Go to home page  

It had started sometime during her last two days in Dubai; a frisson of unease stroking her back as if by the light touch of an irritating feather drawn along her spine from somewhere she couldn’t reach with her hands reach, no matter how much she twisted and tried, to somewhere near the kidneys. The kind of sensation that occasioned a shudder or two, but generally is wasn’t quite as extreme; though always it left a sense of threat and some undefinable kind of personal violation.

The feeling had thoroughly spoiled her last days in Dubai, though, as she had to admit, there hadn’t been that much to spoil. What had been intended as a vacation and a visit to some place she’d never been and which made it onto her list of places-to-go, had turned into a week of I-wish-I-’d-never-been this-stupid. But Helen had raved about it, and Ali Achmez, the liaison visitor from the Royal Enforcement division last year had been intriguing, to say the least. He hadn’t given the impression that he could possibly be a member of what by all accounts, was a police force accountable only to a single individual; just like everything in that place was. The wet dream of every had-been royal in Europe and anywhere outside this strange world she’d just left.

He had zeroed in on her immediately and she had noticed almost as immediately. It was followed by an invitation to dinner, which she accepted. That in turn was followed by the inevitable suggestion of something else, which she had declined, politely but firmly. The visitor appeared disappointed, but not unduly upset, turning up the following day as polite and urbane as ever. Still, she knew that she's touched a nerve somewhere. It wasn't a good nerve, that much was clear.

Whatever possessed her to choose to vacation in Dubai...

Playing with fire, stupid girl!

For that's what she had been doing—or been wanting to; somewhere in the deepest recesses of her mind. It was easy to say 'no' back home, where everything supported her right to do so. Never mind what 'expectation' was. Everybody had a right to choose. Choose dinner but say no to a payback with sex.

In the UAE different rules applied; she knew enough to know that. And if Ali Achmez had seen her there—and hadn't she secretly hoped that he might?—and approached her to ask for his due and for what he desired and probably considered his right...

To say 'no' in his world, now that would have required more than just a whimsical 'no'. Ot would have required courage and possibly even more. It might indeed have turned out to be impossible. Dangerous. Very. Pushing the envelope to breaking point.

Am I that bored?

In the event, he obviously hadn't found out. And so, whatever she had wanted to prove—and may well have been lucky to avoid having to prove!—had come to nothing.

Better that way. Much better, silly girl!

It was good—pathetic in its predictability maybe, but good anyway—Emily thought, to be back where she belonged and where the reference points were familiar. The all-pervasive, albeit subtle, scent of desert was finally gone, to be replaced by the smells of LAX, good old US urban pollution and the wafts of overprocessed coffee from a nearby kiosk. Plus the smell from too many people neglecting to either bathe, shower or use deodorant. Still, the smells were different, and the bodies that bumped into her were clad not in white gowns and day-wear pajamas but the kind of stuff people wore in airports at home. And in another couple of hours she would be home, and maybe and despite all the drawbacks of home it wasn’t such a bad place after all.

But the frisson had just once more stroked along her spine and the unease wasn’t going anywhere and hanging around, clawed into her being like some creature from a nightmare.

Don’t be stupid!

How often had she told herself that during the last few days?

And yet, and yet...

But why would anybody be following her?

She had wracked her brain over that question during the last day or so, when she had finally identified the cause of her discomfort. But there really, truly, honestly and absolutely was no reason in the world why in Dubai of all places someone should follow her with such persistence and intense focus that somewhere, something came through; no matter how subtle, discreet or invisible.

People knew stuff they didn’t even know they knew. And, irrational as it was, this was true for her, too.

But what do I know?

She extricated herself from the queue of those lining up for the baggage scan machine at the entrance to the waiting area at the gate, representing the last effective security check before one got aboard the plane.

A quick look along the line, but nobody seemed to be more than mildly interested in her action. It shortened the queue, and they probably wondered why she would step out of line when she only four from the front.

A budding terrorist, changing her mind at the last moment?

It was possible. She had inherited her olive skin from her mother’s side of the family, which marked her either as part-Latino, or, as was more accurate, Middle-Eastern. Only in her case that actually meant Israeli, and not, as some might think, Arabic-or-otherwise-suspect. Reason enough for some implicit ethnic profiling happening in a lot of those who watched her, however fleetingly.

Including, she thought, the three men standing a few steps away from her, close to the wall, apparently engaged in conversation, but who knew? She saw the quick, hooded glance from the white, but tanned, guy with the dark short-cropped hair and the beard that either was the result of just a few days of not shaving or else a fashion statement. The tall, black guy beside him also strafed her with a quick look, but kept his face studiously disinterested. The third one, smallest one of the threesome by at least a head, was facing away from her, and would have had to turn his had to look at her. He didn’t, but she noticed the twitch of his head as he registered his companions’ sudden brief interest.

