, mister, if you're here, fine. If not, I'm not going to go looking.
	She went all around the house checking windows, finally circling back to the doorway of her bedroom to stand staring at him. Please be here when I get back.
	She let herself quietly out the front door.

	It was dusk when she returned home. She sat in her car, gathering strength to open the door and get out. With the prototype test coming up, she'd been at the airport half the day, checking. It seemed there were a million knots to be tied and tucked into place. And there was the spy to think about. And, yes, she'd thought about him.
	Sighing, she got out and went to her front door. She started to fit her key into the lock when she thought better of it. Who might be inside waiting? David, or the man with the broken finger? She squatted down to look at the keyhole. How does one tell, she wondered, if one's lock has been picked? Scratches, policewoman Joy had said. She clicked on her little key chain flashlight and examined the lock. She could have made those little scratches herself when she fumbled her key into the lock. She crouched there, musing, would a brass key scratch a brass lock?
	She decided to have the police check out her place. But what about David? She straightened and was turning to go next door when the door opened and a hand wrapped around her arm, snatching her through the open doorway. The door slammed shut.
	Hit first, hit hard! 
	She swung her fist at the shadowy figure in the entranceway only to have it wrapped in a big hand and immobilized. The knee that would have crippled was expertly blocked by a muscular thigh.
	"Stop that, Jo. It's David."
	Her breath left her in a gust of relief, followed by, "What the hell do you think you're doing?" Her heart was pounding, and her temper was heating up rapidly. She tried to free her hand. "You nearly scared me to death."
	"Sorry." He released her hand, bending to rub his thigh gingerly. "You had company today. Luckily I happened to be next door at your neighbors when they came."
	She felt an icy shock at his words. "It was the FBI, wasn't it?"
	He looked at her strangely. "That's what they said. What does the FBI want with you, Jo?"
	"Not me, you."
	"They didn't ask about me, and I didn't show myself. I'm getting leery of strangers. The person they asked your neighbors about was you."
	Her heart did a crazy plummet. "Me? But it's you they want."
	"Jo, what would the FBI want with me?"
	Her mouth hung open at his effrontery. "They were the ones who tried to kidnap you this morning."
	"Jo-"
	"They've been following you for days."
	"Aw, Jo-"
	"David, listen to me. I saw them follow you away from here the first night you came to play. Then I saw them follow you again from Racquets Four when we met there for the first time. The next time we were at the club they followed you again, only that time I wrote down their license number. David, when we tried to learn whose car it was, we found out that it was the FBI."
	He shook his head as though he'd just been hit hard. "But they asked for you. Why would they ask-"
	"You were kidnapped once before, David. It happened just exactly the same way. They took you away and-" She took him by the arm and, opening the door, dragged him outside. "Come on, I'm going to show you something."

	They sat in her darkened car across from 16 Adams Drive. "They took you in there and you didn't come out again for nearly forty-eight hours. And both times you told me you were in Chicago."
	"Jo, I was in Chicago."
	"You weren't."
	"I was. You saw my receipts for-"
	"And you drove this time? Your car? To Chicago?"
	"Yes, and I can prove it."
	"Like hell you can," she shouted. "I can prove you didn't." Her eyes were shiny with tears. "You go into that house thinking one thing and you come out believing you've been in Chicago. But your car never left the parking lot at Timbers. Not for one minute. Yet this morning your odometer read four hundred seventy miles more than it did when you stood me up Friday night."
	David was sobered by her tears. He reached to touch her cheek but she batted his hand away angrily.
	"I didn't stand you up," he said. "I called you-"
	"You didn't," she screamed at him. "Stop lying."
	He jerked back as if she'd slapped him. "I've never lied to you."
	"You've been lying to me ever since we met. Little things, things that didn't matter except you lied to me." She pushed her face right up to his. "You want for instances? Okay, for instance-you never had a meeting with whoever you told me your boss was in Daytona Beach."
	"Thornton. Ollie Thornton," David murmured. "Actually, his name is Oliver."
	She gestured angrily. "Doesn't matter. You wrote him a letter telling him you were leaving. Another for instance? The ACMP directory that was so conveniently stolen-it was stolen by the FBI, David, by the same man I saw following you, the same man who tried to kidnap you this morning. And now you're telling me that you drove your car to Chicago when I know-"
	She stopped the rush of words suddenly. She was talking too much, she thought, giving away too much.
	His voice was soft. "Know, Jo? What do you know that I don't? Why do you know all these things about me, things that aren't true? Why does the FBI want to kidnap me? You've been watching me; is that why they came looking for you? To get your report on me?"
	Slack-jawed, she stared at him. "Me? I'm not FBI. You are."
	He closed his eyes tightly for a moment, then opened them to gaze past her at the house across the street, seeing the pistol wink at him in the darkness. His muscles tightened at the memory. Finally he took a deep breath and asked, "You say I went in there and didn't come out for two days. What would you think if I can prove that isn't so?"
	"You can't," she said flatly.
	Why do I care what she thinks? Somehow, she's connected with the killers in that Ford. She's dangerous. How can she think I'm FBI? Ridiculous. But she's so damned sure. Be worth something to shake up that ego of hers.
	"I can," he said, "but you won't believe it if you don't come with me to see it."
	"I've already seen with my own eyes. Your car never left the Timbers parking lot over the entire weekend."
	She decided she wouldn't tell him about the four flat tires.
	He shrugged. "Okay, then take me to Racquets Four, will you? I need to get my car."
	"You crazy? They'll be watching it."
	"If they really want to, the FBI will find me no matter what I do. They're not the threat I worry about. I don't want to be your problem, Jo. In fact, to keep you out of it, I'll start going to the club on Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday. You can make peace with the FBI on whatever terms you want."
	Her eyes narrowed. "The FBI's not the threat that worries you? Then what is?"
	"You know, Jo."
	She stared angrily at him. "I don't know! What are you talking about?"
	Uncertainty plagued him. How could she act so completely unknowing? How could she be so utterly mistaken in what she did know?
	He tried again. "Whatever you've seen isn't so, and you won't believe the truth unless you let me show you."
	"Go with you? Where?"
	"Chicago." 

Chapter 21

	Stunned by the crushing blow, Number Two hung up the phone, swiveling her chair away from her desk to look out her office window. Her doctor had begged her to come in for a talk, but, faced with her adamant refusal, had finally given her the news over the telephone. The news-her death sentence. Why, why had she waited so long, he'd asked, surely the pain....
	Busy, she'd told him, snowed under with work. She hadn't given him the real reason; she'd been afraid of what he'd find. But she'd known, oh, yes, her mirror had told her. She had always been slim, now she was-more than skinny, gaunt. Her cheekbones jutted from her face and her eyes stared from hollow sockets.
	Now it was too late. Very much too late. No time now for anything except to make sure her last will and testament was in order.
	No! Wait, there was one thing-that despicable bastard Longford, the Chairman, she could take him down with her. Not to do anyone a favor; it was hatred, pure and simple. Well, maybe there was a little more to it than that-she didn't want that man D'Escoyne destroyed in such a ghastly fashion as Three proposed-just wiped clean and cast aside like trash.
	What did she care about D'Escoyne anyway? Why should he matter, a man she'd never seen except that one day on the projection screen at the farmhouse? She shook her head, marveling at the wide-eyed flush of emotion she'd experienced then. Still, she had few illusions. She knew herself well enough to realize that if Three had proposed the usual method of termination-a drive-by shooting, say, or a fatal accident-she probably would have gone along. She usually had before. But the Chairman had managed to convince Number Four and that gross Three that erasure, the horrid new procedure he'd had developed, was the way to do it, and D'Escoyne was doomed. As soon as they could bring him in he'd be scanned, and afterward he wouldn't know his own face in the mirror. A thirty-year-old infant. And to destroy the MacRae woman's mind as well, and joke about it.
	Then, that disgusting animal, Three, laughing uproariously as he suggested his own macabre variation-after the scan, why not switch memories? When she'd seen the Chairman's eyes swivel slowly around to meet hers, she'd known with a sick certainty that no matter what he promised, he was going to order Three's idea carried out.
	But then, maybe not. She could give D'Escoyne and the woman a chance, and destroy the Chairman at the same time. Two nodded her head decisively. Rolling a sheet of paper in her secretary's typewriter, she began a letter to the Chairman's boss, the Director of the FBI.
	"Dear Director Gruener," she typed.
	"Your deputy is engaged in criminal activities. He's a member (the Chairman, in fact) of a group calling themselves 'The High Court.' You'd better stop them or you'll find yourself out on the street after a Congressional investigation.
	"The High Court meets in a farmhouse located just outside the District. Off U.S. 50, past Cheverly, turn right onto Landover Road. There's a little-used side road across from the Prince Georges Country Club (the accompanying map will lead you right to the front door of the house). The PGCC is used as a blind; the Court members leave word that they're headed there, but the long delay before they get there is used to cover their meetings at the farmhouse.
	"Presumably your deputy has to sign in and out of your building. Check the log for the last few years (Yes, that's right, years; it's been going on that long). See if your deputy hasn't been gone each afternoon of the following dates (see list 1). You might want to check with the directors of the following agencies (see list 2). Wouldn't it be some coincidence if their deputies were also out of the office on the same afternoons? List 3 details some of the actions taken by the High Court, none of which were legal, as you can see.
	"Find the farmhouse and bug it! You'll get all the proof you need.
	"WARNING! Don't dawdle. And don't try to cover this up. In five days copies of this letter will automatically go to the Washington Post and the New York Times (and two other newspapers which shall remain nameless) unless you've acted first.
	"Five days!
	"Signed: A Concerned Citizen." Number Two had to smile at that.
	"Encl. 4."

	Fifteen minutes with the copier and she had a plump envelope addressed to the Chairman's director, and labeled "Gruener: Urgent. Eyes Only." There were four copies; two were addressed to reporters on the Times and Post. The other two were addressed to the publishers of the leading papers in Four's and Three's home states. She thought that was a nice touch. It was too bad about One, but....
	The four envelopes she put in a follow-up file dated five days later. There her secretary would find them and mail them unless instructed otherwise. Strictly routine. She stared at the envelopes. Five days. She thought of her conversation with her doctor. I might not even be alive then. She moved them up one day in the follow-up file. Four days.
	The original she addressed to her attorney, an envelope in a larger envelope, bearing a short note of instruction to "... hold this until you hear from me." There were no special markings on the outer envelope to draw the curious eye. Finished finally, she removed the ribbon on her secretary's typewriter and put on a fresh one, stuffing the used ribbon into the envelope addressed to her attorney.
	She went back into her office and sat down, once more gazing out over the city. I should have done this years ago, she thought, when there were only two others: Burl Helden and Croton Longford III. The third-she sniffed at the Roman numeral III; pretentious bastard. How Longford had hated to be called by his nickname, but with his long, thin nose, his sloping forehead and loud, cawing laugh, it was inevitable that he'd be called "Crow."
	They hadn't used numbers then. But one day that disgusting Helden, almost drunk again, had gibed them about how much their names were like the Three Stooges; "Burly, Mary and Crow," he'd said. Longford had turned white with rage. When they'd recruited the last two members of the High Court-Katherine Lamar from the CIA and Charles Deekins from ATF, Longford had insisted on numbers. And then they'd squabbled like children over who was to be Number One. Longford had demanded that number as his due; had it not been his idea to found the High Court? Finally, Deekins, ever fancying himself the peacemaker, had suggested that the Chairman not be given a number, bearing only a title instead. And as for the rest of them, Deekins had taken to their meeting a heavy cloth bag containing four billiard balls, numbered one through four, and had offered the bag to each member of the High Court, each drawing out a single ball to learn his or her number. Stubbornly resistant still, Longford demanded to be Number One, but he'd finally agreed to settle for the title of Chairman-as long as no one else had the number One. Another argument had erupted, but this time, in a rare united front, the other four wore him down, and tight-lipped with anger, Longford had finally acceded. But he'd never accepted the idea of his being the first among equals.
	A grim smile touched Two's lips as she weighed the envelope addressed to Niels Gruener in her hand. He won't care much for this, either.
	Finally, she left her office and drove through empty Washington streets with Gruener's letter, hand carrying it to the Bureau building and leaving it with the night guard, a phlegmatic and incurious man who wouldn't have known her from a post even if she hadn't donned a wig and heavy glasses as a rudimentary disguise. Gruener would get his letter, she knew, first thing next morning. If he acts swiftly, she thought, he would scoop her up along with all the others. A mental shrug. So what, I'll never live to go to trial.
	She dropped the thick envelope containing the typewriter ribbon and the letter to her attorney into a mail box on Constitution Avenue.
	Driving home, she mused about loose ends. What have I forgotten? She shook her head finally. Nothing. I'll call my attorney in a couple of days and we'll work out what to do with the original. 

Chapter 22

	The digital clock in the dash of Joanne's Taurus reported 11:12p. He'd refused to use his car, telling her that the 280ZX was still in the shop. When she'd asked what had happened to his car, he'd stared coldly at her and she'd dropped the subject.
	 Making good time, he thought. They were on the Dan Ryan Expressway, approaching the turnoff for the McCormick Inn. Joanne was asleep, had been asleep since they'd passed Lafayette, her head resting on David's jacket. He'd glanced over at her from time to time, nodding with approval. A lovely woman, he thought. He wondered what she'd think if she knew he hadn't been as far out of it as she'd believed when she returned from her shower the other day. In fact, he still got dry-mouthed when he thought about the picture she'd made. He'd believed he was dreaming. He had decided there wasn't any point in telling her about it. It would only embarrass her.
	She'd changed into tailored slacks for this trip. Black, and a black blouse with puffy sleeves. Then she'd added a black and gold sleeveless jacket. "A bolero," she'd told him coolly when he'd stared. And she'd worn a hat, wide-brimmed with a flat top, also black, tipped a bit forward and cocked a little over her right eye. She'd looked long and lean and dangerous, like she'd stepped right out of a Wild West film. Who wouldn't stare? 
	He'd like to be able to help her out of whatever trouble she was in with the FBI. Had to be serious trouble. But why in the world would she think he was FBI? And why the hell had the FBI tried to kidnap him? Oh, yes, he believed her about that. He still remembered the sting of the needle.
	But why did she fight to the bitter end the idea that he'd been in Chicago? He'd showed her all the detritus that a traveler gathers: parking stubs, VISA charges for motel and gasoline, even some meals. She wouldn't buy it. Blind stubborn, he thought.
	They'd talked for the first hour or so. Well, as much as you could talk with someone you couldn't really trust. Even so, it had been nice, talking about families. Growing up. She had two older brothers. Bullies, from the sound of it. Maybe he'd meet them someday and even the score a bit. Too bad about her dad. At least she still had her mother. But he'd gotten the idea that her feelings toward her mother were ambiguous.
	It had angered him to hear about that idiot Carl. She'd mentioned it casually enough. Perhaps she wanted to sound... what? Worldly? Sophisticated? She hadn't been able to pull it off. He could tell from the very casualness of her tone how it had hurt to learn of Hayes's chasing after other women after he'd asked her to marry him. Even given her a ring. But he had to have her all to himself-he couldn't let her exercise her talents at Atlas. He'd been a great guy, she'd said, until she started rising in the company. As if her success diminished him somehow. The fool. It was obvious he wasn't the man for this splendid woman. Still, after this project of hers was over, maybe Carl would come around again. And maybe Jo would welcome him-David felt something churn inside-it was her call, of course.
	Ah, there was the sign: McCormick Place. The Inn had to be close by.

	She glanced at him through nearly closed eyes, not wanting him to see her looking. This is crazy, she thought. What am I doing here? I won't be worth two cents tomorrow, and with the prototype test coming up... and for what? So he can prove himself wrong? 
	It came as something of a shock for her to realize that she didn't want him to be wrong. Maybe he sneaked out the back way at 16 Adams Drive. But he said he'd never been there. Could Pratt's man be wrong? No, she thought in despair, give the devil his due; even though I can't stand Nasty Jimmy, he's good at his job.
	David's older sister sounded like an angel. A grin twisted at her lips; he's probably just forgotten all the fights they had. I guess she must have been a little thing, the way he likes his women petite.
	Humph! 
	When he'd told her about the girl he'd loved and lost, he'd looked at her fiercely, as if daring her to make something of it. Jean had been an English girl, a fellow student at the University of Florida. "Tall and neat," he remarked, adding, confusingly, "like you." Jean had been an incidental casualty in a war over drug turf-in the wrong place at the wrong time, he'd told her, his face bleak. He'd added that this was why he'd done so well at school, and when she looked at him curiously, he'd explained that he'd buried himself in his studies. "Either that or go nuts," he said laconically.
	She wondered what it must be like to have someone love you that much even if you were tall. She'd never had anything like that from vile Carl. She recognized that now. But at least she'd been able to keep David from knowing how Carl's philandering had hurt.
	What had he meant, tall and neat... like her?