Then, as if nothing had happened, they returned to their conversation.

Had she seen them before? Had they been on her flight from Dubai?

Truth was, she’d never seen either before.

Was there anybody who had come the same way she had?

She glanced at her watch. At least another fifteen minutes before she had to go through the checkpoint.

She headed for the kiosk all the while studying furtively the faces of those she passed.

Nothing.

Why would anyone in Dubai?...

She was a US citizen by birth. Her father’s family was a mix of Europeans and native Americans. Her passport read ‘Emily Anne Riley’. Hardly anything to suggest in any way that she was effectively half Jewish, which in some places in the world was enough reason to cause trouble. She was just a holiday maker having a look at the opulence and rabid capitalist extravaganza fostered by one of the richest and least democratic nations on this planet. Of course, she had traveled alone, and that might...

Not that creep from...

Nah. He had hooked up the same evening with another visitor, also solitary, who, Emily was certain, had come to Dubai just to get laid and maybe hook a rich local in the process.

Stupid girl.

The coffee from the kiosk tasted like crap. She could almost feel her breath turning from minty to stale. She turned away from the kiosk to face the stream of passengers again; crossed the brief, disinterested gaze of the man whose face she hadn’t been able to see before.

Gotcha!

For, unless these guys were gay, which they weren’t, there was something about them that didn’t ring right. And looking at her without at least some evidence of even a fleeting interest... Well, it just didn’t happen. The mix of genes that had given rise to Emily had produced a face and body that no normally functioning male looked at with indifference. Besides, it was late July and hot and sticky, even inside the terminal building; and that wasn’t the kind of climate conducive to hiding one attributes. Emily tried not to go out of her way looking provocative, but she wasn’t inclined to hiding herself either. But then again, neither were a hundred other women of all ages around here. There was a kind of safety in the anonymity of a vast supply of visible flesh, displayed to its best and often deliberately provocative advantage.

Still, my friend, indifference and disinterest I do not believe.

Who was he? Who were they?

She caught a brief glance from his companion, the one with the beard. Though it merely flickered across her, in that look there was interest.

Ha!

Emily headed back for the queue, her small bag slung over one shoulder, the ticket in one hand and the awful coffee in the other. From her peripheral vision she caught the three men engaged in a brief ritual, as, as one, they formed their right hands into fists and touched them together in a brief gesture. She forced herself not to make the glance into a stare and joined the queue, focusing on the eight people in front of her. As she did, she was surprised to realize that, for a moment there, she had forgotten about the unease, which suddenly returned with a vengeance.

They inspected her bag, and presently she was seated somewhere in the back of the gate waiting area, in a row of about a dozen seats that was occupied only by a young couple a few seats to her left. They were solely interested in each other, and short of ripping their clothes off and making out right here and now, they had their hands in just about every intimate place on each other’s anatomy and their faces firmly glued together.

Ahh, young love.

From where she was, Emily could see most of the other passengers, half of whom had their faces turned in her direction, while the others were facing away, toward the windows looking out across the tarmac and the planes waiting at the gates. It occurred to her that if anyone was stalking her, he or she, was probably within her current field of vision.

Let’s assume he is.

So, who was it?

The guy in the suit, doing stuff with a flip-open cellphone? He appeared immersed in whatever he was doing, but you never knew. The way he was holding it...

Or maybe the young blonde with breasts that should be confined by D-cups, but instead were confined by something entirely insufficient and threatened to stretch her elastic tank top to the point of ripping it? As Emily looked at her, she found her staring back, then quickly averting her gaze.

Not likely. She would have noticed her. An observer would be expected to be considerably less visible.

Unless the observers changed, of course. But that would have implied...

What?

The whole thing made no sense.

Emily glanced to her right...and started. For just three seats to her right, at the end of the row, sat the bearded man from the threesome. He was wearing a black peaked cap with a Nike swish on the side. He was leaning back, a small soft case on his lap, his hands folded across his chest and his head nodding forward as if snoozing.

Emily stared.

Was that him?

As if he’d sensed her regard his head turned and he looked straight at her. His mouth twitched as he smiled at her, then deliberately turned his head away again as if disinterested despite the obvious brief connection.

Emily remembered him standing there with his companions. She allowed herself a brief additional moment of inspection, noted the muscular neck and the shape of the torso under his T-shirt, then turned away again. All three, she recalled had looked fit and...well, ‘trained’. Something about their posture and a whole lot of other indefinable somethings that came together. Scattered impressions, as elusive as those that had caused her current persecution complex.

She returned her attention to other passengers and proceeded methodically, as if she were tackling a statistical profiling task. Sort characteristics and behaviorisms, and calculate probabilities from that.