	At the McCormick Inn David laid the VISA charge slip on the desk and asked the clerk if he would confirm for the lady here that he had been there those nights. He'd been on the seventeenth floor with a view overlooking the old Navy pier. The clerk eyed the two of them and decided to play this one by the book. He directed them to the manager's office where that woman looked at David suspiciously.
	"Confirm? Why confirm?"
	"Because the lady doesn't believe I was here."
	Damn, Joanne thought, he was making her the heavy in this.
	The night manager glanced at Joanne fleetingly, back at David, then, assessingly, at Joanne. "This past Friday and Saturday nights?"
	It took a while, and the manager made a couple of phone calls, but eventually she said, "Well, sir, you might have been here, but you didn't use your room. The reason we remember at all is because, well, we had to hold your room because you'd paid for it." She shoved the VISA receipt back across her desk. "But we had to turn people away and we don't like to do that while there's an empty room available. Of course, we didn't know you weren't going to use it."
	David started to protest, but the manager said, "The reason we know you hadn't been in the room is because when the cleaning crew went into 1729 to make up next morning, it hadn't been used. Their records showed that it should have been. They thought our records must have failed to show the room as available, and so we hadn't rented it. That happens occasionally. Just like sometimes we rent the same room twice." She shrugged. "Obviously, we try to prevent it, but perfect we aren't. The bottom line? Yes, you had a room here for two nights, but no, you didn't use it."
	David stared at her as if she'd sprouted two heads. "But I remember-"
	Joanne interrupted. "If we give you a parking stub, can you tell us what kind of car you parked?"
	"Yes. Well, the garage can. You'll have to see them about that."
	"Will you call them and tell them we're coming?"

	David handed his parking stub to the garage manager, and added his license number and the fact that he drove a scarlet Datsun 280ZX.
	The manager returned after a considerable wait, "I think there's something wrong here. The car we parked on this ticket was only here for a short while Friday afternoon. But it was a Chevy, not a 280ZX. And it had Illinois tags."

	The Taurus's clock told them it was 1:02a as they crossed the Indiana border. Joanne was driving. She'd had no joy in her victory. David seemed crushed, and had withdrawn into silence.
	"I haven't been to Chicago at all," he murmured at last. "I wondered, the first time, when I remembered going but the odometer never showed a trip. I thought it was something you'd done somehow. I didn't know why, and I was getting angry. And suspicious. I mean, of all the thousands of ways in the world for a man to make a living, you'd guessed I was a computer programmer? I still don't know how you knew that. But it wasn't you behind all this, after all, was it?" He was silent for a while. "Sorry."
	She didn't know what to say so she said nothing.
	"But, Jo," he cried, "I remember. I saw the sailboats on the lake. I remember looking down at the Dan Ryan Expressway on Saturday, noticing how little traffic there was at six in the morning. I remember parking my car in that garage. My car, Jo. How can I have those memories if I've never been there?"
	Joanne's heart ached for him as he battled against what must appear to him to be insane delusions. She hadn't the slightest doubt in her mind that his confusion was real.
	"It was the FBI," she said. "They've done something to you."
	He grasped at that. "Hypnosis, you suppose?"
	She shrugged.
	He fell silent again. She thought he was asleep and left him alone as mile after mile slid by under the sleek car. She was startled when he spoke again, his voice quiet, as if musing. "You know, I've made three trips: once from Daytona Beach to Indianapolis, and twice to Chicago, and every time I woke up afterward with a headache and two red spots on my neck." More miles passed. "You say that I spent two days in that house in Beech Grove, yet my mind tells me I was in Chicago. After which I had a headache and the two marks. I had to have gotten those marks in that house, along with the memories."
	She glanced at him. "Drugs, maybe? For hypnosis?"
	"Why, Jo?"
	"I...."
	"Why was my ACMP directory fixed so I'd meet you?"
	She told herself, Joanne MacRae, you must not tell him about the superlaser. She felt her eyes burning, and the road blurred before her. Joanne MacRae, the man is not what you've been thinking. He's hurting. Help him.
	She blinked her eyes clear and, drawing a deep breath, she said, "In my job at Atlas I've been working on a very secret project. The contract calls for the most stringent security I've ever heard of anywhere. There's a huge penalty if word leaks out. Well, the customer, who we think is the Department-I mustn't tell you that-but, anyway, they could save themselves an enormous amount of money if we allow a security violation. I thought, and the Atlas director of security also thought, that you were an agent provocateur, sent to make me violate security by getting intimate with me. So we checked on you. That's how I knew you were a computer programmer."
	"Jo, I came up here to write-"
	"David, I'm telling you what we thought. Ever since you appeared it's been one coincidence after another. We have so many of the same interests, for example, too many to be simply coincidental. It's like we had been made for each other. Except, of course, that I'm, well, I'm not your type."
	"God," he said, "I wish I'd never said that. I suppose I'll hear about it for the rest of my life."
	"What?" She paused, staring at him uncertainly. Then she rushed on. "And you lied. About Ollie what's-his-name."
	"Thornton. Didn't I tell you? His name is Oliver Thorn-"
	"I know! But then you told me you didn't want to hear about my project. And we couldn't make any sense out of that."
	"But I explained why."
	"And then you stood me up. Twice. And let me tell you, mister, I don't like-"
	"Don't you think eighty-five is a little fast, Jo?"
	"What? Oh my God." She took her foot from the pedal where she'd been pressing it angrily. "And you lied about Chicago, twice, and I thought you were the most horrid man I've ever known. Except-"
	"But, Jo, I remember all those things. And being here-the memories are so clear."
	"I know, David. I believe you. So where does that leave us?"
	He drew a deep breath, setting up in his seat. "With the FBI after us," he said. "Jo, there's something you don't know. Remember the man I told you I met in Chicago the first time? Well, I met a different man the second time. The first guy topped me off in designing lesson plans. The second one showed me about designing the artwork to illustrate the lessons, and told me who I could see to get help. Names, Jo, specific people's names. Everything I need to do my math course. That information isn't imaginary, Jo. If I didn't go to Chicago to get it, where do you think it came form?"
	The words burst from her. "The house at Sixteen Adams Drive!"
	He was silent for a moment. "Yes. That seems clear enough now. You say the FBI took me into that house twice. Well, I think we need to make third trip there."
	She looked over at him. There'd been something in his voice. His face was that of a stranger, hard with anger. 

Chapter 23

	Number Two would have scoffed if she'd ever heard that an experienced agent had fallen into such an obvious trap. The light over her doorway was unlit. Burned out? Or had the bulb been unscrewed to throw her entryway into deep shadow? She knew she should stay in her car and use her phone to call the local police and have them check out her dark porch. But it had been a long day. The pain had been worse, even in spite of the pills her doctor had sent, and she was exhausted. She just wanted to get inside and into a hot bath.
	She was fitting the key in her door lock when the assassin's arm went around her throat like a band of steel. She tried to draw a breath to scream, but there was a sudden, agonizing pain as the knife sought her heart, and then nothing seemed to matter any more. She felt her purse taken-of course, they'd want to make it look like robbery.
	As she lay on the porch, a tiny bundle of a woman, the thought that little Mary Hardalee carried into the darkness was not regret, but a savage satisfaction that she had blown the whistle on that bastard Chairman. 

Chapter 24

	Back from Chicago, they parked Joanne's Taurus in the darkest spot they could find on Larkspur Trace, the next street over from Woodsage Trace, where David lived.
	"We'll slip in the back way," David said, "through the woods. No use advertising our presence until we've got a better idea what's going on." He took her hand and led her through the dense wood separating the streets.
	"When I moved in here," he whispered, "they told me that a trace was a path that led into a wood then stopped. I guess that's what the streets do here."
	Joanne marveled at his calm. "You don't stay mad very long, do you? In the car you looked like you were ready to kill somebody. Now you're giving nature lectures."
	"Oh, it's still in there, all right," he murmured. "But it's not for show. You wait till I get hold of the guy responsible, then you'll see it all come unwrapped." He stopped, pointing. "That's the back of my condo. Do you see anyone? Anything?"
	She stared through the shadows cast by the security lights. The light morning breeze stirred the trees gently, and everything moved as if alive. "I don't know," she whispered finally, "but just because I can't tell sure doesn't mean there's no one there."
	He nodded. "Yeah, same here. I never looked at this place after dark before. Spooky."
	Her gaze was drawn to the light next door. The inhabitants hadn't drawn the drapes, and she could see them through the sheers. Looking closely, she felt her face grow warm as she realized she was seeing the animal with two backs. She darted a look at David.
	He'd also noticed his neighbors making love.
	"Newlyweds," he said briefly.
	"Oh," Joanne murmured. She wanted not to look, but...
	"Jane and Harry Downing. Um, nice people," David said. He drew a breath. "We'll go in the back door. No lights, okay? And keep your voice down."
	Trouble meowed loudly as he curled around David's legs. "Oh, aren't we friendly now. I suppose that means you're hungry."
	"Don't be so mean, David," Joanne scolded.
	"I'm not being mean," he said, "but I understand this guy. And he knows it."
	"What does that mean, you understand him?"
	"We're both males. I'm just more civilized than he is."
	She moved her face close to his, peering to see him more clearly in the dim light of his kitchen. "And what does that mean?"
	He paused, staring at her in the gloom. "I don't know," he said abruptly. "You can have the bed in the bedroom. Maybe you can get in a couple of hours sleep before you have to go direct your project. I'll sleep on the couch. I'll fix breakfast." His voice became muffled as he bent to fish a can of outrageously expensive cat food from a cabinet. "Thanks for going with me to Chicago. I mean that, Jo. I'd never have known what those bastards were doing to me otherwise."
	She crouched down beside him as he scraped out a bowl of food for Trouble. "You're welcome. I really should go home, though. I can't go to work dressed like this."
	"Yeah, you're probably right. You'd wreak grievous injury to production schedules," he said. "I'd like to have you stay, though."
	"Why is that?"
	"Are you kidding? One look at you in that outfit and work would come to a dead stop until you got out of sight."
	She felt her face burning, and she was glad he couldn't see the effect of his words. "No, I meant, why do you want me to stay?"
	"On second thought, you'd probably better go."
	"And miss breakfast in bed? No way."
	She could see his big teeth gleam in a smile. "Be a good chance to see what you look like after a night out on the town."
	She sighed. "I'll go."
	"You don't have to, Jo. It'll be all right."

	David was asleep, dreaming that he was in the jungle and an elephant was stepping on his chest. No, it was a lion growling at him. He woke, sweating, to find Trouble curled up on his chest and purring.
	"Oh, now I'm your bed." He lifted Trouble off his chest and rolled onto his side to make room on the couch. "There, try that. You can have this one cushion to sleep on, but stay off the rest of the furniture. Okay?"
	Trouble curled alongside him. David thought drowsily that Trouble was getting him trained very nicely, but he fell asleep before he decided how he felt about that.

	Joanne woke to the heady aroma of freshly brewed coffee.
	David moved the cup from under her nose and sat it on the bedside table. "It's eight o'clock." He squatted beside the bed, gazing intently at her.
	She scowled at him. "What?"
	"Not bad," he said. "Not bad at all, MacRae. I should pray to look so good on three and a half hours sleep." He rose and went to the door. "Time for a shower if you want. Breakfast in a half hour. You'll make it to work almost on time." He left, shutting the door behind him.
	"I can take a shower at home," she yelled to the closed door, "and you promised me breakfast in bed."
	The door opened slowly and he poked his head back in, peering at her. "I suppose you're one of these people who can wake up, put your feet on the floor, and eat."
	"Yes," she said defiantly, "and I'll eat anything that doesn't eat me first."
	He stepped partly into the room, gazing at her thoughtfully, finally nodding. "Well, then, you ought to be easy to keep," he said. "Give me ten minutes. We don't do fast food here. If you'll scrabble around in the drawer by the basin in the bathroom you should find a new toothbrush. Ten minutes." The door closed again. "And drink your coffee while it's hot," he yelled through the door.

	David sat with his stocking feet up on the bed, nursing his coffee while she finished her breakfast. "I know you've got to get to work, but we need give some thought to getting into that house in Beech Grove."
	She moistened the tip of her finger to pick up some toast crumbs from her breakfast tray. "Okay."
	"You with me?"
	"Yes."	
	"Just like that?"
	She gazed levelly at him. "I don't like what they've been doing to you. I don't like it that they don't seem to care what they do to people. I don't like it that they sicced you on me. I don't like it that they're after me too. So, yes, just like that."
	He studied the inside of his cup with care. "Tonight?"
	"Oh, God, another night without any sleep." And the prototype test tomorrow.
	"Well...."
	She sighed. "Okay, tonight."
	"Mmm, Jo-"
	"Now what?"
	He hesitated. "Nah. Nothing."
	She frowned at him. "Don't do that, David. Now, what is it?"
	His eyes bored steadily into hers. "I'm the guy they've been jerking around. Why do you suppose it doesn't bother me that they sicced me onto you?"
	She felt a painful banging of her heart. "Uh..."
	He looked away. "This guy you were telling me about last night-" His voice was studiously casual. "Carl Hayes. I know what you said, but the way you said it-he still have the inside track, does he?"
	She felt suddenly confused. "I..." Her mouth worked. "I don't... He isn't... We're not..." She waved a hand aimlessly. "It's been a long time since-"
	"No big deal," David said. "Just curious." He swung his feet to the floor, reaching for her tray. "Better get you off to work." 

Chapter 25

	"We've lost touch with the two of them," the Chairman said. "We've lost control. They've got to be stopped."
	"No," Number Four said. "We've got to cut loose from the Radiant Sword operation. It's been a loser from word one. We've got to cut our losses and get out."
	"Yes," Number One said. "He's right, Chairman. Get out, and get out now."
	"We can't just quit," Number Three snapped. "We've got to get those people off the street-clean up the loose ends."
	"I agree," the Chairman said. "Unfortunately, when we tried to pick them up for the scan, they injured my agents, and I can't siphon off any others to handle the problem without attracting unwelcome attention."
	"I think we need a different solution," Four said. "Something more drastic, perhaps. Something fast. Something... permanent."
	"Why do we have to do anything?" One asked. "If you stop pushing them, they'll stop pushing back. Just shut down the scanning facility and put an end to the Radiant Sword operation."
	"What's the matter with you?" Number Three said. "We can't have those two runnin' around. No tellin' what they'll turn up. Chairman, maybe you can't spare anybody, but I can send a man around."
	"Then do it," Four said.
	"No," Number One said. "Don't do it. Don't borrow trouble."
	"Yes," the Chairman said. "And do it soon." 

Chapter 26

	Late in the evening David sat beside Joanne in her car, carefully parked away from any streetlights, and well up the street from 16 Adams Drive. They'd been there an hour, seeing no one on the street or near the house. He'd found her flashlight in the glove compartment and sat rolling it round and round in his hands. Finally...
	"Let's go."
	Joanne reached out and grabbed his arm. "Wait a minute. What if the place is full of burglar alarms?"
	David shook his head. "Don't think so. I don't think they'd want that kind of attention."
	"They could be silent alarms," she argued.
	"Mmm." He rolled the flashlight a bit longer. "So what do we do?"
	"We break in."
	He stared at her. "So what was all that about alarms?"
	"Well, someone has to think about things like that."
	He squeezed his eyes shut in disbelief, then lowered his head close to hers, peering at her in the darkness. "You're something else, you know that?"
	She stiffened. "Now what does that mean?"
	"You're always asking me that."
	"Well, you never say anything straightforward."
	"I do too. Your trouble is that you go peeking around behind my words looking for some other meaning, and you get confused."
	She drew herself up indignantly. "How can you possibly expect me to understand what you mean when you say 'You're something else'?"
	"Are we going to look in that house or not?"
	She gusted a sigh of exasperation. "You're a big coward. If you want to criticize me, why don't you just do it straight out? Are you afraid of me?"
	He was silent for such a long moment that she wondered if she'd offended him. "There's nothing about you that I want to criticize. Yes, I'm afraid of you. Let's get into that house." He climbed out of the car and strode toward the house at Number sixteen.
	She got out and hurried after him. "What do you mean, you're afraid of me?"
	"It was your question, MacRae, I only answered it. A nice, straightforward answer, just what you said you wanted. Now put your mind to work on this house."
	"You are the most irritating-"
	"The house, Jo."

	The new door lock David had installed finally surrendered to the lock pick and the big man slipped in quietly. At once he was lost in shadow, his dark clothing and his face mask making him invisible in the dimly lit room.
	He went through the condo quickly, a deadly man carrying a silenced pistol with practiced ease. Satisfied that the place was empty, he settled down on the couch to wait, his pistol in his lap. He didn't mind waiting. He'd had to wait lots of times before.
	He hadn't expected a cat. When Trouble came to sniff at his feet he pushed him away brusquely. "Get away. I don't like cats."
	Trouble didn't like that. He came back again, sniffing delicately at the man's legs, only this time the man stood and kicked the big cat, knocking him across the room and against the wall. "Next time I'll shoot you," the man promised. Trouble limped away, disappearing into shadow where he lay watching the man.
	The man sat down again, waiting. He hoped they wouldn't be too long. Rubber gloves made his hands sweat heavily and if he had to wear them for very long he knew that afterward he'd have a painful skin irritation. He always did. Sitting there in the dark, the thought crossed his mind that perhaps he should try cotton gloves.

	David finally had to break a window to get in, the sound seeming explosive to them in the still night.
	The room they entered through the window was empty, and when they crept out of it and looked in the rooms off the central hallway, they found they were all empty also, until they reached the end of the hall.
	The circle of light from the flashlight danced around in the inky darkness, picking out long tables shrouded in translucent plastic, cabinets filled with electronics equipment, a refrigerator containing drugs.
	"It's an operating room," Joanne whispered.
	"Sure looks like it," David said.
	Her whisper was soft. "They bring you in here and operate on you?"
	He shrugged, shaking his head. "There's never been any scars."
	"Well then, what-"
	"I don't know."
	A low hum and a tiny red telltale showed an operating device. The flashlight sought a label. D'Escoyne Baseline.
	"What do you suppose that is," he asked, "with my name on it?"
	She shook her head.
	He moved around the room. "Look," he said, pointing the beam of the flashlight at a piece of equipment, "looks like one of the collars they give people who've had a neck injury." He moved closer, shining the light through the clear plastic cover. His name was written on a piece of tape stuck to the collar, and there were two electrical terminals on it, each carefully labeled: Amygdala probe, Hippocampus probe.
	He turned to Joanne. "Those words mean anything to you?"
	She shrugged-no. Then she put her hand on his and redirected the beam. Inside the collar two long, curving needles glistened in the light. "My God, David, they stick those in your neck?"
	"The spots." His hand crept to the back of his neck. "The two red spots. That's where they came from. Those needles."
	"They need needles that long for drugs?"
	"This room is where they send me to Chicago," he whispered. "And I meet people and they tell me things I can use to write my math course. But why the charade? Why the VISA receipts for a room I was never in, a parking garage ticket and gas for a car that never moved out of my parking lot?"
	He moved the flashlight beam to point to another neck collar. A different label.
	MacRae.
	He turned to look at her, his face filled with horror.
	"God! You too?"
	"No," she protested. "No, I've never been here."
	"You wouldn't remember," he gritted. "Believe me. But the red spots on your neck, have you ever had anything like that?"
	She shook her head. "No. Never."
	"Not yet," he said grimly. "In the parking lot, we thought they were after me." He pointed to the collar labeled with her name. "They would have taken you too. They're all ready for you. Where would they have sent you? Cincinnati? Detroit, maybe? Or would you have gone to Chicago also? With me. You'd believe it had happened. Oh yes, you'd believe it, all right. You'd believe whatever they wanted you to believe."
	She stared at him. His voice shook with anger, his hands clenched spasmodically into fists. She grabbed his hands and held them tightly. "Stop it, David. We need you thinking clearly. What are-"
	"The bastards," he growled. "No more mind games. Not me, not you."
	She shook him vigorously and he started suddenly, looking at her wide-eyed, his taut muscles relaxing under her hands. "What are we going to do about all this?" she asked.
	Her answer was the sound of the front door opening and closing, and footsteps coming down the hall. Her heart leaped into her throat, and her gaze darted wildly around the operating theater. No windows-they were trapped. "You hear that?" Her whisper was frantic. "We've got to get out of here."
	"No way. Hide." Cool now, he raised the sheeting covering a long table and pushed her under, crouching in behind her and wrapping his arms around her as if to hide her. His whisper was a soft command. "Be quiet, and don't move a muscle."
	The door to the room opened, and in the glow of a flashlight she could see the night watchman's legs as he walked by the table, inches from her. He had only to lower the beam of his flashlight...
	She heard the sound of his turning the key in his time clock to record the time of his rounds, saw the beam on his flashlight sweep quickly around the room. Shutting her eyes tightly, she listened, her heart thunder in her ears, as he walked by the long table and out of the room, closing the door behind him.
	Only then did she realize she hadn't been breathing. Her breath gusted from her and she gasped in a new one.
	"Shhh," came the whisper of David's voice, scarcely more than a soft breath in her ears. "Wait." Still tense, he continued to hold her.
	She felt him relax as he heard the watchman close the front door. He slid out from under the table and cracked open the door to the operating room, and she heard his sigh of relief. "Jesus." He sagged against the door frame. "We'll wait a few minutes, then we're gone."

	The sound of footsteps on the porch of David's condo plus the rattle of a key in the lock alerted the man waiting in the dark apartment. He rose to his feet. David opened the door, reaching behind Joanne to flick on the lights and continuing their conversation. "-you'll put the tea kettle on, I'll get the dictionary," he said, "I want to see what the words on those collars-" He saw the intruder in the living room and fell silent. Joanne followed his gaze and froze.
	"Good," the man said, "just stay that way." He walked toward them, threatening, deadly, his pistol pointing casually toward David. When he got close he made a brushing gesture with his empty hand and said, "Out. Just turn around and go out again. Don't say anything, don't do anything. I want this to be clean. You're supposed to disappear without a trace, so I don't want to make a mess in here."
	When they'd turned around, he pressed his pistol lightly against David to nudge him toward the door. "Out to your car. You'll drive."
	It was then that Trouble made his move. He crept behind the man and sank his teeth up to the gums into the man's right leg just above the Achilles tendon.
	"Aargh!" The man screeched in pain and tried to shake the big cat loose. No way.
	Then David made his move. The sound of the man's shriek jolted him out of the numbing shock he'd experienced when he saw the menacing figure in black.
	Anger replaced paralysis. He spun around to see the man trying to point his pistol at Trouble. He reached out and grabbed the barrel of the pistol with his right hand. With his left hand he grabbed the face mask. The pistol fired with a wheezing pop, and a red streak appeared on Trouble's flank.
	David lowered his shoulder into the gunman's chest as if the two were on a football scrimmage line, and he started pushing the man backwards down the length of the entranceway. The would-be killer backpedaled frantically to keep his balance, straining to raise his pistol. Twice more the gunman fired, the bullets punching neat holes in the parquet flooring of the entryway. Trouble hung on like grim death, trying to tear a chunk out of the man's calf.
	When they reached the end of the hallway and slammed against the wall, David's driving momentum carried him so hard against the assassin that he felt the man's ribs crack. The man grunted in pain and his struggles against David weakened.
	But David wasn't done. He'd suppressed his anger long enough, and here was an enemy at whom he could strike back. Cocking a big fist, he smashed it into the man's jaw. Grunting from the force of his blow, he struck the masked face again.	
	Once more he drew back his fist to strike, but Joanne had overcome her paralysis also, and she ran up behind David, wrapped her hands around his and prevented the blow. His head snapped around to look at her, his face terrible in anger, his lips drawn back in a soundless snarl, but she gripped his hand firmly until she saw the dark wildness drain from his eyes, then she released him.
	David drew a deep, shuddering breath, his shoulders sagging. He dropped the intruder, and putting a hand against the wall, he leaned there, his head drooping.
	Joanne reached out to turn David's face toward her, holding her hand against his cheek. His eyes were clear now, and something inside her welled up to make his image swim before her as they stood staring at each other. Finally, she drew a deep breath and turned away. "I'll call the police."

	"Do you know the guy?" Detective First Class Fella had pulled off the bloody mask, grimacing at the sight of the ruined face.
	David and Joanne shook their heads. David's hand was in a bowl of crushed ice sitting on the large hassock he had pulled close to the couch. He flexed his fingers painfully from time to time. Trouble lay on Joanne's lap, a cloth over his wound.
	"What did you hit him with?" Fella wanted to know.
	"The only thing I had," David said. He pulled his hand out of the ice and held it up.
	Fella eyed David's big hand, finally nodding. "So why was he here?" he asked. "That's what I want to know. Start at the beginning and tell me everything."
	"I don't know why he was here, except, well-" Joanne swallowed hard, realizing it was obvious why the man had been there. "He was waiting for us when we came home," she said. "He said, 'I want this to be clean. You're supposed to disappear without a trace, so I don't want to make a mess in here.'" She went on to tell everything that had happened, including the attack by Trouble which had been their salvation.
	"Really? I've heard of attack cats, but-" Fella eyed the big cat warily, then walked into the hallway to where the medics were working on the still figure slumped at the base of the wall. There he pulled up the assassin's pant leg.
	"Jesus," he said at the sight of Trouble's teeth marks. He pointed out the wound to the medics, then stood watching silently as they loaded the man onto a stretcher and carried him out of the house. He walked back to stand staring down at Joanne and David.
	"'You're supposed to disappear-'" he murmured. "Sounds like a contract job. Who'd want to pay to have you dead? Why you?"
	"I don't know," David said. He stared at Joanne for a moment. "I'd give most anything to know. You see, this isn't the first time someone has tried."
	Joanne's face paled. "What?"
	David turned to Fella, the story of his encounter on the county road spilling out of him. "You might be able to get more from the Hendricks county sheriff's office," he finished. "Ask for Boudreau."
	Fella frowned heavily. "I will. But don't you have any idea why these attempts on your life?"
	David's gaze locked with Joanne's, and the two stared at each other so long that Fella finally asked, "D'Escoyne?"
	David cocked his head and eyed Fella carefully. What about the house at 16 Adams Drive, he thought. Would those people want me dead? Twice they had me, why didn't they kill me then? How can Joanne be mixed up in this? She would have died tonight also. Wouldn't she?
	"Boudreau had a lot of trouble with that same question. He couldn't seem to believe that I didn't know then-don't know now."
	Fella switched his gaze to Joanne. "Can you add anything to this? Why would anyone want you dead?"
	"I haven't the slightest idea," she said. "You think it could have been me he was after? Not David-me? Or, maybe because I was here?"
	Fella shrugged. "It's possible that one of you would have been an innocent bystander, a witness he couldn't have left alive. But maybe not. If I were you two, that's a question I'd give some serious thought. And some serious conversation."
	He stood, taking a card out of a folder and handing it to Joanne. "Call me if you think of anything." He was almost to the front door when he stopped and turned to point a warning finger at Joanne, "Call me before you go home," he said sternly. "We'll have a car check out your place. No telling who could be waiting for you there, eh?"

	David pulled his hand out of the ice and stared at it, flexing his fingers experimentally. "I might have killed that guy, Jo, if you hadn't stopped me." He sighed deeply. "Thanks."
	"It's Trouble you need to thank."
	 David surveyed the animal lying on Joanne's lap, finally addressing the big cat. "I know you didn't do it for me, but you might as well have. So all right, you've earned your room and board. Just remember to stay off the furniture, okay?" He raised his gaze to Joanne. "I think we'd better get him to a vet. I don't like the look of that wound of his."

	Two hours later they returned home. This time Trouble lay in David's arms, his flank still numb from the anesthetic used while the groove cut by the assassin's bullet was stitched closed. David looked down at him, smiling. "The kind of reward I'd like to give you wouldn't mean a thing to you, but I can give you something you'd appreciate." He started toward the kitchen. "And, what the hell, I'll have a sandwich too. You want something, Jo? Tea, maybe? Scrambled eggs?"

	Later, Joanne looked up from the big dictionary. "The amygdala and the hippocampus are both parts of the brain," she said.
	"Probes," David mused aloud. His eyes grew large. "You mean they were sticking those needles into my brain?"
	"They were certainly long enough to reach," she said.
	"Yes, but-" David shuddered. "God," he said, "those bastards."
	They fell silent for a while.
	"Why didn't you tell me someone had tried to kill you before tonight?"
	It was a question David had been anticipating. And dreading. He heaved an enormous sigh. He'd decided to tell her the truth, and he was thinking that maybe this was foolish. "I was afraid you were involved."
	"David!"
	"Because of all the weird things that have happened to me since I met you."
	Joanne gaped at him. "How could you think I..." She scowled. "What weird things?"
	"The ACMP directory. Why my odometer only showed fourteen miles after I'd just made a trip to Chicago. How you screamed at me that I hadn't been there when I knew I had."
	"But you know how that happened. It was in that house at Sixteen Adams Street."
	"Yes, now I know. But I only learned that tonight. Then there was the attempt to kidnap me... us. The spots on my neck every time I made one of my trips. The knowledge I had after the trips you said I never made, knowledge I didn't have before. And you were so sure I'd never been away. When I knew I had. All right, I know now that you weren't-"
	"I didn't scream at you."
	He dropped his eyes. "I didn't want to say 'screeched.'"
	"I didn't...Screeched?"
	David nodded.
	The silence came back.
	"I should have known better than think the way I did," he ventured. "You aren't that kind of woman."
	The silence descended again.
	"I had no business-" She gulped. "Screeching?"
	"Well... you thought I'd stood you up."
	"Twice!"
	He gazed at her, his eyes narrowing.
	"Of course, you hadn't actually."
	This time the quiet didn't seem so depressing.
	Joanne heaved a sigh. "So what are we going to do?"
	"We've got to decide what we're going to do about that house at Sixteen Adams Drive. I don't want to go back in there again. The police will keep that guy who was here tonight off our backs. What else-"
	"Surely you don't think it's over."
	"Damn it," he said. He took a deep breath. "No, I don't think it's over. No way. I saw the guy's face in the Ford, and that guy tonight-" He recalled the mangled hand clutching the silenced pistol. "Couldn't have been him anyway. But he had a partner, and he's still out there." He got up and started moving aimlessly around the living room, clenching and unclenching his hand. "You want to stay here tonight?" he suddenly blurted.
	She'd been following him around the room with her gaze. "Stay here? Why, David?"
	She saw his throat move as he swallowed. "I'm afraid something will happen to you and I won't be there to help."
	She took a moment to answer, her voice gentle. "Don't you think I can take care of myself?"
	He stopped his wandering and gazed at her. "Could you have? Tonight? Look, I know you're tough. I know you're quick, and I know you're clever. And I know I can take care of myself, too, but tonight it wasn't enough, was it?" He indicated Trouble with a nod of his head. "Both of us would have died if it hadn't been for that animal."
	"You think that could happen again? I know what that detective said, but still..."
	"Yes, you may be right. You'll probably be safer away from me. I may be a lightning rod for danger. I certainly seem to be one since I've come to Indianapolis."
	"That's not what I meant. I meant, could it happen again? And I guess the answer is yes. But perhaps I'm the lightning rod. In which case I'd just be endangering you." She rose, picking up her purse. "I can't stay, David. I have to be... tomorrow-" She looked at her watch, frowning at the hour she saw there. "No, tomorrow is already today-a very important day to me. No tennis, I'm afraid." Her smile was radiant. "If I'm right, today will be the grandest gift I've ever gotten."
	"It already is, Jo. For both of us."
	Her smile drained away. "Yes, no matter what happens, there is a today for me, thanks to you."
	He shook his head. "No. Thanks to Trouble," he said. His eyes dwelt briefly on the big cat lying peacefully just outside the living room. "Anyway, if it's important to you, then I hope today is perfect."
	She took his face between her hands. "Thank you." Then she kissed him. She'd intended it to be a mere peck, and it was fairly short. It was only a moment before she stepped back, her face flushed and filled with consternation. She stared at him. She felt as though she could have fallen forever into the beautiful green eyes.
	"I'll, um... I'll tell you about it as soon as I can. Good-bye." She stumbled against the hassock and nearly fell as she hurried out of the living room.
	David looked after her for a moment, smiling dreamily, then he reached up to touch his lips where she'd kissed him. He sighed deeply and went to the phone. He dialed and waited. "I'd like to speak with Detective Fella about checking out a house...." 

Chapter 27

	Friday morning.
	The team had had the farmhouse under surveillance since before dawn. It had rained, and when the quiet, soft-spoken man they'd been waiting for arrived, the sky was still leaden, the morning gray and chilly. They made another radio check with the observers watching the little-used road leading to the house. Satisfied, the team leader gestured, and one of the team approached the side door and set to work with her lock picks. Surprised to find such a complex lock on the side door of an apparently abandoned farmhouse, she needed several minutes before she signaled her success to the team leader. He motioned another man forward, this one laden with electronics detection equipment, which he used at some length before finally opening the door and beckoning the team leader forward.
	One last check with the road watchers and the rest of the team entered the building. The latecomer was careful to stay out of their way. The team completed their work swiftly, with an expertise born of sound training and long experience. The tiny devices they installed were state of the art, cleverly concealed, virtually invisible.
	At last the team leader reported. "Everything checks out, sir," he said to the latecomer. "We'll hear the softest whisper loud and clear from anywhere in the house."
	The latecomer nodded. He was older than the members of the team. His hair was grizzled, his face deeply lined, as if he had once been a much larger man, but had shrunk. His eyes were pale blue, like a work shirt that had been washed and washed. He looked around the room, noting the round table, the rolled up screen, the slide projector. Walking to the table, he rubbed a hand against one of the leather chairs, shaking his head slowly. The technicians could see the muscles in his jaws working, and the team leader wondered nervously what the man was seeing that he might have missed.
	"You've been into everything, I suppose. Nothing hidden away anywhere that we could use?" the older man said finally.
	"No, sir."
	"No, there wouldn't be. Not with them." He took a deep breath, held it for a moment. "Prints?"
	"Yes, sir. At a quick look, there are five different sets, just as you predicted. We've taken them and cleaned up."
	"All right. Good work. Everyone out now."
	Niels Gruener left the old farmhouse and drove back to Washington. 