She was so immersed in her task she almost didn’t hear the boarding announcement. Then she looked to her right and found the bearded stranger still sitting there, apparently relaxed. She didn’t believe it for a moment. And she was proven right almost immediately when he turned his head to face her again. Since he had been looking straight ahead that implied awareness of what went on in his peripheral vision; a very uncommon skill. People usually don’t take note of such things.

He rose and headed for the gate. Emily watched him go, but then her attention was distracted by the man in the suit who had been fiddling with his cellphone or PDA or whatever it was. He, too, rose; but that was not what attracted her attention. It was the fact that he, too, looked after the bearded man and that he did so in a furtive manner.

Something beyond her ken was going on here; no doubt about it.

The suited man presently picked up a small, soft briefcase that probably held a laptop and, with a flicker of a glance in her direction went to join the boarding queue.

Emily decided that his interest in her, such as it might have been, was for the usual reasons.

Oh well. Time to go.

***

Al Sontag had been observing her since the day he spotted her in the Dubai Hilton. Single females making that kind of trip either went there for business, which was rare, or because they wanted to land a rich husband. The Jebel Ali free zone, which was Dubai’s major source of income and worldwide influence, was the ideal place for such an undertaking. Solitary men there were aplenty, on the prowl after long days of conducting business affairs, in need either of consoling themselves over failure or celebrate success with a good fuck.

Despite the wealth of opportunities to get laid, he doubted that she had. It would have been better for her if only she had been more white. As it was and despite the woman’s indisputable attractiveness, her chances of getting anything serious out of this trip had been slim. White was ‘in’, and anybody with even a hint of Jewishness wouldn’t get a looking anyway. And, indeed, she had not even made any fleeting connections; at least not during the two days he had been watching her. Which was odd, given that she’d obviously not been there on business either.

He’d have to investigate the Jewish connection. The more he watched her, the more he was certain that there was something like that lurking in her genes; despite the Irish-sounding surname. Not that it mattered if she had. Some of his clients would welcome it. Very much so. Especially since she was young, fit and obviously very healthy; as well as intelligent. There was a brightness on her eyes and her demeanor, a alertness of being, that spoke of a lively mind.

She was worth an easy million to him and possibly more, depending partially on who was willing to invest in her—if only she fulfilled the critical requirements, of which there was a long list. Her intelligence, if anything, was a handicap, though it served as evidence for the class of her genetic makeup. But nobody would want her brain, as long as the rest was in tip top shape and without taint. No reason to want her brain at all; not unless there had been developments that even he wasn’t aware of. Possible but unlikely. And intelligence posed a possible threat, because...well, stupid people were generally so much easier to profile and ultimately make available. But stupid people, no matter how good-looking, were stupid for a reason, as had been demonstrated beyond doubt by now. Meaning that their going rate was far below the likes of this one, Jew or not.

He saw the quick exchange of glances between her and the guy in the beard. Definite interest fro both sides; which was an unwelcome development at this stage. Especially since the guy troubled him in some indefinable way. Nothing concrete, but he had learned to trust his subtle instincts and subconscious perceptions.

Emily Riley rose and went to join the queue. The guy waited a few moments, then rose and followed her. After a brief hesitation, Al got up and, making sure nobody seemed interested, sidled up to where his quarry had been seated. With a bit of luck... Women tended to lose hair, and especially those with a lush head of it like hers.

There was a holdup where the flight attendant checked the boarding passes and compared them to people’s various forms of ID. It sounded like, for whatever obscure reason, some seats had been reassigned at the last moment. The affected passengers were puzzled, but nobody actually complained. The guy with the beard didn’t even have a boarding pass, but when he showed his ID another flight attendant handed him one. She smiled a pretty smile and received one in return.

Air Marshal? Al wondered.

Possibly. At any rate, someone who’d decided to join the flight at the last moment.

Why?

He considered taking a snapshot of the guy's face, but then decided against it. Too risky now. Especially if the guy was law. He'd be trained to see things just about everybody else would miss. Much more important to get that thing he was after.

He grinned when he saw that he'd struck gold. Quickly and with practice casualness Al Sontag did what had to be done and then headed for the queue.

***

“So, what do you think?” Ben asked.

“She’s clean,” Ridley told him.

Hille, who had his back to her and therefore had no idea who they were talking about, smirked.

“I agree,” Ben said.

“With whom?” Ridley asked.

“Hill. As for you, you’re thinking with the wrong head.”

“Stepping out of line would be stupid,” Ridley said lowly. “Best way to get noticed.”

“See what she does next,” Ben said.

“She must be hot,” Hillel muttered.

“Very,” Ben agreed.