Chapter 28

	Friday morning.
	The aircraft had been circling in position for twenty minutes. Waiting.
	A modified Boeing 727, the aircraft was at its absolute maximum service ceiling-as high in the thin air above the earth as it could fly-because atmosphere, the enemy of the device, would scatter and weaken the beam.
	Thousands of miles away, in an atmosphere approaching the hard vacuum of space, their target-a long-dead satellite circling the earth at a speed greater than one thousand miles per hour-was still concealed behind the curvature of the earth. Invisible to the eye, they would see it as a mere dot on the screen of the acquisition radar.
	The interior of the aircraft was quiet, the only sounds the pulsing murmur of the jet engines and the thin air brushing like feathers against the hull.
	The radar operator broke the silence. "The target has just cleared the horizon, Doctor."
	"Start the trigger timer, please," Joanne said quietly into her headset.
	Large red numbers sprang into being on the Trigger Time indicator, stepping silently toward zero once each second.
	Another sign flashed red: Self Test Running.
	Joanne's face was calm, only the hands balled into fists behind her back giving notice of her tension. This creation of hers was new, incorporating a radical departure from previous beam-focusing techniques, and should be capable of focusing the superlaser on a spot thousands of miles distant. It had been tested, of course, over and over, but only at greatly reduced power. However, the theoretical potential of the superlaser operating at its full power was awesome. If the focusing circuits failed, the effect of such enormous power raging uncontrolled inside the aircraft would be catastrophic. Everyone on board knew it, but tried not to think about it.
	Joanne had approached each member of her team privately, offering to fill in for anyone who wanted to stay on the ground. No one had accepted her offer. 
	The red letters of the self-test sign winked out and green letters spelled out: Self Test OK. Joanne let her pent-up breath sigh out softly.
	As though it had nothing better to do, her memory paraded through her mind the scholarly spat over whether the sign should properly have read 'Self Test Completed.' 
	"It's my sign," she had said finally. "I'm the one who's going to be looking at it, and when we get to that stage of the test, I'm going to want reassurance. I want it to tell me that everything is okay." As though the wording of the sign would have affected the outcome of the test.
	Her colleagues around the table had looked smilingly at each other and let her have her way.
	"Aiming circuit data transfer underway," the deliberately flat voice of an engineer announced. The aiming device was also new, and of necessity had to operate in conjunction with the beam-focusing apparatus, the two components exchanging data-talking with each other in a sophisticated electronic conversation-to lay the tightly focused beam precisely on target, and keep it there. In theory, the aiming circuit should be able to switch the full power of the superlaser beam from target to target at light speeds. But it, too, had only been tested with the low power beam.
	"Beam aperture open and clear," a woman's soft Southern drawl announced in Joanne's headset.
	Her teammate spoke. "I confirm beam aperture open and clear."
	The thought of triggering the device with the beam aperture closed was too appalling to dwell on.
	"Operating temperature, all units, mid-range and stable," another voice droned.
	"Target acquisition successful." The aiming circuit had locked on to the target. The engineer couldn't keep the note of exultation from his voice. He and Joanne had been working toward this moment for three years. He looked up from his console and she held out a fist, thumb up, and they grinned fiercely at each other across the cabin of the airplane.
	"Thirty seconds to firing time. All circuits in the green," the trigger timer murmured in Joanne's ear.
	"Thank you." Joanne answered the electronic voice without realizing it. The fists she held behind her clenched harder.
	"Charging completed, device fully loaded," the trigger timer commented. All that remained was to trip the firing circuit, and three years work-
	"Ten seconds. Recorders on." A klaxon blared a warning.
	"Goggles, everyone," Joanne called out, pulling the dark goggles up from around her neck and positioning them over her eyes.
	"Five seconds... Triggering gate opened... Four... Firing circuit armed... Three... Two... "
	The longest seconds in Joanne's life passed. Her hands crept round in front as if seeking company, squeezing one another tightly, the knuckles blanching. The aircraft was filled with living statues, ears straining to listen to the trigger timer.
	"Zero," the calm voice of the timer said. "Device triggered."
	The aircraft was filled with a blinding glare of light from outside the aircraft as the lethal beam leaped from the aperture and lanced into space, heating the thin air to incandescence. 
	As the glare faded, the radar operator snatched off his goggles and started his report. "Target expanding."
	Expected. The ionized particles of the target would boil apart explosively, creating the illusion that the target was growing larger.
	The aircraft slid quietly through the thin air.
	"Target return weakening."
	 Expected. As the vaporized target dissipated the radar echo would grow weaker, until...
	At last, a shout of triumph, "No return from target."
	As one, the crew in the aircraft turned to look at Joanne, seeing her biting her lips to keep from grinning uncontrollably, her face wet with tears of happiness.

Chapter 29

	"If you've had your TV on, you've probably all heard."
	The Chairman, uncharacteristically disheveled, paced back and forth, his forehead damp with perspiration. He waved an Eyes Only report.
	"Details... a satellite has disappeared. Vanished. Stories abound that a light flashed in the sky. Our field offices were flooded with stories of UFO sightings. Well, it wasn't any UFO, it was Radiant Sword. All right, it was a dead satellite, an old French SPOT, the Space Command said, but it could just as easily have been a SAMOS or a NOAA satellite, even one of NSA's Big Birds. There can no longer be any doubt that Radiant Sword is a menace to the safety and security of the nation."
	Three had problems of his own, and they couldn't wait any longer. "To hell with Radiant Sword," he shouted at Chairman. "That precious pair of yours have managed to put my man into the prison wing of Wishard General hospital in Indianapolis. I sent him there to do your work, so now, by God, you're gonna tell me how I'm supposed to get him out."
	The Chairman stared coolly at Three. "Come now, Three, surely you can arrange to have your man-"
	"Arrange, your ass! He's in there for attempted murder. That's a capital crime. I can't tell them he was there to do a job for me. 'What kind of job requires a silenced pistol,' they'll want to know."
	"You can handle them," One sneered. "Bunch of cornballs. Remember? Send in some federal agents, threaten to bust a few careers-they'll cave in. Remember?"
	"I told you we should have pulled out of the Radiant Sword operation," Four said. "Now Three has got us all in a bind."
	Number Three surged to his feet, enraged and sputtering. "You bastard," he shouted, "it was you who suggested a permanent solution. 'Somethin' drastic,' you said. Well, now you've got another problem, and you're not gonna back out of this one."
	"It's really quite simple," Number Four said. "Send in another man to take out the one in the hospital."
	Number Three gaped at him. "You want me... my own man?"
	"You find something improper about that suggestion, Three?" the Chairman asked.
	"After all," Four said, "the man failed in his mission. Why should you concern yourself unduly?"
	"Take care of it, Three," the Chairman ordered. "And soon. Now let's get back to something important-Radiant Sword. Someone is destroying satellites-and we still can't prove a connection between Atlas Corporation and Radiant Sword!" His voice grew shrill in his indignation, and he paused to collect himself. "We've already ordered D'Escoyne and MacRae apprehended and scanned. But we must decide what we're going to do about them afterwards."
	"Well, decide without me," Number Four said, "Those two people-they're loose cannons, Chairman. We should have known better than go along with you in the first place. I'm not going to become any more involved than I am already."
	"Figures," Number One said. "Too bad Number Two had to die so inconveniently. She could have given us some perspective about Radiant Sword. After all, I wouldn't be surprised if half the birds up there are hers. Were hers. It's a cinch we can't ask the guy who replaced her. Something else about her-I'll tell you right now that I'm still not happy with that story about her being killed by a robber. As far as I'm concerned, Chairman, here's the bottom line; nobody from my agency is going to Indianapolis."
	"And you can guess what I'm going to do about your precious Radiant Sword," Three said.
	The Chairman stiffened. "All right," he snarled, "to hell with you, all of you. The Bureau doesn't need you anyway. We'll bring Radiant Sword down to earth by ourselves." He slammed his hand on the table. "This court is adjourned." 

Chapter 30

	Jimmy Pratt spoke earnestly into the telephone. "Yes, that's right, it went off perfectly. Not a single hitch. I got it from the queen bee herself."
	He listened.
	"No, we can't, not yet. They need to go over the test recorders and tear down the device to check for anything marginal. When you're working with something that potent, it doesn't pay-"
	More listening.
	"Yes, I tell you. There's nothing but dust up there. It's gone. Wiped out. Complete destruction. Surely you've heard all the talking heads on TV flapping about its being missing. What better confirmation could you hope for?"
	A grin spread over his face. "Ah-h, yes. Thank you. In the same account as before, please."
	He grew serious. "She says she'll need a couple more days to look over everything and be ready to deliver the prototype. Hard to believe, isn't it, after three years? Just a few more days, and we'll just fly away with-what? A bonus?"
	As Pratt listened, another grin slid across his face. "Really? Hah," he crowed, "that's perfect! You couldn't have done anything to please me more." 

Chapter 31

	David frowned in concentration as he typed out his first lesson plan. If they don't read well, he thought, they probably don't write well either. He'd tried imagining Tim's reaction when he found out that the first lesson was forming letters and numbers, especially numbers. "Oh, yes," he murmured, "he's going to love this."
	He was looking through the clip art in his computer's memory, seeking just the right illustrations to make his point, when Trouble strolled into his study as if he had a perfect right to be there.
	"Out," David said. "You know this room is off limits."
	Trouble sat down, well inside the room.
	David picked up the broom and started toward him. Trouble retreated hastily, barely able to save his dignity, and stopped just outside the doorway. "Yeah," David said, "I get the feeling that's exactly the way Tim is going to be. He'll push me right to the edge. I know it. This is going to be one great year."
	He'd just sat down again when the doorbell rang. He glanced at his watch. Seven o'clock? Who'd be coming around this time of morning?
	Wary, he checked the peephole, then threw the door open hastily.
	"Jo! Come in." Then, "Oh, hell, not again."
	She blinked at him. "What not again?"
	"Jo, I didn't stand you up. I didn't think we were supposed to play today. I thought it was Saturday." He frowned. "It is Saturday."
	She smiled. "Yes, it is. I've taken the day off. There's something I want to tell you."
	He led her into the kitchen, put on the tea kettle and sat eyeing her. She wore a pair of sage green linen slacks with a matching long-sleeved linen shirt, black pumps and a black belt. Her eyes were glowing. He thought she looked smashing. He nodded slowly. "Very nice, MacRae. Okay, tell me."
	"Well." Her face had grown pink under his inspection. "Yesterday was a complete success."
	He grinned broadly. "Hey, that's great, Jo."
	"Now I want to tell you what it was. Have you had your TV on lately?"
	He shook his head.
	"A satellite was knocked out of the sky yesterday."
	"Oh?" He shrugged. "So?"
	"It was my project that knocked it out." She went on to tell him about the three grinding years she'd spent developing the superlaser, all culminating in yesterday's successful test.
	After she had finally run down, he looked quizzically at her. "Why did you tell me this?"
	A little shake of her head. "I wanted you to know."
	"Well, yes, but didn't you tell me there was a hellacious penalty if word of what you were doing leaked out?"
	She nodded. "Huge was the word I used. Enormous, maybe."
	Puzzled, he said, "I don't get it, Jo. Why would you deliberately-" He was quiet for a moment, his eyes searching her face. Finally he nodded. "Yes, I do get it. You want to see if you can trust me with something, don't you? Something big, something so important that it might ruin you if it got out."
	She sat silent, unmoving, her gaze fixed on his.
	"You'd risk so much... it's that important to you to know that you can trust me?"
	She was still. Waiting.
	He began slowly shaking his head. "Jesus, MacRae." He reached for her hand. "You're something else, you know that?"
	She jerked her hand from his, folding it into a fist and waving it under his nose. "If you say that again-"
	He drew back in mock terror, cowering behind raised hands. Then he lowered his hands and gazed thoughtfully at her for a moment. "I want to ask you something," he said.
	She was still frowning. "What!"
	"The other day, after you brought me to your place to sleep off the drug that FBI guy stuck me with, I went outside get some fresh air and I met your neighbors. They wanted to know if I was all right, and we got to talking. Turned out that they had helped you bring your fiancé in from your car. Your fiancé. Why did you tell them I was your fiancé?"
	"I couldn't very well tell them the FBI was after you, could I?"
	"Why didn't you tell them I was your cousin? Or a friend?"
	"I... I wanted something nice."
	"Cousin wouldn't have been nice?"
	She glared at him down the length of her patrician nose. "Are you trying to make something Freudian out of it?"
	"Is there something Freudian about it?"
	"I... I don't know. I thought it was nice so that's what I said. Why are you after me about it, anyway?"
	"I think it's nice too."
	Her fist unfolded slowly, and she gazed at him for such a long moment that he grew restless. Finally she asked, "Have you... known lots of women?"
	"What?"
	"Have you known-"
	"Yes. I heard you." He frowned. "Why do you ask that?"
	"Have you?"
	"Well-" A little shrug. "Sure. I guess so. Yeah, lots. Why do you want to know?"
	"You don't seem as smooth as most of the men I've known who claim to have had lots of women."
	"Yeah? Well. You've known lots of men?"
	"Of course."
	"Yeah. Why not?" His gaze dropped. "I suppose I should have been able to figure that. You're a nice-looking woman. And what the hell, it's your business who you give your favors to. Not mine, right."
	He started to get up from the table, but she reached across and grabbed his shirt and jerked him back down in his seat. "Wait a minute. Favors? When you said 'known,' did you mean... in the Biblical sense?"
	"Is that what you meant when you asked me?"
	She shook him vigorously. "Don't you play word games with me, David D'Escoyne. Answer the question."
	"It matters?"
	"Yes," she cried. "It matters. Maybe it shouldn't-"
	"Yes. That's what I meant."
	"Oh. Then, no, I haven't... known lots of men, I mean."
	She recalled the night she'd lost her virginity. The wild party the night she'd gotten her PhD. She'd gone to a motel with a fellow graduate, a man she'd studied with for long months. She remembered the sweaty, awkward fumbling, the pain, the disappointment-and afterward how he'd checked his watch and hurried into his clothes. He had to get home to relieve his wife as baby sitter so she could get to work, he'd told her.
	She'd cried herself to sleep.
	"And you?" she asked.
	"You know about Jean," he said. Well, there'd been the girl the night of the high school senior prom. Maggie, a flaming redhead. His rite of passage. He'd felt really cocky about it, too-Maggie was a very pretty girl-until he'd met a couple of other guys who'd had the same experience with Maggie the same night. How diminished he'd felt. After that he'd never quite been able to trust women. Until Jean. And then he'd lost her. But there was another problem.
	"What about... Hayes?"
	"Hayes? What about him?" She started frowning. "You think I'd trust him with something like I just told you?"
	"I'll tell you what I think. The other night, on the way to Chicago, I got the idea-not from what you said, but from the way you said it... well, now that your project is winding down, Hayes might be coming around again... well, I got to wondering if maybe this would be all right with you."
	She studied him with such an intense gaze that he began to believe he had made a terrible mistake. At last she asked him, "The night after Chicago, when we went into that house in Beech Grove, you said you were afraid of me. Why are you afraid of me?"
	He stared down at his hands, lax and motionless, and as he sat there, a door opened in his mind. He hesitated, finally recognizing what was in his heart, and stepped through, closing the door behind him. A soft sigh, and he raised his gaze to meet hers. "Because you're important to me, Jo, too important for us to be just... just friends." Then, "No." He growled the word almost angrily, "No. Hell, it's more than that, a lot more." He swallowed hard. "I love you, Jo," he said.
	For a moment after he spoke, she sat still as stone, then she pushed back her chair and stood. "You come with me." She marched into his living room, seating herself on the couch. "Sit right there," she said, pointing to the big hassock in front of the couch. When he'd sat down, she looked at him coolly, dispassionately, her gaze examining him as if she were deciding whether to keep him or cast him out with the chaff.
	"Carl's features are rugged, like yours," she said finally, "but his nose is perfect. He doesn't have the hook in his that you do."
	David raised a hand to touch his nose. "Yeah, well, he never had to fight his way out of many gang fights, or he'd damned sure have some scars."
	"His eyes are dark, so dark that you feel as though you're looking into something deep, mysterious. And his hair, dark too. Almost black. It soaks up the light, so that sometimes he looks like... like a dark angel." Her eyes rose to look at David's hair. "Not a bright angel."
	"Jo," David's voice cracked. "What's the bottom line here?"
	She was quiet for a moment, bent over, picking idly at the crease in her linen slacks. Finally she straightened, drawing a deep breath, meeting his eyes.
	"Bottom line, David? I wonder that you have to ask. If this were a contest for "best looking," Carl might," she waggled a hand, "might win. But if I were picking a man to love me, a man I can believe in-" Her smile came suddenly, flashing, the stars sparkling brilliantly in her eyes, "a man to give me babies," her voice quavered, "then you'd win without even breaking a sweat."
	Her image blurred before David's eyes. He looked away, blinking hard, biting his lips. Then he drew a deep breath. "Just think," he whispered, "little dark-haired, blue-eyed babies, as beautiful as their mother."
	"More," she said. "With green eyes."
	He shook his head. "More beautiful?" He waved away the thought. "Not possible." Then he grinned. "But I can see little blue-eyed blondes." His smile faded. "That I'd love almost as much as I'd love their mother."
	Her smile grew and grew, a balm pouring over him like honey, until he couldn't see anything but the stars in her eyes.

	David didn't remember exactly how it happened, but he found her sitting beside him on the hassock. There wasn't really room for two, but somehow they were making it work. He had one arm around her waist to hold her close, and the other hand...
	... Joanne felt a warm tingling wherever David's hand touched her, and when his touch moved the warmth remained until she began to feel hot, almost feverish, all over. His hand moved slowly up her thigh, lightly tracing the curve of her derrière, and she arched her back to let him tug her blouse out of her slacks. His hand burrowed under the light cloth to drift excitingly up the channel of her spine. When his fingers paused at the strap of her bra, she held her breath, willing him to open it, but afraid to speak lest she ruin the magic of the moment. She sighed softly as his hand moved unhurriedly on.
	She scrunched up her shoulders as he caressed the back of her neck, then lifted his hand to shape her face.
	Need fountained in her like a geyser. Oh God, she thought, this was loving. This was the way it should be.
	She kissed the fingertips that traced her lips.
	His hand trembled.
	She raised her hands to cup his face, and raised her mouth to him. This close his eyes seemed enormous, filling her view, and her eyes drifted closed as his lips touched hers.
	There was a loud banging on the front door, the sound a raucous intrusion into the moment. Joanne's eyes popped opened and she found herself staring into the lustrous green of David's gaze. They parted reluctantly.
	Joanne smiled dreamily at him for an instant. Then she sighed. "Just when everything was going so well." She hammered him with her blue eyes. "We'll have to finish this, you know," she murmured, "to get it right."
	He nodded. Finish it? Oh yes, he understood that, all right.
	More hammering on the door, and David scowled as the doorbell clanged and bonged. "It better be somebody damned important," he growled. He sighed deeply and touched her lips gently with a finger. "God, Jo, what a beautiful woman you are," he murmured. Then he slid off the hassock and crossed the living room to peer through the peephole. Rolling his eyes at what he saw, he pulled open the door.
	"Where the hell you been, man?" Tim said. "I've been calling and calling." He pushed his way into the entryway, turning to beckon his two companions in. "This is Melanie," he said, nodding to a young black girl. "This is Demetrius," he added, with another nod at a black youth. "They want to learn math too."
	Demetrius and Melanie shook hands with David awkwardly, not used to it. Tim, noticing Joanne, asked David, "Hey, she in on this too?"
	Joanne's eyes met David's and she strolled over to Tim. "You must be Tim. I've heard about you. Well, no, I'm not in on this. I'm here because-" She took a deep breath. "David is my fiancé," she said.
	"Fiancé?" Melanie grinned. "When are you getting married?"
	Joanne looked at David, her eyebrows arching.
	He threw up his hands, laughing. "Well, moving right along-"
	"Yeah," Tim said. "Let's get this show on the road. When are we going to get something to study?"
	"I thought you were going to find five more people," David said.
	"I will," Tim said, "but can't you start with the three of us?"
	David grinned. "As a matter of fact, I just finished the first lesson this morning. I want all of you to give it your very best shot, because it'll make everything easier from now on. I'll print out three copies and you can-"
	He was interrupted by the doorbell, and he rolled his eyes "What now, the phone man? I never have this kind of traffic."
	He opened the door. Two men were standing there, and without warning one of them, the one with the splint on his left hand, lashed out with his hand. David felt the familiar sting of a needle in his cheek. "No," he said, "don't-" His knees buckled and he fell in a heap in the open doorway.
	The second man stepped over him and charged into the condo, bowling over Tim, Demetrius and Melanie and sticking them with his own needle as they struggled to get up.
	The two men cornered Joanne and she crouched, holding her hands out defensively. Cautious, one man drew closer, and when she feinted a kick, he also feinted a grab at her leg. This time, when her hand darted toward his eyes, he slapped at it with his needle and watched, satisfied, as she sagged slowly to the floor.
	Neither man had spoken a word.
	The two carried Joanne and David out to a panel truck advertising Tim's Amoco, loaded them in the back and drove away. 