Ridley said nothing but agreed wholeheartedly in silence. Not that he fooled his friends. They knew each other far too well for such paltry deceptions to work.

A boarding announcement echoed through the passage.

“That’s us,” Hillel said.

And so it was; and now that the time had come, Ridley decided that it was more difficult than he had anticipated.

“I’ll see you soon enough,” he said.

Their attention was distracted briefly by the woman moving past them to purchase a vile-smelling coffee at the kiosk. By the twitch of her face she, too, thought it was crap—which raised the question as to why she’d bought it to begin with.

“See you around,” Ben said, valiantly trying to keep the smirk off his face.

“Tell the Colonel I said hello.”

“He’ll want to know why we didn’t manage to change your mind.”

“He’ll have to live with disappointment.”

They touched fists and presently separated. Ridley watched his comrades head down to a gate about a hundred feet on his right. They didn’t look back; but then again, he would not have expected them to.

The woman joined the queue to the checkpoint. Ridley started heading off down the concourse for his own plane, which was due to leave in about an hour, when he bethought himself.

What if they were right?

He fought a brief battle with himself and lost. He took a cellphone out of his pocket and dialed a number he thought he’d never dial again.

“Hey, Jan. Rid here. I wonder if you could do some magic for me.”

“You’re still with us? I thought...”

“One last favor. For old times’ sake.”

She made a fake exasperation sound, but he knew she’d help.

Ten minutes later, as the last of the passengers were filing into the waiting area, not only did he have an electronic ticket number for this flight, but he knew the name of the woman and what seat she had been assigned. His own seat had been allocated to be beside hers, and he had just about all of her life transmitted to the PDA in his pocket.

As he checked himself through the baggage scanner and handed the officer his ID, which allowed him to carry the Beretta Cougar in the paddle holster at his belt. The officer ran the ID through a reader, inspected the display, compared the face of the man looking at him with that on the display, then handed the card back to Ridley, nodding. Another officer discreetly deactivated the alarm in the body-scanner such as not to signal to any of the passengers that Ridley was anything but a normal passenger.

Of course, even the security guys had no idea how profoundly un-normal an operator they had just allowed to pass. Ridley’s ID gave nothing away of his profession. He could have been anything from Secret Service to plain old cop, or specially licensed Mr. Citizen. He was neither.

Ridley entered the waiting are and saw her sitting a back row that was empty but for a seriously necking couple. He sat himself at the end and remained quiescent, observing the other passengers. He told himself that he was here because he was wondering if maybe Emily Riley was a danger to the people on this flight; but he had long been disabused of that notion. She worked for Seattle PD as a mathematical profiler, whatever that entailed. Psych with numbers, he guessed. Hardly the kind of person to have malevolent intentions on internal US flights; or any flights for that matter. She was on her way home; which was in the opposite direction to where he had been heading.

So, why am I here?

He knew damn well why he was here.

Ridley grinned to himself, amused at his whimsy. Baja could wait another few days. Weeks, if it had to be. Just.

With nothing else to do he allowed himself time to study the other passengers—

—then noted that Emily Riley was staring at him and turned his head to smile at her.

Was she going to be surprised when she found out who was sitting beside her on the flight!

She’d just been to Dubai.

Why? What was a girl like this doing visiting a place like that? From her clothing he guessed it wasn’t business.

The guy two rows down, wearing an expensive-looking light-blue suit and apparently busy with one of those new QTels, that were just about everything you could pack into a handheld piece of electronic gadgetry, cast a quick glance in Emily Riley’s direction. Ridley caught it and flicked his own gaze away quickly because he just knew that the guy was going to look at him next. In that moment however he had caught something that definitely didn’t belong and which completely readjusted his assumptions about the situation.

Who are you? he wondered, projecting the question at the woman.

Well, he had all the flight to Seattle to find out—and to get an idea why someone would be watching her.

He made a motion to get to his cellphone to call Jan yet again, but he knew he’d be pushing it. He already had. Nobody but Jan would have gone out of her way to help him, now that he was, temporarily at least, outside the system and therefore outside its entitlements.

The man slipped the QTel into his soft briefcase. Ridley went to join the queue, with two people between him and Emily Riley. He showed a California driver’s license to the male flight attendant checking passengers’ IDs. The man nodded at his colleague, a female attendant standing just beside the boarding pass scanner. She handed Ridley a small slip, which he duly inserted into the machine, before continuing into the boarding tunnel.

As he did, he turned around—only to witness a most curious interlude: suit-man was standing before the seat where Emily Riley had been, bending down and carefully picking something off the backrest, which he placed into what looked like a small plastic bag that he put into his pocket.

The passenger coming up behind Ridley made further observation impossible, but what had happened just now appeared clear enough. Ridley himself had done something similar during an operation some years back, when there had been a need to unambiguously identify a subject who had been extremely careful about not leaving either his fingerprints nor anything containing his DNA in any public place. In the end it had been one of his short-cropped hairs that had fallen out, and which he had been unable to retrieve because he had been spooked by Jack, who was acting as the distraction, into leaving in a bit of a hurry.

So, who had a desire to identify Emily Riley? For what purpose? Who was she? Something more than Jan’s data suggested? It was unlikely. Jan had access to databases with security classifications somewhere in the stratosphere.

Who are you, Emily Riley?

***

The plane was a 737 that had been reconfigured several times. Three seats on each side of the aisle. Emily Riley was in 12B. Ridley had asked Jan to get him into 12C, which was an aisle seat, just beside the increasingly intriguing Emily. He noted, as he stashed his bag in the overhead lockers, that the man in the suit was just coming into the plane and stopped about five rows toward the front.

At the window, in 12A, sat an obese young-ish man with a sweaty face, greasy curly hair, oversized jeans and a baggy navy T-shirt with a logo on the front that Ridley didn’t recognize. The guy reeked of garlic and stale perspiration and really needed two seats, since his wobbly torso extended well over the armrest between him and Emily Riley, who obviously was trying to keep a fastidious distance without being to obvious about it. It wasn’t easy with the narrow seating and she looked up somewhat apprehensively when Ridley approached and stopped to put his bag away.

Then she recognized who it was and an expression of relief flitted across her face. She looked at Ridley pleadingly, he thought, as if asking for his understanding as to why she leaned so far over toward his own assigned seat. He smiled and gave her tiniest of nods. She grimaced but it ended up in a grateful smile. It was a socially acceptable occasion to take in her face full-frontal without appearing too forward or curious. It was rounder than he had noticed before, with soft but definite cheekbones, a nose that might be just a tad too small to qualify for classical beauty, a wide sweet full-lipped mouth, chin with a hint of a cleft, and a pair of very alert eyes that weren’t just brown but had flecks of hazel. It also occurred to Ridley, quite unexpectedly, that Emily Riley was possibly doing exactly what he was doing himself; allowing herself this moment of inspection and sizing up. The thought evoked something he wasn’t quite able to define. He decided to investigate the matter later presently broke the eye contact, to focus on the guy at the window, who who appeared not to have noticed the interaction between his neighbors, immersed as he was in a tattered fat paperback, the title of which Ridley couldn’t make out.

He made a motion to sit down. The woman obliged by taking her arm of the divider between their seats and placing it onto her lap, making herself as narrow as possible.

Ridley sat and smiled at her, then leaned just a little closer.

“Name’s Ridley,” he said, just loudly enough for her to hear. “And, no, I won’t misinterpret it if you feel inclined to lean this way.”

She grinned broadly and put her arm back onto the rest. It felt warm against his own. He knew that she was as conscious of it as he was, but she left it there.

“Emily,” she said.

He glanced at her sideways.

“Name’s Emily,” she said. “Not ‘Em’, which I hate.”

“Duly noted. And I have an aversion against ‘Rid’, which is what some insist on calling me; starting with my father many years back.”

“Also duly noted,” she replied. “‘Ridley’ you are. It’s not like either our names are miles long. Why do people want to make up dumb-ass abbreviations?”

“Search me.”

He leaned back and caught a brief glance of the man in the suit who was staring at him. The guy was a pro. He had been caught in his inspection, but did a very passable job of pretending that his stare was actually more like a lingering scan, as he slowly allowed his gaze to wander away from Ridley and apparently inspected someone else. Except that at this distance the guy was still effectively looking at him—and Emily Riley for that matter.

Ridley inclined his head toward his neighbor.

“Would you prefer to be left alone, or is is OK if we talk?”

“Are you always this direct?”

He turned his head and saw her looking at him from underneath long lashes.

“It saves time and prevents misunderstandings,” he replied. “It also is useful in avoiding any suggestions of me trying to come on to you in some unsubtly subtle manner.”

She grinned. “Fair enough. So, how about you? Are you a talker or reader of boring magazines? I notice you don’t have a book. Or a laptop.” She glanced up at the overhead locker and then returned her attention back to Ridley. “At least not in your lap.”

“Talking is cool,” he said.

“What shall we talk about then?”

“Ahh, yes, the ultimate conversation killer.” He grimaced.

The Cougar dug into his side at his left, and he shifted to be more comfortable.

“You want me to...”

She twitched.

“No, no!” he said hastily.

She relaxed, pressing against him maybe just a bit more than she had before.

“Some guys would kill for this,” Ridley muttered, grinning. “I should be grateful to you-know-who.”

He turned his head to face her; saw her looking at him speculatively from close up.

“Fear not,” he said. “I am safe.”