Chapter 32

	It was well past dark when Doctor Lester Sneeth was able to make his way to the house at 16 Adams Drive. The two people he'd been told to expect were there, had been since before noon, he was informed.
	Sneeth, Chief of the Neurology Department at St. Francis hospital, had his orders. Days before, he'd talked at length to the faceless man with the accent of an Easterner, the man who sent him envelopes filled with large bills. He'd been surprised at the nature of his instructions. He'd warned that he couldn't begin to predict the results if the scan write-backs were reversed, although he had confessed that he was fascinated with the idea of trying it. Yes, of course he'd do it, and yes, he'd keep his benefactor informed of the outcome. And today another letter full of money had arrived. He'd tucked it into his jacket pocket.
	Scrubbed and gowned, he grunted at the sight of people on the two tables and, ignoring the man, walked to stand looking down at the tall, black-haired woman stretched face down and draped in a green sheet. Her collar was already around her neck, and the glistening needles were positioned in their grooves, ready for insertion.
	So that's what MacRae looks like, he thought. At five feet five, he found tall women exciting. He rested a hand casually on her firm buttocks.
	"She been prepped?" he asked.
	His hand was swatted peremptorily off Joanne and he turned angrily to find himself staring into the dark eyes of his assistant, Doctor Carla Weiss. "What the hell, Weiss? Have you forgotten that I'm Chief of-"
	"You put your hand on her again and I'll take it off at the wrist," Weiss said. "You forget too easily why you are here."
	Sneeth flushed, his gaze darting away from Weiss's to land on the intern who was to insert the probes. "All right, Hartmann," he snarled, "what the hell are you waiting for?"
	"Doctor Sneeth," Hartmann said, "I don't see any problem with the woman since this is her first scan. But I think you should know that if we scan that man again, he may suffer permanent damage. I mean, there's got to be a limit to how many times I can insert these probes before scarring will begin to-"
	"That's not your concern, Hartmann. Your job is to stick those probes in whoever I say and whenever I say."
	"It is my concern," Hartmann said earnestly. "I don't want to injure him. The purpose of these procedures-"
	"Injure him? That's a laugh," Sneeth said. "How do you like this-when we've read both of them, our orders are to write his scan back into her brain, and her scan back into his."
	"What?" Weiss said. "Really?" Her eyes grew round. "My God, what a fascinating idea. Do you suppose they'll stay sane, remembering all the wrong things, living in the wrong bodies?"
	Sneeth shrugged. "Who knows? This is our chance to find out. And be well paid for our efforts."
	"It's a terrible thing," Hartmann said. "Like some of the things the Nazis tried."
	"Just get it done, Hartmann," Sneeth grated.
	Hartmann drew a deep breath, then opened the door to a control cabinet. Grasping one end of a wire labeled "Amygdala," he connected it to the probe on Joanne's collar, tightening a thumb screw firmly to hold it in place. He repeated this step with the hippocampus probe, and a third lead, labeled "Neutral" was fastened to a strap around Joanne's arm over a smearing of saline paste. Then he began setting switches. "Scan/Write to Scan," he murmured. "Polarity Test: On." A green light glowed. "Voltage: On." He stared at a meter, finally nodding. "Okay. Start: Off. Safety: On."
	He positioned the fluoroscope, then leaned over Joanne and began the task of inserting the probes.

	The leader of the team waited impatiently while one of his men worked at the lock at the front door of 16 Adams Drive. Three of the team carried attaché cases, and they had all bunched tightly to hide the activity of the one bent over the lock. The leader faked a knock on the door to cover their delay in getting in.
	"There," murmured the lock picker, "in we go."
	Inside, the leader checked each member of his team, three men and three women, to be certain their silenced pistols each had a round in the chamber and that the safety had been switched off. "I'll kill the one who fires too soon and warns them."
	They all nodded, knowing that he would.
	They rolled their masks down over their faces and began to move down the hallway. Silently as ghosts they checked each room, until finally they reached the big door at the end. The team leader eased it open.

	"There, that should do it for her," Hartmann said. "Might as well get him ready while we're waiting for her to stabilize." He turned from his position between the two tables to lean over David. He started to move the fluoroscope and as he did his eye was caught by the opening door. His jaw dropped as he stared at the masked figure standing there.
	Weiss, facing him across the table, saw his look and turned. The door was open all the way and the six team members slipped into the room, weapons ready, silent and deadly. "What are you doing?" she asked. "This is an operating room. You can't just come waltzing in-"
	The team leader shot her squarely in the heart. Weiss's body slammed back against the table, then slid away to the floor. The shot had made very little noise.
	"The people," the team leader said. "We want these people. Get them off the tables. Now."
	One of the team, a woman, reached out to disconnect the wires from the probes buried in Joanne's neck, stopping at Hartmann's warning shout. Her pistol swung menacingly, and Hartmann fancied he could see death spiraling from the barrel. He looked into the woman's empty eyes and spoke hurriedly.
	"You can't take her with the probes still in her. It'll kill her."
	"Ahh," the woman breathed, "so take them out, eh?"
	Hartmann began inching the long, curving needles out of Joanne's neck. The room was quiet. Sneeth had hidden in a tiny space behind some storage cabinets, and he thought his ticking Rolex was the loudest sound he'd ever heard.
	After an eternity, Hartmann straightened. "That's it. They're out. She can go."
	Motioning to three members of his team, the team leader said, "Get them out of the building. Put them in the van." To the other three, he said, "Get the place ready. I'll tidy up here." He turned to Hartmann and said, "Thanks for the tip about those needles. I really appreciate it," and reaching across the table, he placed the barrel of his pistol against Hartmann's forehead and pulled the trigger.
	Meanwhile, the other three had opened their attaché cases and pulled out cans of charcoal fire starter. They began squirting it everywhere, soaking the walls, the floor, even the ceiling, pulling out a new can when one was squeezed dry. Weiss's body, and Hartmann's, received a generous dousing, and in his hiding place, Sneeth was drenched from the splash. The three went out of the operating room, down the hall, spraying the starter on the walls and floor. In five minutes the house was a tinderbox awaiting the spark.
	The leader took a small timer from a jacket pocket, then stood for a moment, irresolute. He thought he'd seen three people in the room when he'd entered. He looked around carefully, finally shrugging. He set the timer, positioned it on the floor in the center of the room and left, leaving the door open.
	As the sound of his footsteps faded, Sneeth hastily threw off his surgical gown and jacket, both wet with charcoal fire starter, and started for the doorway. At the door he paused, hurrying back to remove from the inside pocket of his jacket the envelope containing the money he'd received from the man he knew only as a voice over the phone.
	As he started toward the door again there was a sharp crack as the timer went off. Fire leaped across the floor, climbing quickly up the walls, and suddenly the room became a furnace.
	His trousers, wet with fire starter from the knees down, caught fire, and disoriented by the pain and the leaping flames, Sneeth stumbled over Hartmann's body, cracking his head sharply against one of the long tables.
	Dazed and frantic with pain, he still managed to regain his footing and stagger toward what he thought was the door, only to slam into an equipment locker. Stunned, he tried feebly to beat out the fire in his clothing as he sought a way out of the inferno.
	The envelope containing the money lay on the floor, curling in the heat, blackening as the flames devoured it, finally crumbling into ashes.

	The team leader climbed into the van and the driver started the engine.
	"Hey, listen." One of the team lowered the window of the van. "Do you hear screaming?"
	The leader listened intently, finally shaking his head. "No, but it doesn't matter. It'll stop soon." He motioned to the driver. "Come on, I want to be out of here before any sign of fire shows and somebody calls the police."
	As the van nosed out onto Adams Drive he pulled out a cellular phone and tapped in a number. "This is the package delivery service," he said to the man who answered. "Where do you want to take delivery?"
	"I'm afraid we can't take delivery right now. It'll be a day or so yet."
	The leader pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at it in disbelief. "So what was all the hurry?"
	"We couldn't afford to have the package stored there. As long as it was there it was out from under our control. And funny things go on there."
	"You can say that again," the leader said. "You wouldn't believe how they'd stored your goods. So what do I do with it?"
	"Take it back to where it was picked up originally by the other-um, the other company. Slip it in quietly. It's important that it appears never to have been missing. And keep an eye on it."
	"Both parts?"
	Surprise showed in the voice. "Both parts? You mean there are-" The voice paused for a moment. "Well, hell. Yes, both parts. For the time being, at least. There are too many people watching that package to let anything happen to either part. That may change later on. We'll see. Oh, was there any problem getting custody of the goods?"
	The team leader smiled grimly. "None. Everything went perfectly. As ordered, I closed the place and put a sign in the window."
	"Excellent. For right now, then, after you've returned the package, I want you to go to the airport and keep a sharp eye on the seven twenty-seven parked in the hangar Atlas has leased. Keep a low profile; it's okay for Atlas people to come and go; they've got a lot of work to do, but the plane-let nothing happen to that plane."
	The van turned south on Thirteenth Avenue, heading for Timbers. They had crossed Albany Avenue and were moving south on Seventeenth when the team leader heard the first fire engine sirens. 

Chapter 33

	At first David wondered idly if he had gone blind. It was that dark. He blinked his eyes. Yes, they were open. Unconcerned and tranquil because of the drug in his veins, he closed his eyes and let the drug carry him off to sleep again.
	Later, his eyes popped open again. Still black, but, alert now, he began feeling around to learn where he was. Carpet. He was lying on the floor. And then it came flooding back; the two men at his door, the sting of the needle. How long ago? He pushed the buttons on his Timex, squinting at the almost painful brilliance. One a.m. Sunday. He'd been out for sixteen hours. Where was he? He lay on his back, staring into the darkness, thinking-why had the men with their needles come? 
	 He rolled over on his stomach and began to crawl, feeling his way along the wall. Sooner or later he was bound to hit a doorway, and beside the doorway there should be a switch... there. Light flooded the entryway hall and, squeezing his eyes almost shut against the brightness, he realized that he lay on the floor of his own entryway. And just beyond, Joanne lying prone on the carpet; even from six feet away he could see the two red spots on her neck.
	He knew at once what had happened, but even so he was astounded at the rage that rose in him at the sight. He crawled over to kneel beside her, touching her face. Her skin was cool, and fear rose in him like a geyser. He put his ear close to her mouth, and when he felt her breath fan his ear, his own breath gusted from him in a grunt of relief.
	"Jo?" A whisper. He reached out and touched the two red spots. "Aw, Jo, honey, where have they sent you?"
	He choked back the wild rage that blossomed in him-it could wait. Gently he turned her onto her back and picked her up. Carrying her into the bedroom, he laid her on the bed, turned on a lamp and, taking her hand in his, he sat down to wait. His anger rose again, red and hot, and again he pushed it down.
	Another worry surfaced. What had happened to Tim and Demetrius and Melanie, the three who were to be his first students? They had been here when the men came with their needles, where were they now? David got up and strode through the condo, room by room, the weight of responsibility for the three youths heavy on his shoulders, but the three were nowhere to be found. At length he sat down beside Joanne, 
	It was an hour before Joanne stirred, her eyes opening, glancing around the room, settling on him. She gazed at him for a moment, then, as if reassured, she went back to sleep. It was another two hours before her eyes opened, and this time she was aware.
	"How do you feel?"
	"Headache," she whispered.
	"Who am I?"
	"Who..." She frowned faintly. "You're David."
	"Right." He vented his relief in a great gust of breath. Smiling, he asked, "Want to get up?"
	"Why did you ask if I knew you?"
	"What do you remember?"
	Memory returned. She sat up suddenly. "Oh my God. The two men. It was just like the parking lot."
	"You remember them coming here?" David was puzzled. Why hadn't her memories been covered up? Why did he remember? He moved his head from side to side, expecting to feel pain, but there was none.
	At his question her eyes grew huge, and her hand rose to touch the side of her neck, wincing at the soreness she found. "Oh." Her voice was a tremulous whisper. "They took us to that house, didn't they? And they... they... that's why I have a headache. Isn't it?"
	Unhappy, he nodded.
	Her eyes filled with tears and she leaned toward him, wrapping her arms around him. "Oh, David." Her voice quavered. "I feel... what have they done to me? I feel... Oh, God, I feel violated."
	"I know, sweetheart," he said. He folded her in his arms, rocking her like a child, willing her his strength. "I know."
	In a moment she leaned back, her face wet with tears, her eyes searching his. "Yes, you do know, don't you, the only man in the world-" She stopped.
	He wiped away her tears with gentle fingers, his mind churning, seeking words to ease her sense of invasion, wanting to give her comfort. But he didn't know what to say, so he took refuge in the practical.
	"Been a long time since we ate. I'll fix us some tea. Are you hungry?"

	Joanne finished the last of her tea and leaned back from the kitchen table with a smiling sigh of repletion. "You'll make some woman-no, some 'petite' woman, a good husband," she said.
	"Where could I ever hope to find the right one?" he answered. "I'll probably have to make do with some long drink of water who doesn't really appreciate me."
	She cocked her head, her eyes merry. "Poor guy." The twinge in her neck reminded of what had happened and the pleasure of the moment faded. "We're in over our heads, David," she said. "I think it's time we went to Detective Fella and told him everything."
	He nodded. "We should have done it when he was here. I guess you know he'll think we're a couple of nuts. And there's another problem we're going to have to tell him about: what happened to the three kids who were here when those guys came?"
	Joanne's eyes grew round. "Your students. Oh, David-"
	The sound of the doorbell was loud. Involuntarily they both turned to stare toward the front door, then looked at each other in astonishment. "Who'd be coming by this time of night?" Joanne asked.
	"Nobody good," David muttered. "Don't you remember the last time?" He pointed a warning finger at her. "Don't you go opening that door. No way of telling-"
	"Right." She got up and started down the hall toward the door. "I'll check the peephole before-"
	"No," he shouted. "Jo, wait!" He scrabbled in the kitchen drawers and got a long-handled wooden spoon, then went to the front door. Standing well off to one side he covered the eyepiece of the peephole in the door with the bowl of the spoon. Almost immediately the spoon shivered into fragments as a bullet smashed through the peephole. Then, rapidly, one after another, splintery holes appeared in the door, spaced down the length of the door. Matching holes appeared in the wall at the end of the entryway hall. There had been almost no sound from outside.
	"Jesus," David gasped. He grabbed Joanne's hand and started toward the back door. "Come on. We're getting out of here."
	They heard loud shouts from the front of the condo, then rapid gunfire. Lots of sound-no silenced pistol this time. There was an instant of quiet, then, incredibly, a knocking on the door. By this time they were out of the back door and into the woods, racing toward the Taurus, still parked the next street over, shouts and the sound of pursuit spurring them on.
	David's anger mounted with every step and finally he stopped, pulling Joanne behind a large tree and motioning her to silence. Footsteps pounded toward them, closer and closer, then David stepped out from behind the tree and sank his fist as deeply as he could into the belly of their pursuer, stopping him in full stride.
	The man's breath left him in a groaning grunt of pain. "Hunhh!"
	"Come on, Jo." They fled, leaving the man writhing on the ground. David forced himself to be calm as Joanne started the Taurus and drove away.
	"Where we going?" she asked.
	"We've got to find a bank machine first, then a motel," he answered. "No use going to your place. That'd be the first place they'd look."
	He'd been shaking his hand, flexing his fingers, and Joanne asked, "What's wrong with your hand?"
	"I hit that guy right on the belt buckle."