Her eyes widened ever so slightly.

“No,” he found himself hastening to add. “Not because of that.”

“Then why?”

“Because...” He shrugged. “Just because that’s the way it is.”

“Married?”

“No.”

“Engaged?”

“No. And, to pre-empt your next question, not in a relationship either.”

“Those are all indicators that you’re not ‘safe’,” she said. “But you know that, right?”

“Indicators, shmindicators.”

She chuckled. “Enough of them and they’re very reliable indeed.”

“And you know this because...”

“Because it’s what I do.”

“You’re in advertising,” he said. “Market analysis. Something like that.”

She nodded. “Not that far off the mark. Pretty good. Except I work for the police. Profiling statistician.”

“Whoa! You really think you have amassed enough facts about me to declare me potentially unsafe?”

“Not about you. Just males of your age, looks, involvement in relationships. Stuff like that. It doesn’t take a statistician, mind you.”

“Believe what you will. Conclude what pleases you. The facts, however, are as they are—and one of them is that we’re probably going to spend this flight in close proximity.”

“I can take care of myself,” she muttered, but when he glanced at her, he noticed that she was smiling.

“No doubt about that.”

She took her lower lips between her teeth and leaned back, very much on his side, grinning broadly, and closing her eyes.

The crew took them through the pre-flight spiel and presently the plane started taxiing. Ridley looked at his sudden companions face and realized that she wasn’t just pretending to sleep, but had actually dozed off.

Jetlag.

Her head slid closer to his side of her seat and ended up resting against his shoulder.

Ridley leaned back and stared at the head of the people ahead of him on the plane. It occurred to him that something quite unexpected had happened between whatever was just over an hour ago and now. He didn’t quite know what to make of it, but when he spied the back of the head of suit-man, he was reminded that nothing was ever as simple as it seemed.

Like you didn’t know that already.

He’d told himself that he had gotten onto this plane because, despite everything, Emily Riley was a potential suspect, and even though he was officially on an extended leave of psych recuperation he was who he was, and in his line of work responsibilities didn’t just end because one was officially on vacation.

All of which was bullshit. He’d gotten onto this flight because he was intrigued and, not to put too fine a point on it, attracted to her. Just the same could, Ridley thought, be said, for whatever reason, about suit-man.

But who, except for himself, was interested in Emily Riley, the statistical profiler from Seattle PD? Why?

Sinister motives?

You betcha!

It wasn’t rocket science. Stalking, in whatever form, was usually not benign.

You are stalking her, too, buddy!

Ahh, yes, but I’m one of the good guys.

And suit-man wasn’t. Period.

Still, no way Ridley was going to find out anything more right here and now. Might as well catch a quick few Zs himself. In his profession one learned to take them when opportunity offered them up on a platter.

He closed his eyes and allowed himself to relax somewhat, acutely aware of the head against his right shoulder and the warmth of a human body right beside his.

The flight attendants coming around with refreshments jerked Emily awake. The lardball on her right requested a coffee and cookies. She shrank back against her seat and held her breath as he moved to fold down his table and reached out to take the paper cup and cellophane-wrapped sweets. She turned her head to the left so she could get her nose as far away from the man as possible. Instead she inhaled the scents of her other companion. Some sweat, but it was moderated by deodorant and generally ‘clean’. In fact she liked it. Which reminded her that she had woken up with her head on his shoulder.

How did that happen?

She knew how. She’d fallen asleep.

Relaxed enough to just...

I don’t...

Ridley was shaking his head at the offered refreshments.

“What about you?” he asked Emily.

The casual, uncontrived ease of the statement told her something he’d neglected to share with her. For it was the kind of thing one said to a friend, spouse or lover that one had been with for long enough to make it a reflex rather than something one thought about. If, that is, one was of such disposition. And it appeared that a) Ridley Whateverhisname was of such a disposition, and b) he had transferred onto this casual connection they had made a whole set of behavior patterns that must have become quite deeply ingrained. Meaning that he had at some time been in a serious and extended relationship. Meaning that it was no more. Meaning that he wished it were different. Meaning that there was stuff she’s like to ferret out, preferably without him knowing that she was doing it. Which, she realized, might not be easy; for this man was on guard and analyzing her as sharply as she was analyzing him.

Maybe I should tone it down a bit.

She realized that he was waiting for her to answer.

“Sorry,” she said and shook her head. “Still half-asleep.” She glanced at the flight attendant, who looked at her with just a hint of impatience. “No thanks.”

The woman turned her attention to the people on the other side of the row.

“What?” Ridley asked her.

“What what?”

“You were staring at me. Just wondering. Something on my face?”

Emily leaned back and chuckled.

“Just wondering who she was.”

Ridley glanced at the flight attendant, then back at Emily, who grinned.

“The woman you lived with. Maybe were married to.”

He raised a questioning eyebrow. “And you call me ‘direct’?”

“Tit for tat.”

“She was a good person.”

The way he said it, Emily knew that the ‘was’ didn’t imply that she had turned from ‘good’ to ‘bad’ but that she was dead. Which meant a whole lot of other things as well.

“How long ago?” she asked.

“Just over five years.”

He didn’t have to count.

She said nothing, because the conversation had gone to a place where everything she might have added would have been inane.

“What is, is,” he said. “Grief either devours the griever or it expends itself. In my case it did the latter. Now all that’s left of her are memories. All good. All reminding me that the universe doesn’t give a damn. As I said: what is, is.”

“A grim philosophy.”

“It’s the only one that makes any sense of all this—and everything else I’ve seen.”

He exhaled and leaned back; closed his eyes, shutting her out. She started to pull away, sensing that she had probed too far.

“No,” he said, just loudly enough for her to hear over the constant background hum of jets and air conditioning.

His eyes opened again. “What is, is,” he said, talking to nobody in particular.

He turned his head. “But what will be at least is to some degree under our control. This is what you could call a major redeeming feature of what you call my ‘grim philosophy’. Hence,” he leaned closer, “we’ve got to work something out.”

“Like what?”

“Like what are we going to do when we get out of the plane.”

“Oh, that.”

“Yes. That.”

“We’re going to get our baggage, I suppose.”

“What’s up there is all I got.”

“Now you have me curious. What’re you doing in Seattle?”

“Buy a car,” he said.

“And...”

“I’m going to drive all the way down to Baja and stay there for a while.”

“That’s it?”

“Yep.”

“So, you’re on vacation or something.”

“An extended one.”

He was teasing her, and she was playing right into his hands.

Ridley laughed. Despite her momentary irritation with him she found that she liked the sound.

“What do you do anyway?”

“Same as you. Civil servant.”

“How evasive can you get?”

“I solve problems. Lots of different kinds. Or I used to. This may be an extended vacation or the beginning of retirement or a career change.”

“What kinds of problems?”

“The kind I am not allowed to talk about.” He said it in a tone that made it into a plea for her not to probe any further.

“I see.”

She thought of him standing there in the company of his two friends; men who obviously were close and had been working together for a significant time. The word ‘comrades’ came to mind.

I bet they were interesting problems.

“Sorry about that.”

“It’s all right,” she said. “That leaves only the question of why you’re wanting to travel all the way from Seattle to Baja in a car. I won’t even ask about the missing luggage.”

“Actually, it ended up on another plane.”

“And you know this how? People usually only find out about their lost luggage when it’s not there when they try to collect it.”

“I was going somewhere else, but then changed my mind.”

“So late that your bags ended up on another plane?”

“What can I say? Call me impulsive.”

“Why did you change your mind?”

“I decided I wanted to drive all the way down from Seattle. What else?”

“You’re a strange man, Ridley Cameron.”

“You’re not the first to say that.”

A spy?

She dismissed the thought.

Why not?

Because.

Just...because.

They continued in this manner, half-bantering, half probing each other—but the question Ridley had asked earlier remained a constant background noise.

What am I going to do when we get off the plane?

For she was interested in this guy. But she didn’t know him at all, and for all she knew he might have actually arranged to sit beside her and this whole thing was some devious game played by a stalker. Also, he was heading off to Baja the next day—or so he said.

When the plane started its final descent into Seattle, it happened far too soon. She wished for some holdup. Any damn holdup. Just so she could...

Could what?

She decided that she didn’t care about the more paranoiac possibilities and finally gave him her business card, which listed a contact phone.

He regarded her silently for a few moments, then took the card and nodded.

“How good is your memory?” she asked.

“Pretty good for my age.”

“Then remember this.” She rattled off a short string of numbers. “That’s the one not on the card.”

He repeated it back to her.

“Not bad,” she said.

“I’m definitely going to Baja,” he noted.

“I know.”

“But it doesn’t have to be tomorrow.”

“I suppose not.”

“I’ll have to find myself a reliable car.”

“Definitely.”

“And that could take time.”

“It’s not easy, finding a good car.”

“It’s not easy to find anything really good.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Something good things fall right into your lap.”

Now, why did I say that?

He twitched his head in a curious kind of way that could mean anything or nothing.

“It’s been a while,” he said quietly. “But, yes, it does happen.”

He put his cap back on as they exited the plane. If you held your head low, that would avoid most surveillance equipment without it being too obvious. He considered putting on his shades, but decided against it. To noticeable in here; especially by her. She was an observant lady and incongruous things would not escape her attention.