	The surprise came later that morning when room service brought their second breakfast. They hadn't been hard to find, given that they'd gone to earth at the nearest motel, the Dollar Inn on Southport Road, just outside the I-465 beltway. It was practically next door to Racquets Four, and just minutes away from where they lived. Then, too, the searchers had been desperate to find them.
	The waiter was grizzled, his face deeply lined, as if he had once been a much larger man, but had shrunk. His eyes were pale blue, the color of a work shirt that had been washed and washed. He wheeled the cart into the room, then turned and locked the door. Seeing that, David was on him like a tiger, whirling him around and slamming him against the door.
	"Both hands on the door, buddy," he said. "Just like TV. Come on," he shouted, kicking the man's feet apart from each other, "before I break your damned neck. Jo, check under all those lids to see what this guy has brought in with him."
	The man stood docilely as David felt every single inch of him, finding not so much as a pocket knife.
	"Nothing, David," Joanne reported, "just breakfast."
	"All right," David said, "who are you?"
	"My name is Niels Gruener." He waited expectantly. After a moment, he sighed. "If you'll reach in the breast pocket of this jacket," he said politely, "you'll find my identification."
	David eased a leather folder out of the jacket pocket and opened it. "FBI!" The sound burst from him, and he tensed angrily. "Come to finish the job, have you?"
	"We would have come weapons in hand if that's what we'd wanted, Mr. D'Escoyne," Gruener said. Still standing spread-eagled against the door, he took a deep breath. "I'm here to talk with you about what's been happening. That's why I took the waiter's place this morning. Now, I've been up all night looking for you, and I haven't had breakfast either. There's breakfast for three, so if I can turn around-
	"Never mind breakfast," David said. He jerked Gruener away from the door and shoved him into a chair. "Don't move," he warned. Locating the telephone directory in the lamp table between the twin beds, he looked up the number for the local FBI office.
	"I have a man here who says he's with the FBI," he said into the phone. "He says his name is, um... Niels Gruener. Do you know him?"
	His eyes slid around to gaze at Gruener as he listened.
	"Yes, Gruener. No, I'm not joking. He says he's here because he wants to talk with us about... what's that? No, if he wants you to know more about why he's here he'll probably tell you himself. What does he look like?"
	The telephone rasped loudly.
	David began shouting angrily into the mouthpiece. "Well, I'll tell you what, buddy, if you don't want to tell me, that's just fine. We'll just turn him over to the police and let them in on my joke too. They'll be my next call, and then, by God, we'll see who-"
	A look of derision filled his face as he listened.	
	"The what? Director? Of the FBI? Oh, sure, and pigs fly. Tell me what he looks like."
	He surveyed Gruener closely as he listened. "Mmm, could be," his tone grudging. "What? Yes, he has a badge, but-" He motioned Gruener to show his badge again. "What should this badge of his look like?"
	More listening.
	Finally, David said, "I'll be damned. It is him." He hung up the phone, cutting off the voice in mid-syllable, and turned to confront Gruener. His face was grim and dark, his big hands clenched into fists. "So, the big man himself."

	Joanne's tone was softly warning. "David..."
	David's gaze flicked to her, paused, then moved back to Gruener. His hands opened and closed as if he yearned to put them around Gruener's neck. Finally, he drew a deep breath. "You... your FBI has got a lot to answer for, mister."
	Gruener cast a grateful glance at Joanne for her cautioning David, and relaxed a little in his chair. "More than you know," Gruener said. "I'm going to tell you all I can in the hope that you'll understand what's happened. Right now we're beginning damage control."
	He looked longingly at the room service cart, then inhaled deeply, holding his breath for a long time as if reluctant to begin.
	"It began with a group calling themselves the High Court-"

	Gruener looked into his empty coffee cup. "Talking is dry work," he said. "Would you mind if I called the real waiter for a fresh pot?" He had talked steadily for half an hour. They had stopped to eat breakfast, during which Joanne and David had said little, their minds reeling from Gruener's description of the situation in which they had been caught up. Now Gruener had wound down.
	"This Chairman, this Longford guy-he had his own private network inside the FBI," David said, "and you never suspected?"
	"Doesn't make me look very good, does it?" Gruener said wryly.
	"Have you arrested these people?" Joanne asked.
	Gruener shook his head. "They're still meeting, still talking, and we're hearing, and taping, every word. We've been able to uncover Longford's line of communication. He has a secret voice-mail number known only to the members of his network. They call that number to get their orders from him. So now every order of Longford's to that number goes through my office for review." He glanced at David. "We've already picked up Cramer and Salina. Yeah, and Weingeld."
	Uncomprehending, David stared at him. "Who are they?"
	"Longford's guys in Daytona Beach. They're the ones who picked you up. Weingeld drove your car up here from Daytona Beach."
	"Weingeld drove?" David shook his head. "No, I remember making that trip-talking with a gas station guy in Jacksonville, staying in a motel in-" He stopped, turning to look at Joanne. "The house at Sixteen Adams Drive," he muttered.
	She clenched her fists angrily. "Like the trips to Chicago that nearly drove us apart."
	David drew a deep breath. "Nearly," he agreed. Then he smiled. "Not quite, though, eh?"
	She reached across the table to take his hand. "Never happen," she said.
	All David could see was the clear blue of her eyes. "God, I love you, woman," he said.
	After a moment, Gruener cleared his throat. "Unfortunately, there are still some other loose ends."
	There was a loud rap on the door to their motel room, followed after a pause by three more quick raps. They looked at each other.
	Gruener smiled. "My sitters," he said. "Will one of you please answer? Two quick knocks, given twice."
	Rolling his eyes, David got up and rapped sharply on the door in Gruener's code. He strolled over to the window and stood looking down on the parking lot. A large man in a suit had parked his rump on the fender of Joanne's Taurus. David wondered if he was the guy he'd bushwhacked in the woods behind his condo last night. His hand twinged at the recollection. Turning his gaze away from the window, David stood leaning against the wall. "You said something about loose ends?"
	"Who took you out of that building at Sixteen Adams Drive?" Gruener asked. "And then burnt it to the ground. It wasn't us, and the High Court certainly didn't order it. Seemingly, we have two groups, the High Court and this new bunch, but working at cross purposes. From what we get out of the High Court's wrangling with each other, Longford ordered you," he nodded at Joanne, "picked up for a scan. Or both of you, if you were found together. When they found out that the pick-up had failed-and a good thing too, because that was the time when Longford had ordered the scan write-backs reversed."
 	"The what?" Joanne said.
	Gruener described how their memories were to have been reversed, seeing their faces pale in horror. Gruener then fixed his gaze on Joanne.
	"Anyway, after the number you did on Longford's agents, he went ape, and the High Court decided to seek a more permanent solution to the trouble you were causing. So this time another of the High Court-a man by the name of Helden-deputy director of DEA, he is. Number Three on the High Court. Well, Helden sent one of his network around to dispose of you. When that failed-" He stopped. "The Indianapolis police said-was it really because of a cat?"
	David shared a glance with Joanne. He didn't want to have to explain about Trouble. "We got a lucky break," he said. Joanne smiled.
	 Gruener satisfied himself with a grunt. "Well, when you got away from Helden's man-" Gruener paused again. "Right now he's sitting in the jail wing of Wishard General hospital, not saying a word, waiting for Helden to spring him. He doesn't know that Helden's sending another man to take him out. We're waiting for this second operative to make his try. We figure that the first man will start singing like a song bird when he learns about the second guy, and we'll nail Helden for a capital offense.
	"Anyway, when you got away from Helden's man, the High Court started squabbling among themselves about what to do, and Longford went off on his own. He sent out an order that you were to be killed, and that led to the two guys at your door this morning.
	"We'd only just got the word about all this and when we tried to bag the pair of them at your place, we got there seconds too late. They'd already shot your front door full of holes, and as far as we knew, you too. They tried to shoot their way out and one of them was killed, but the other escaped. He's still-"
	David interrupted. "This guy, the one you killed, did he have a broken finger on his left hand?"
	Gruener shook his head.
	"Well, the one who's still on the loose does. Unless there are more than two of them."
	"No. Only the two. Well, the one now. In this city, anyway. There are others scattered all around. The trouble is, they don't know they're rogues. Longford was clever in the way he set up his network. His people-" Gruener made a short, harsh sound deep in his throat. "He went to Hogan's Alley and talked to new agents-young, impressionable people, just finishing their training, and he told them-"
	Gruener fell silent, staring out the window.
	"Hogan's Alley?" Joanne asked after a moment.
	"In Virginia. A village where we train agents in arrest procedures, especially for violent crimes. The practical sort of thing an agent needs to experience before hitting the streets and encountering the real thing."
	He surveyed them carefully. "You know, you don't just walk into something like, say, a bank robbery, announce that you're from the FBI, and expect them to lay down their sawed-off shotguns. That'd be a real good way to get killed. New agents need to know that, and Hogan's Alley is where they learn." Gruener took a deep breath. "What Longford did was to tell them... Well, his people all think they're a select, top-secret group, that Longford personally went to Hogan's Alley because they'd been singled out for the fast track to advancement within the Bureau, reporting directly to him."
	Gruener suddenly looked older, the pale eyes sad. "How would you like the job of telling them the truth?"
	After a moment, David said, "This guy with the broken finger..."
	"His name is Shoreham. We've tried to turn him off by sending down a message purporting to be from Longford, and telling him that you are no longer a target. Of course, if we find him first, that'll be the end of it."
	He stopped, gazing reflectively at the two of them. "I must say, you two seem to have been extraordinarily fortunate in coping with all this. I'm especially interested in how you escaped being shot last night through your door. How did you know they were there?"
	"Well," David said, "anybody rings the doorbell that time of morning, you have to wonder. Especially after-"
	"I was going to march right up to that peephole," Joanne said. She swallowed hard at that thought. "And I would have been killed, except David yelled-"
	"It was something a friend of mine told me once," David said. "He said he could tell when I put my eye to the peephole because it blocked out the light from inside the room. Looking at the peephole from the outside, the little spot of light he could see would go black and he knew I was there." He shrugged. "That time of morning, after everything else... I didn't want to take a chance." His gaze went to Joanne. "I've never been so glad of anything in my life."
	"So that's how you knew to use the spoon," she said. She looked smilingly at him. "You're something else, D'Escoyne, you know that?"
	"I'll thank you to remember that, MacRae," he said, "when the time comes."
	She felt her cheeks burning. Turning to Gruener, she asked, "So where does this leave us?"
	"If agent Shoreham should somehow reach you, tell him it's all over, that we know about him. He may surrender, he may not. But at least he'll know there's no point in stubbornly carrying out Longford's order to kill you. When I get back to Washington, we'll pick up the High Court and unwind their networks. Then they'll get a taste of the real courts." Gruener drew a deep hissing breath through his teeth. "The Bureau is going to get a lot of bad press out of this," he said. "You're looking at a man who may very shortly be unemployed." He didn't seem unduly distressed at the possibility.
	"All this talk about brain scans," Joanne said, "You haven't told us the reason for them. Why did they choose me? And David? What were they looking for?"
	"They were scanning D'Escoyne because of you. It was really you they were interested in."
	"So that's it," David burst out. "Damn them," he growled. "I see it now. I was sent, Jo. You were right. I was sicced on you-so we'd meet and get to be friends and you'd tell me about ... about your work. That's why the funny ACMP directory. That's why the trips to Chicago, to cover the scans."
	"You were after my project all along," Joanne whispered.
	"No, no," Gruener said, "not D'Escoyne. Stop and think for a minute. Why would he want to spy on you? He didn't have a clue about any of this. It was Longford. He was exercised about a possible connection between satellite destruction and Atlas Corporation. More specifically, your project at Atlas. Tell me, have you ever heard the term 'Radiant Sword'? Or any talk of 'cleansing the sky'?"
	Joanne shook her head. "No."
	"Well, the Chairman almost went into orbit himself when that satellite turned up missing a few days ago. MacRae, could your project have had anything to do with that?"
	Joanne's gaze locked onto David's. He shook his head. "He'll never get it from me, Jo."
	Joanne stood and began pacing restlessly. At last she started telling Gruener about the three years she'd spent developing her superlaser. She described the test, then fell silent.
	"Didn't you stop to think that destroying that satellite was illegal?" Gruener asked. "After all, inoperative or not, it still belonged-"
	"No!" Her denial was emphatic. "Atlas bought it, through a dummy company, to use for the test." She looked at David askance. "The French thought the agent for our dummy company was crazy. Then they decided that we had a way to revive dead birds, so they tried to jack up the price. Our agent told them to kiss off, he'd buy a dead satellite somewhere else, so they graciously agreed to take our money. Obviously, it was much cheaper for Atlas to buy a satellite already flying than pay to have one launched, only to destroy it."
	Gruener was silent for a while. "And you have no idea who your customer is?"
	"The word around the Atlas facility is that it's the Department of Defense, part of an orbital missile defense screen. At least that's what our director of security said, but he also said he could never find out for sure. Actually, he never seemed to want to talk about it. That made everyone surer than ever that it was DoD, and he knew it, but had been forbidden to talk about it." She shrugged. "So as long as it was the Department of Defense, I thought we were all right, that they would keep it from falling into the wrong hands."
	Gruener considered her words for a moment. "Well, we need to be sure. NSA is mighty interested too. For what it's worth, the High Court never uncovered your customer either. I passed the question on to the director of the CIA, but if he strikes out, I suppose we'll find out who it is the day someone steps up to take delivery, eh?"
	"That won't be long," Joanne said. "The contract calls for delivery no later than a week from yesterday."
	Gruener shook his head slowly. "I don't know about that. If I were you I'd expect a lot of red tape when that day comes. The new deputy at NSA expressed considerable interest in learning who took out that satellite. They're not going to want to have technology like that floating around loose. Even if it is the Department of Defense."
	"New deputy at NSA?" David asked.
	"The former deputy, a woman named Mary Hardalee, was one of the High Court. She was murdered a few days ago. It was made to look like robbery, but from the allusions we've been hearing from our bugs on the High Court, it appears that Longford was behind it."
	"Man," David said, "you are in a heap of trouble."
	"Not like he is," Gruener said grimly. "And he was scheduled to retire before long." His face grew dark. "Retire. Oh, yeah, he's going to retire, all right, but not to any ritzy condo out west."
	"What about the people who got us out of the house at Sixteen Adams Drive," Joanne asked, "and then burnt it to the ground, you say. Where do they fit in all this?"
	"We haven't a clue," Gruener said. "They're a new player as far as we're concerned. And they play rough. There were three bodies in the ashes of that place and two of them had bullets in them. So far we don't have names for these new guys." He stared vacantly into space, musing aloud. "They must have been watching you. Otherwise, how would they have known you were in there?" He blinked, his eyes focusing sharply on Joanne. "Another piece of the puzzle? Except this group doesn't seem to have anything to do with the High Court. Still, if there is a connection between the two, I'll find out about it when I hear the Chairman's reaction when he learns about that house being destroyed."
	David stirred restlessly from where he leaned against the wall. "So, how do these new players-"
	"It doesn't look as though you have anything to fear from them," Gruener replied. "Apparently they're on your side. But don't worry, they're on my list. People who play that rough, well, they catch our attention. Maybe they want you alive," he said to Joanne, "so you can continue your work on the superlaser."
	"Talk about playing rough," David said, "what about the guys who tried to kill me out in Hendricks County? More than a week and I haven't heard a word about them."
	Gruener frowned. "Neither have I. What guys are these?"
	David told him about the men in the Ford, and the car that chased them away. During his explanation, Gruener's brow cleared.
	"There's a note scribbled on one of Longford's files-it was Shoreham who chased them away. He was your watcher. Longford was pleased as punch that they'd tried to kill you-he felt he'd gotten proof that Radiant Sword actually existed. From his note, it appears that the order for your death came from inside Atlas Corporation." He stared at Joanne. "I don't suppose you'd know anything about that."
	She paled, turning to look at David. "No, I never heard anything about this. I don't know anything about it."
	David smiled. "I know," he said. He touched her hand. "I know."
	Gruener grunted. "Well, that's another loose end we'll have to clean up."
	He tipped up the coffee pot, rewarded only by a thin trickle. "Ah, hell, I was going to get some more of that, wasn't I. Well, too late now," he said, "I'm out of time. I've got to get back to Washington to pick up the High Court and start cleaning up this mess."
	"You know, that's the one thing about this that rings a little phony," David said. "Your being here... looking us up personally to tell us all about this. Why?"
	"This is where the action has been," Gruener said. "Then, of course, well, I hoped you wouldn't feel too vindictive when you understood what had happened."
	After a moment, Joanne said, "I think he means he hopes we won't sue the FBI, David."
	David's eyes glinted. "Vindictive? Me? I don't feel vindictive, I feel murderous. Spiteful. Rancorous. Hostile." He looked at Joanne, and the eye away from Gruener closed briefly. "Did I miss anything?"
	She raised one shoulder in a little shrug. "Nothing important."
	David spoke with relish. "Sue you? Oh my God, what a case we've got. We'll have to fight off the lawyers who'll want the job." He considered his words, then frowned, his lips pursed. "Unless...."
	Gruener scowled. "Unless?"
	"Unless you can see your way clear to spending a few of your discretionary dollars on a really worthwhile project; one which will save your Bureau trouble in the long run."
	Gruener leaned forward in his chair, his eyes pale blue lasers burning into David's. "Are you suggesting that I buy you off?"
	David's eyes grew large. "Certainly not. I want you to buy ten thousand copies of a program to teach mathematics to the disadvantaged."
	"What? Teach... the Bureau isn't into social work, D'Escoyne." Gruener's eyes narrowed. "How much are we talking about?"
	"I'm not sure. I haven't finished the course yet."
	"Ohhh, yes. I remember now." Gruener nodded his understanding. "That's the reason you came up to Indianapolis, isn't it? I read something about that in the Chairman's file on your scans. Something about a sabbatical. Are you really going to write that course?"
	"Of course I'm going to write it."
	Gruener rose to his feet. "Okay. Well, I'm not going to buy a pig in a poke, D'Escoyne, but I'll make you a deal. I don't think I want to explain why the Bureau has ten thousand copies of a math course, but I can cover your expenses in developing the course. You know, a little at a time over a long time. Then, when you're done, whatever you can sell the course for will be yours to keep."
	David laughed, looking at Joanne. "Oh, Tim will love that, won't he. There might actually be a ten percent for him. Okay," he said to Gruener, "it's a deal."
	"Send the bills straight to me. I'll send you an address." Gruener started for the door, stopped, smiling. "Of course, if I get fired, you'll have to cut a new deal with my successor."

	Joanne came to stand beside David as he watched Gruener walk across the parking lot to his car. David nodded knowingly as the big man who'd been sitting on the Taurus peeled himself loose and got in the driver's side of Gruener's car. The car pulled out of the parking lot.
	"Gruener's a good man," he murmured. "No way that guy would have knowingly allowed this to happen to us."
	Joanne took a deep breath. "David...."
	He turned to look at her. "What's bothering you?"
	"I owe you, David. Telling Gruener about it made me realize just how much."
	He eyed her carefully. "I had a choice?" He smiled. "Actually I was just being selfish. I have too much invested in you-"
	She was silent for a moment. Then she linked her arm through his. "Well," she said, "I want to say the words. From the bottom of my heart, I thank you for not letting me be killed when that guy shot the door full of holes." She shuddered.
	"You're welcome."
	"I owe you for the spoon, though."
	David laughed. "Well, sure. Spoons are expensive." His laughter faded. "But, hey, who are you to talk about debts? Do you think you're the only one who owes? How about what you did in the parking lot at the tennis club? You know what Gruener said they were going to do to us when they got us into that house-my God, reverse our scans. Would we have wished we were dead? But you stopped it."
	"But what could I have done," she cried, "just let them take-" She stopped abruptly.
	He smiled. "Now do you see?"
	She put her arms around him, laying her head against his shoulder. "I still think if it had been any other man-"
	"Or any other woman...."

	The watcher in the Dollar Inn parking lot tapped a number on his cellular phone. "He's gone," he said.
	"Do you know what he was doing with them?"
	"No. I couldn't get close. The hallway was full of FBI agents. All I know is that he was in there for a little more than an hour."
	"Hmm. I don't like it that he showed up. Just to see them? He could have learned a lot in an hour, but-No, she couldn't have told him what she doesn't know. Okay, I'm leaving for the airport. We have a plane to catch tonight-you know the one I mean. I want you to make sure that all of us are there at departure time. Keep your eye on those two. If they separate, stick with her. She is essential. He's, uh, an incidental. He may not be making the flight." 

Chapter 34

	"I ought to go to the office," Joanne murmured.
	"I thought we should go home," David said. "There was some unfinished business-"
	Once more she felt that little flip deep in her belly. She leaned back in his arms. No mistaking the gleam in his eyes. A tingle raced down her spine. "Your place or mine?"
	He laughed softly. "We sound like we do this all the time. Well, if you won't mind a few bullet holes, I ought to check in on Trouble. He's probably starving."
	"I thought you didn't like his being there."
	"Well...."
	She laughed. "David D'Escoyne, you're like an M&M, hard on the outside, all soft and gooey inside."
	He pulled her against him. His eyes were glowing, his gaze intense, and in an instant she knew... he's going to kiss me again. There was no time for thought, there was only his mouth on hers. His tongue coaxed her lips apart and began to move in a sensual ballet with her tongue. Her arms stole around his neck to pull him closer. She felt his hands moving, pressing her against him. Desire, long suppressed, and awakened by their earlier kisses, rose in her like a fever, hot and breathless. She heard a small sound and realized that she had made it deep in her throat.
	Shocked at the intensity of her feelings, she tore her mouth from his and sagged against him, trembling in his arms. Her legs felt weak, boneless.
	"David," she gasped. "David." That was just a kiss, she thought. Just a kiss.
	"My God, Jo," he said at last.
	"You'd better hang on to me," she said, "I think my legs have quit working."
	She could hear his breathing slowing, and he said, "I, um... I think I needed being kissed worse than I knew."
	Her laugh was soft puffs of breath against his throat. She leaned back in his arms, "You devil. You've made me a basket case."
	"That settles it," he said. "We'll go to your place." 

Chapter 35

	They stopped by his place first after all, slipping under the yellow crime scene tape to push open the smashed door. Trouble met them in the entryway, curling around their legs, meowing loudly until David set out a bowl of food. Then David picked up a change of clothing and they headed for Joanne's condo. There he showered and changed, and paced restlessly while Joanne lingered in a tub heaped with suds. When she came into the living room-dressed in a snug gray pinstripe skirt and a sheer short-sleeved blouse-he gulped at the sight of her.
	He helped her prepare dinner. Noodles Alfredo and a garden salad. She was keenly aware of him, noticing his muscles move under his shirt, seeing his hands as he made the salad. Even with her back to him, she could sense him standing by her, as if she had feelers out. While they were exaggeratedly careful not to touch each other, each time he brushed against her it was a shock, hot and tingly deep in her belly, and the tingle didn't go away, and after a while she felt positively feverish. The kitchen was warm with a heat that didn't come from the stove, and occasionally she would shiver.
	The room sizzled with tension.
	Once he said, "You smell nice."
	"Tea Rose," she answered. "Do you really like it?"
	He nodded. He seemed distracted, and he kept his head down as he worked on the salad.
	"You all right?" she asked.
	He didn't answer directly, but he turned to look at her, and his gaze revealed a desire so intense that she felt all quivery inside. She knew then what was going to happen, and she wanted it to happen so much that she couldn't stop trembling.
	"Oh, God," she groaned. She shoved the noodles off the burner and turned to him. "This isn't working, David," she said.
	 Wordlessly, he scooped her up in his arms and carried her into her bedroom, laying her on the big brass bed.
	He knelt beside her and they stared into each other's eyes.
	"I've never felt like this in my whole life," she said. "Never wanted anyone like this. Never needed anyone like... like I need you."
	"I want to say the words," he said. "I need to say the words. I love you, MacRae," he said.
	His image blurred before her eyes. "Yes," she answered.
	His fingers touched her face, slid down her nose, brushed her burning cheeks. She kissed his fingers as they traced the curve of her lips.
	His hand trembled.
	Deep inside her, the female opened to his magic like a flower blossoming in the warm sun, wanting him, needing him.
	Oh God, she thought, this was loving. This was the way it should be.
	Their kiss was shattering. Her body was, it seemed, waking from a long sleep, rioting in enthusiastic approval as his tongue explored her lips, then her mouth. She put an arm around his neck, the other around his chest, pulling him down on top of her, molding herself to him, feeling the hard planes of his chest and back, the muscles of his thighs and, yes, evidence of his desire. The feel of him fanned the spark their kiss had lit, and the flame of her own desire flared up, threatening to devour her. She moaned softly, "I want-"
	"Too many clothes," he muttered. He sat up, looking at the sheer blouse. "How does this come off?"
	"It unzips in the back," she said, and she rolled over to show the zipper.
	The tiny fastenings were made for smaller hands than David's, and after a moment of frustrated fumbling, she heard him mutter, "Damned thing," and he ripped the blouse open.
	"Yes," she said, "yes." The blouse didn't matter, having his hands touch her did.
	Her bra was more cooperative, the fastener docilely allowing itself to be unhooked, and Joanne turned over and sat up, shaking the shredded blouse and the bra straps off her shoulders. She arched her back, then she crossed her arms over her breasts in a contradictory mixture of need and modesty. "I'm not as bold as I thought I was," she said.
	She felt her face warm as he reached out and lifted away her unresisting arms and gazed at her lush beauty.
	"Oh, Jo," he whispered, "how beautiful you are." He began unbuttoning his shirt, gave up as his fingers fumbled the buttons, and finally began pulling his shirt off over his head.
	Joanne's doorbell chimed.
	David pulled his shirt down far enough to stare at her. "Don't answer."
	She shook her head. "Oh, no," she said. After her close brush with death at David's door, and the assassin who waited for them, and their kidnapping-she knew why as well as he. "But who is it? I'm not even supposed to be here. I'm usually still at work this time of day."
	David's voice was sour. "You think maybe a salesman?"
	The chimes sounded again. And this time they could hear a voice. "Open up, Doctor MacRae."
	"Omigod," Joanne said, "it's Pratt."
	"Pratt?" David frowned darkly. "Already I don't like Pratt. Who's Pratt?"
	"He's the Atlas director of security," Joanne answered. She rolled off the bed, started to dress, and gazed in dismay at her blouse. Then she sighed, grinned at him, selected another, less revealing blouse from a dresser drawer, and slipped it on.
	David zipped it up for her.
	He followed her out of the bedroom, hurriedly stuffing his shirt back in his pants.
	"He's making one of his damned spot checks," she added. "He just needs to know I'm here and all right." Everything tucked in, she smoothed her skirt over her hips. "I look all right?"
	David's eyes spoke eloquently of how nice she looked.
	The door chime sounded again, accompanied by vigorous knocking.
	"Oh, darling," she said, "I'm sorry. I'll get rid of him as soon as I can." Her kiss was scorching, and she looked at him dreamily when they separated. "You do that so well," she said.
	Smiling, she strode to the door, turning as she grasped the door knob to gave him a broad wink, then opened the door.
	The door was slammed back and three men burst through, overwhelming Joanne. Before David could move Joanne was held captive, a pistol at her head. Another pistol was pointing at him.
	Pratt strolled into the living room. "D'Escoyne, I presume."
	His heart racing, David swallowed to clear his throat. "Yes."
	Pratt pointed. "I want you to go to that wall and touch your head against it, then move your feet back and apart until you are leaning heavily against the wall with your head. Then put your hands behind your back. I warn you that if you try anything, anything at all, you will die at once. Do you understand me?"
	Nodding, David obeyed.
	Pratt came up behind him and bound his hands together with a heavy nylon cable tie. Noticing a bit of David's shirttail still sticking out of his pants, Pratt tugged on it, turning to look at Joanne, his eyes icy. "Did I interrupt something, Doctor MacRae?" His lips twisted in a sneer. "Is this why you didn't come in to your office this morning?" Turning back, he slammed his fist into David's back in a vicious kidney punch. David tried in vain to stifle a groan.
	Motioning one of the gunman to put his pistol to David's head, Pratt said, "Now, Doctor, I'm going to tie your hands the same way. If you struggle against me, D'Escoyne will die before your eyes. After which we'll club you to the floor and tie you anyway. Do you understand?"
	Joanne licked dry lips. "Yes."
	Pratt pressed her wrists together behind her back, then slipped a cable tie around them, pulling it snug. "All right. Now we're all going out to a van parked in front. If you try to escape, D'Escoyne dies and you'll be dragged into the van. Clear?"
	They all paraded out of Joanne's condo and into the van. Pratt was very solicitous of Joanne, putting a protective hand on her head as she ducked into the sliding side door of the van. There were two others in the van, both woman. One woman slid the door closed and the other started the engine and drove the van out of the parking lot.
	No one spoke during the drive. Once David turned to look at Joanne only to have his head pushed roughly to the front again by the barrel of a silenced pistol.
	It was clear enough to Joanne where they were going. She'd traveled the same route often during the last few months. They were going to the airport. But why was Pratt kidnapping them and threatening David with death?
	David was wrestling with the same problem. It had to have something to do with Joanne's project. But why was the Atlas security director kidnapping Joanne at gunpoint? Weren't they supposed to be colleagues?
	The van pulled past a fuel truck into the Atlas hangar, empty this time of night except for a dully gleaming Boeing 727. Joanne recognized the plane at once, it was the one carrying the superlaser.
	"Take them to the office," Pratt directed, "and tie their feet. We don't want them walking off at this point."
	A man thrust his head out of the cockpit windows, calling out to Pratt. "Let's go. She's got all the fuel in her she'll hold."
	Pratt waved. "Okay," he said to the woman who'd driven the van, "hook on the tractor and pull the plane out of the hangar. You," he said to the team leader, "have the cartons in the van loaded on the plane, then take your people on board and make sure the plane is secure. I'll be out in a minute."
	Waving his people together, the team leader left the office. Pratt squatted to talk to David and Joanne where they lay on the floor.
	"It's payday, Doctor. We're taking delivery a little early."
	"You're stealing the superlaser?" Joanne asked.
	"No, not at all. It's really ours, bought and paid for."
	"Ours? What do you mean, ours?"
	Pratt's grin was exultant. "I guess I can tell you now. I'm the point man for-well, let's just say, a consortium of Mid-East nations with a long memory of Desert Storm. They remember what the loss of air supremacy cost, and they're determined not to let that happen to any of them again. And who better to be their instrument than the US, eh? So they gave Atlas the job of building the superlaser."
	"So that's what Radiant Sword is," Joanne said.
	"You've heard of Radiant Sword? Hmm, Gruener, I suppose. Well, it doesn't matter any longer, the world will know soon enough when we start cleansing the sky of satellites. Oh, yes, America will send her planes again, but what chance will they have against the superlaser? Missiles? The same, all destroyed hundreds of miles from their targets. Oh, you've built us a mighty weapon, Doctor. And you're going to get a chance to help us make dozens more just like it. Those cartons you saw in the van? I raided your office. Those boxes contain every scrap of paper having anything to do with the superlaser-your notes, blue prints, schematics, everything. And now we have you to go along with us, to keep everything working."
	Joanne's face was pale. "Never," she said.
	"Don't be foolish," Pratt said. "Never say never. There are drugs-you'll beg to be allowed to work for us." He gave her another grin. "But I've saved the best for last. When you've done everything we need done, my employers are going to give you to me." He laughed aloud. "You're my bonus for a job well done. My own plaything."
	David's face darkened and he groaned, his muscles swelling as he strained against his bonds.
	Joanne spat in Pratt's face. "I'd rather die, you miserable scum."
	Pratt flushed, then slapped her hard in the face. Drawing back, his face grew an awful smile as he wiped his face. "What a pleasure it will be to tame you. You think I don't know it was you who started 'Nasty Jimmy'? Now it's payback time. Die? Not till I'm ready. Not till I've had my fill of you."
	The team leader entered the office, his pistol in his hand. "We're ready to go. There's only one thing left for me to do."
	Pratt held up his hand to silence him, then turned back to look at David. "Just a minute." He pulled a pistol out of his jacket pocket, operating the slide to put a cartridge in the chamber. "I don't ever want you saying that I didn't do you a favor, D'Escoyne. This way you won't have to worry about what I'm doing with her. Besides, we don't need you any longer."
	"No," Joanne screamed, "if you kill him, I'll destroy-"
	"Wait a minute," the team leader shouted. He raised his pistol and shot Pratt in the back. "You bastard, you stole my line. You're the one we don't need any longer."
	He stood looking down at Pratt, sprawled on his face at David's feet, then looked at David. "Can you believe that? He really thought I was taking orders from him. Him." He shook his head slowly.
	David tensed, waiting for the man to point the pistol at him, only to hear him say, "You've lucked out, D'Escoyne. The last orders I had about you were you leave you strictly alone regardless of what Jimmy said. Nothing since, so I guess nobody gives a damn about you one way or the other." He laughed, nudging Pratt with his foot. "Nobody but him, anyway. He was the one who tried to have you killed out on that county road. He wasn't supposed to do that. You were supposed to quietly disappear."
	He reached into his pocket, pulled out a knife and cut the nylon tie binding Joanne's ankles. "I do have orders about you, lady. You're coming with us." Pulling Joanne to her feet, he took her by the arm and started dragging her out of the office. She looked back at David despairingly, afraid to resist lest the man kill David.
	A feebly stirring Pratt struggled over on his back, then sat up and, holding his pistol with both hands, shot the team leader between the shoulder blades. The man cried out, a great, shouting cry, and fell to his knees. He managed to turn on his knees and raised his pistol. This time he and Pratt fired at the same time. Pratt was hit in the stomach, the team leader in the heart. The heavy bullet slammed Pratt back, but, driven by his hate, he sat up again, his arms shaking as he strained to point his pistol at Joanne. Desperate, David kicked up with his legs and Pratt's shot went into the light fixture in the center of the ceiling, showering glass and casting the room into gloom. Pratt turned his head painfully to look at David. His eyes burning malevolently, Pratt tried to lift his arms to aim the pistol at David, but the pistol seemed too heavy for him, and he finally collapsed.
	The team leader's pistol had been silenced, but Pratt's hadn't, and the hangar had echoed with the sound of his firing. Shouts rang out in the hangar and David could hear the sound of running feet. "Lie down, Jo. Quick! On your face. Play dead." He rolled over on his stomach.
	Members of the team ran into the room, weapons in hand, stopping at the sight of the four bodies. "Christ," one of them yelled, "they've killed each other."
	"What the hell," said another, "they weren't supposed to kill the woman. There'll be hell to pay about that."
	The sound of jet engines starting filled the office. "Come on," one of the women shouted, "we've got to go."
	The other woman stood confused, waving her pistol about aimlessly. "But what about-maybe they're only wounded. Shouldn't we should make sure they're really-"
	"Never mind them," one of the men hurled at her. "The plane's the important thing. And the papers, and we've got them." He started for the office door. "If you're not coming, you can explain to the police what happened."
	"But what if she isn't dead?" The woman knelt and touched Joanne. "She wasn't supposed to be killed. If she's only-"
	"You can stick around and see if you want," the man said. "We'll split your share." He shouted to the others. "Let's go!"
	"No, wait, I'm coming." She rose to her feet. "I just don't understand why they killed each other, especially the woman." Her voice faded as she followed the others out of the office.
	After a long moment, her voice tremulous, Joanne said, "Ooh, I thought for a minute there-when I felt her hand touch me, my God, I was scared silly. David, we've got to stop them."
	She heard a bitter laugh. "Yeah, and I'm trussed up like a chicken. Can you find that guy's knife and cut me loose?"
	She managed to get to her feet, then knelt by the dead team leader, turning her back and sitting down, feeling with her bound hands for the knife. It seemed to take forever to tease it out of his pocket, and then she couldn't get it open.
	"David," she cried in her frustration, "it won't open."
	"Bring it here then," he said. "Maybe I can get it."
	When she had crossed the room to him, he said, "You hold it while I open it, then you cut my hands free and drop the knife. I'll finish up."
	He tried open the blade with a thumbnail only to pull the knife out of her sweaty hand. Fumbling to pick it up again, she wept in her frustration.
	"Easy, honey," he soothed, "you're doing the best you can."
	The second time they got it open, and she started slicing away at the nylon tie, unable to see what she was doing. He made no sound as sawed away and she didn't realize what she had done until the tie finally parted and she dropped the knife for him to use. When she saw him stand finally, she saw the blood on his hands and she gasped. "Oh, David, I'm sorry. Oh, darling, I'm sorry."
	He shook his head to dismiss her concern. Then he took off his belt and knelt beside her. Before she could understand what he was doing he had taken two quick turns around her ankles with the belt and knotted it tightly.
	"What are you doing?"
	He took her face between his hands. "It's too late for police or anyone else, so I'm going to stop them. I only know one way, and I haven't got much time." She could have sworn she saw tears in his eyes as he said, "Sweetheart, I'd give almost anything not to have to leave you, but I think this is going to be a one-way trip, and you can't come. Remember this, will you, I love you." Her kissed her vigorously, then he rose and left the office.
	"David!" she screamed after him. "David, no." She began to sob her words, "Please, no, David." She thrashed around wildly, trying to free her ankles from the belt. She heard the sound of an engine starting and she realized what he was going to do.
	One way, he'd said.
	"Nooo," she screamed, straining against her bonds. "David, nooo." 

Chapter 36

	David was surprised to find the ignition key in the fuel truck until he realized that it had last been used by Pratt's gang, and they knew they weren't coming back. He was surprisingly calm. Who was it, he wondered, who said that nothing settles a man's mind so much as the certain knowledge that he's about to die? 
	The semi was hard to start, the starter grinding and grinding as David nervously watched the 727 move slowly along the taxi strip toward runway 113. The engine finally started and he began driving across the grass toward the runway.
	Talk about going out in a blaze of glory, he thought wryly. There was no way he was going to survive a crash between his fuel truck and the Atlas 727.
	His heart sank when a figure jumped on the passenger side running board and aimed a pistol at him through the open window.
	"Shoreham!"
	"Stop the truck, D'Escoyne."
	"Give it up, Shoreham, Gruener knows all about you. There's no point in killing me now."
	"Stop the goddamn truck, or I'll blow your brains out."
	"Damn it, Shoreham, they'll get away," David shouted, "and they've got Radiant Sword on board that plane."
	In the confines of the semi cab, the sound of the shot was deafening. The ventilator window beside David shattered and, ears ringing, he heard Shoreham shout, "Your last chance. Stop the truck."
	David slammed on the brakes and the semi shuddered to a stop. He turned to Shoreham, pointing to the 727 just then turning onto the runway, awaiting clearance from the control tower. "Do you know what you're doing? They've got the superlaser in that airplane, and you're letting them have it."
	"You think you're the only man who can drive a semi?"
	Openmouthed, David stared at him.
	"I've had it, D'Escoyne. So much for Longford's fast track. He's going down and I'm going down with him. But I've got a wife and a little boy. If I die a hero, they won't dare stop my pension. It's all I can do for them. I'll stop the damned Radiant Sword."
	"Hell, Shoreham," David said slowly, "I didn't know-"
	"Open your door," Shoreham ordered.
	As David opened the door on his side of the cab, Shoreham climbed in on the passenger's side. "I can't tell you how much pleasure this gives me," he said, and he drew back his fist and punched David in the head, knocking him from the cab of the semi. "That's for the busted finger, D'Escoyne," he yelled at David. Then slamming the door shut, he put the semi in gear and drove away.

	Running out of the hangar, Joanne saw a body fall out of the semi cab onto the grass. An instant later, the semi lurched into motion, gaining speed rapidly as it jolted across taxi strips and runways and grass infields, heading for the runway on which the Atlas 727 had begun to accelerate for takeoff.
	She ran toward the man just now sitting up, swaying, his hand to his jaw. "Oh, David, David, David. Oh, thank God." She knelt beside him, hugging him and covering his face with kisses. Then, her face wet with tears, she doubled up her fist and biffed him squarely in the eye. "Don't you ever leave me like that again," she shouted. "You hear me!"
	"Ow-w." David fell back in the grass, covering his eye with his hand. "What the hell, Jo?"
	"I'm sorry, darling." She leaned over him, kissing him again and again. "I won't ever do it again if you won't."
	"Jesus, woman," he groaned. "First Shoreham, then-" He sat up abruptly. "That's Shoreham driving that truck. He knows about Longford." They turned to watch the speeding semi, trying to gauge whether it would arrive in time to bar the runway to the plane, wondering if the 727 would be airborne before reaching the semi.
	The semi reached the runway and headed toward the plane, the two racing toward each other, faster and faster, as if eager to embrace. Joanne tried to imagine the view Shoreham had through his windshield, the 727 looming larger, enormous now as they approached each other.
	The 727 pilot, his engines screaming at maximum thrust, tried to lift off to miss the semi.
	He almost made it.
	The left wheel of the 727 landing gear caught in the cab of the semi, ripping through the metal as if it were paper, then tearing into the main tanks of the vehicle. A fine mist of jet fuel filled the air as the contents of the smashed semi sprayed from its torn tanks.
	The 727 seemed to hesitate briefly at the instant of the collision, then lurched to the right. The aircraft fuselage settled down on top of the semi, balanced there for an instant, then rolled off to one side. As the right wing tip touched the concrete runway, sparks showered until the wing folded back and snapped off, spewing fuel as it flopped over and over.
	The air quivered with the shock of exploding jet fuel, and an enormous fireball lofted skyward, lighting the airport as brightly as midday.

	They lay in the grass, awed, stunned by the violence. The fireball burned out and the darkness was fitfully illuminated by the flames from the burning plane and truck. The scream of sirens was already filling the air.
	"He had a wife and a little boy," David said after a while. And a little later, "How did you get loose?"
	"Shoreham untied my wrists. He wouldn't loosen the knot you put in your belt, or I'd have been right there on that truck when he was."
	"His showing up right then seems like one hell of a coincidence. Just happen along, did he?"
	Joanne shook her head. "No. He's been watching us ever since the night his partner was killed. He'd gotten the word about letting us alone, but he wanted to destroy Radiant Sword."
	"He sure waited long enough."
	"He said there was always some of Pratt's gang around watching the airplane. He wanted better odds."
	David raised himself up on his elbows and looked toward the burning plane. "Those emergency guys must really know their business. They've just about got the fire out." He craned his neck around to stare back toward the hangars. "Look, must be a dozen police cars. People running around like... it's like when somebody kicks over an ant hill. I guess you know it's going to be hell for a while. Police. Questions." He sighed. "I hate to go back."
	He lay back on the grass. "I didn't want to tie you up, Jo, but I knew you'd want to come along and I didn't want you killed."
	"I know, darling. But you must let me decide things like that for myself."
	David thought about that for a while, finally nodding. They were silent, content for the moment to lie still in the grass.
	"I think it's over, Jo. I think Shoreham tied up all of Gruener's loose ends." He rolled his head to look at her. "My God, when I think that all I wanted to do was write a math course."
	"Well, surely now you'll be able to concentrate on it."
	"Oh, sure." He climbed to his feet and reached down to give her a hand up. "Just forget about you, huh? Think about math?" They started walking toward the Atlas hangar. He squeezed his eye shut, wincing. "You're going to have to do something about that foul temper of yours, though."
	"I don't have a foul temper, David, but how do you think I felt when you left me all tied up and went off to die?"
	"I guess you know I'm going to have a black eye."
	"I'm sorry, darling, but you shouldn't have-"
	"I'll tell you right now that if anyone asks I'm going to tell them that you did it."
	She stopped, snatching her hand from his. Turning to face him, her arms akimbo, her hands balled into fists on her hips, she snapped, "All right! And you tell them that I'll do it again if you ever try to leave me like that again."
	"Oh, yeah?"
	"Yeah!"
	"... well." A soft grumble, then he grinned. "You would, too." He reached for her hand. They walked along companionably for a moment, then he said, "I just love it when you call me darling. You have a really sexy voice. I ever tell you that?"
	She grinned, her teeth gleaming in the near darkness. "No, darling."
	"I am going to have to finish that math course, you know." He drew a deep breath. "And I'm going to have to tell Detective Fella about Tim and Demetrius and Melanie, and ask him try to find out what's happened to the three of them." He glanced at her. "I'll keep checking in the mall where I first saw Tim, but, I dunno, as defensive as he was when I first talked with him, I wouldn't be surprised if he ducked and ran at the sight of me."
	"Surely he won't blame you for what happened. He saw you treated the same way."
	David shrugged. "He won't think of it as blaming me, Jo, just that when he's around me, bad things happen to him. Still, I'm going to find him and offer him the same deal again."
	Joanne smiled. "Well, if Gruener keeps his side of the deal, you'll have a real ten per cent to offer."
	David chuckled. "Yeah, that might get to him, if I can get him to stand still long enough to listen to my sales pitch."
 	They walked a bit in silence.
	"Still, I don't suppose I'm going to have to work on math twenty-four hours a day. You think we'll have some time for music?"
	"We'll have to make time," she said. "You know, even though I loved music, I fought against being made to learn the piano."
	"Oh? Yet you did. How come?"
	"My mother. I may have told you. She is a woman of formidable will."
	"Mmm. That run in the family, does it?"
	She peered closely at him. "Now, why do you ask that?"
	He shrugged. "Just curious. Did I hear you answer?"
	"Well... I suppose it could. Um, does it... show?"
	"No, sweetheart." His laugh was a soft rumble, deep in his chest. "We mustn't ever get so busy that we don't have time for each other."
	"Mmm," she said agreeably, and he was warmed by the smile he could hear in her voice.
	He stopped then, looking back at the site of the crash, his face sad. "Shoreham had a lot of guts. By God, he got the job done." David rubbed his jaw tenderly. "Guy had a punch like a kicking mule. Hell, I wouldn't have broken his finger if he hadn't tried to choke me." His voice began to rise in complaint. "I guess you know I'm going to look like a street brawler, and it's partly your doing. How do you expect me to explain that, Jo? I'm going to have to hide from people till I heal up."
	"I told you, just tell them that I did it."
	"Yeah, right, and I'm supposed to tell them you'll do it again if-"
	"You got it."
	David threw up his hands and they resumed their walk toward the Atlas hangar. After a few steps he heaved a deep sigh.
	Joanne looked at him. "Now what's wrong?" she asked.
	Another deep sigh. "I've just discovered that I'm a one-woman man."
	"What?" She moved closer to look up at him. "That's bad?"
	"Well-" He waved a hand in a wide, sweeping gesture. "There are all those lovely women out there, you see."
	"Ah, yes," she sighed, her voice rich with sympathy, "I know what you mean," she said, "and all those gorgeous men-"
	"And here I am stuck with you," he said mournfully
	"-and I'll never get to know them now," she added.
	He looked at her from the corner of his eye, to catch her doing the same to him.
	"Doesn't seem fair, does it?" he murmured.
	"A real injustice," she agreed, companionably taking his arm.
	A few steps in silence.
	"Oh, well," he said finally, his face sad, his tone resigned, "just have to make do, I guess."
	They were seen as they walked, hand in hand, out of the darkness toward the lighted hangar area. Arms pointing, people began running toward them, calling out questions.
	At David's words, Joanne gave a great shout of laughter and whirled to hug him as if he were trying to escape. "Poor baby," she said.
	He couldn't keep a sad face any longer. His lips parted in an answering grin and the sound of their laughter rang bright and clear above the rising clamor.

	The Chairman read aloud excerpts from the Eyes Only field report concerning the destruction of an Atlas Corporation 727 at Indianapolis International. "A number of deaths resulted from the crash of the aircraft. Witnesses reported that the glare of the initial explosion was visible in the extreme eastern edge of the county, seventeen miles away." He raised his eyes to glance at the three of them. "That must have been something to see, eh? What a pity to have missed it." He glanced again at the report. "The aircraft was completely destroyed. The bodies of the victims aboard, and the contents of the aircraft were burned beyond recovery. Preliminary reports indicated that the crash resulted from a collision between the Atlas aircraft and a fuel vehicle improperly using the runway. More to follow."
	He tossed the report onto the polished table and chuckled comfortably. "So much for Radiant Sword, eh?" He picked up another report. "It appears that the Beech Grove scanning facility was also destroyed by fire. The three staff who performed the procedure for us apparently died in the fire. I must say, that conveniently eliminates any tie-in to this court concerning the matter of Radiant Sword." He leaned back in his chair, clasped his hands behind his head and smiled. "Nothing like clearing up loose ends, eh?" A pause. "Regrettably, we lost two agents. Pity. Well, I suppose the least I can do is see that they're listed as being killed in the line of-"
	The voice was on the bullhorn was loud and clear. It easily penetrated into the room.
	"You in there. This is the FBI. The house is surrounded. Come out with your hands up."
	The Chairman hands slowly fell to the table. He looked around, the color draining from his face. He knew the voice on the bullhorn.
	"How could they know?" Three gasped. Then, with the cunning developed over years, he knew. "Two! This is her doin'."
	"Nooo," the Chairman howled. His face convulsed in fury. "Noo. Two! Even from the grave that woman conspires against me."
	"We know you're in there. We know who you are. There's no way to escape. Come out now, with your hands up."
	"Oh, Christ," Four groaned, "what are we going to do?"
	One laughed. It was not a pleasant sound. "Contact your attorney." She turned to Chairman. "I sure wouldn't want to be in your shoes. I guess you know that's your boss on that bullhorn." She looked around the table. "So, last chance-which one of you couldn't wait for Two to die?"
	She could almost hear the eyeballs click unerringly to the Chairman. He jumped to his feet, red-faced and shouting, "Yes! Yes. The woman was a nobody. An obstructionist. She deserved to die. I should get a medal."
	"This is your last chance," the bullhorn bellowed. "Come out now."
	One snorted. "What you'll probably get is twenty-five to life. You're a fool, Chairman. Didn't you stop to think she would have had a letter deposited somewhere to be mailed in the event of her termination?" She shook her head. "Don't we all? I can hear Mary Hardalee laughing at you, Chairman."
	The first tear gas canister crashed through the window. 

Epilogue

Years Later...

	Niels Gruener kept his job as Director of the FBI, and was able to make good on his offer to help defray the development cost of David's mathematics course.
	The math course itself, which David named Learning Math From Zero Point Zero, was a phenomenal success. Partly because employers were eager to hire people who had demonstrated the perseverance to complete the course, and also because, as one job interviewer put it, "It's hard to get people who really know their sums."
	After the attack on them the day that David and Joanne were kidnapped, the two youngsters Tim had recruited, Demetrius and Melanie, could not be coaxed back into the program. Tim, however, was made of sterner stuff. And, it developed, he had a rare talent for mathematics. So much so that as he neared completion of the hundreds of math lessons David had prepared, he was no longer merely David's student, but also a collaborator in the development of the lessons.
	At David's urging, Tim earned his GED certification, and then, with the ten percent he earned from the sale of math lessons, he was able to take a degree in Computer Science at the University of Florida's Daytona Beach campus. Later, he joined David as a partner in D'Escoyne Associates, Computer Software Service.
	After the finger-pointing and recrimination concerning the crash of the Atlas 727 had died away, the Department of Defense came round to ask Joanne to create Radiant Sword again, only this time under their aegis. She refused, and left Atlas Corporation to use her managerial talent to direct the huge mail order business resulting from the success of Learning Math From Zero Point Zero.
	A beaming Tim glowed with pride at the christening of his twin godchildren, a black-haired, green-eyed charmer known to the world as Aimeejo D'Escoyne, and a blond, blue-eyed lad called Timothy David D'Escoyne.
	David and Joanne still play tennis, but only for fun, and to keep in shape. The music they make together would charm the beasts of the field to sit at their feet, but, alas, all their efforts to introduce Tim to the magic of making music were in vain.
	Seems that math-whiz Tim is nearly as tone deaf as Horatio Hornblower.

About the Author

	"I was six years old when I wrote my first story. Fascinated by stories of Egyptian pharaohs, I had to do one of my own. Fortunately, it did not survive. Always keen on contests, I won a candy bar for a story I did for my Cub pack. Luckily, it was lost too. But the die was cast...After college I became a technical editor, then, finally, a writer in the financial services industry."
	Avid sailors, Lee and his wife Judy crossed the Atlantic in their sailboat, Tempo. "It took us thirty-five days, one day longer than it took Columbus." They then completed a leisurely journey through the Caribbean islands. At this point Lee began thinking of writing the story of their adventures, but life had another turn in store. He enjoyed reading romances, and decided that was what he really wanted to write. A man writing romances? He got a lot of ribbing in an early critique group. "Offering a new chapter to that bunch was like feeding red meat to a school of sharks." Writing romance fiction was nothing like the technical writing he was used to, so he joined Romance Writers of America and began to learn a new skill, and unlearn part of an old one. 
	But he likes it. "Romance fiction is a real labor of love. I think it helps that I'm still crazy about my wife after twenty years."