He accompanied Emily to the baggage carousel and waited until she had retrieved her bag, then accompanied her to the parking garage, putting on his shades the moment he set foot outside the terminal building.

She had left the car in the long-term section. It was an older model BMW, obviously well cared-for.

“Want a ride?” she asked him as she opened the door.

“Don’t really know yet where I’m going to stay.”

“The price you pay for excessive spontaneity,” she said.

“If we pass by somewhere on the way and you wouldn’t mind dropping me off...”

“I think we can do that.”

Ridley noticed a movement near a some distance behind them; but did not turn his head, for that would have betrayed his attention.

They got into the car. Emily started the engine and maneuvered the car out of its parking slot with competence. As they drove off Ridley peered into the rear-vision mirror on his side.

Hello, Mr. Suit-man!

Mr. Suit-man with something in his hand, which was probably a camera. Something fancier than a cellphone, with a nice zoom that would record the BMW’s number plate.

He leaned back and watched her drive.

“By the way,” he said, “I meant it. If there’s a decent motel along the way...”

She smiled but didn’t take her eyes off the labyrinthian way to the exit ahead of them.

“What?” he asked.

She chuckled.

“I know you mean it.”

“Good. I meant everything I said—when we first met.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you grinning like a chicken?”

“Chickens don’t grin.”

“You’re evading.”

“What if we’re not passing what you call a ‘decent motel’ along the way?”

“We will.”

“Not if I don’t want to. This is my town, you know. I know lots of ways from anywhere to anywhere else.”

“I’m not that safe,” he said.

“I didn’t think you were.”

“Then how about driving past a decent motel?”

“What if I don’t want to?”

He sat sideways to face her. This was going far too fast and potentially out of control.

“Tell you what,” he said. “You find me that motel. I give you my cellphone number. You go home and rest from the trip. Have a shower and...”

She glanced at him sideways. “What are you insinuating?” Her tone told him that she didn’t really believe that he was telling her she smelled bad.

Which she didn’t. She smelled far too good.

“I’m insinuating that you should do whatever it is you’d do anyway after this trip of yours. Then, when you’ve had some time to think and if you still want to, feel free to call me. Or not.”

“And if I do?”

“That’ll be very nice. Maybe I’ll have my new car by then. You can decide to let me pick you up and take you to dinner. Or you can pick me up. Or whatever. We’ll take it from wherever we are. I’m easy. Besides being ‘safe’, that is.”

“You’ll need some clothes, too.”

“I’ll let the airline know where they can deliver my bags to.”

“You think they’ll do this by tonight? You’ve got a lot of faith.”

The exit gate came up, saving him a reply.

Emily found Ridley a quiet motel in a suburb the name of which he didn’t ask for. He’d know soon enough when he turned on his GPS mapper and figured out his location.

“I’ll call you,” she promised as he got out of the car.

He winked at her. “You got my number.”

“You’ll see,” she said.

“What is, is,” he said. “What will be, we’ll see.”

She shook her head and grinned as he closed the door.

The room was clean and impersonal, like hundreds of others he’d been in. Plus there had been a few hundreds more that hadn’t been either clean or even safe to sleep in. Plenty of those.

Ridley activated the PDA with the GPS mapper and studied the area, both in terms of layout as well as with Google maps. Emily Riley, so his PDA told him, lived in an apartment complex just three street blocks from the motel, which made him smile. She hadn’t given him her address, and it probably amused her to set things up like this. How could he possibly know that she lived within a few minutes’ walking distance?

Very funny. Very clever.

Just like what he would expect of her.

What would I expect of her and why? I hardly know her.

That wasn’t quite true, of course. He knew a lot. More than he had any right to. But that’s the way things were these days. For those with the connections, information was in plentiful supply and at one’s fingertips. You could find out just about anything about anybody who lived and breathed in this society. And if they’d ever visited a shrink, you might know about their problems, too. No doubt, Emily Riley herself knew ways of finding out things she needed to know to do her job.

He had the receptionist call him a cab and, within three hours, had bought himself a metallic purple-blue Subaru Outback, a four-wheel drive that wouldn’t just get him to Baja—where, he decided, he was actually going to drive to, and why not?—but which was suitable for a lot of terrains, while still boasting excellent road handling qualities. He drove it back to the motel, but stopped at a Walmart on the way, where he bought a pair of blue jeans, a black shirt, a cheap pair of runner’s boxers, a tacky red T-shirt with an ‘Independent’ symbol on the front, a cheap pair of running shows and white sox, a peaked cap with the logo of some baseball team, a pair of wrap-around shades, plus a small runner’s backpack, the kind that doesn't bounce around while you’re jogging. Emily Riley had placed him at a few paces distance from her. He’d take up the unwitting invitation and have a look at where she lived. Scouting by car was potentially too noticeable, and besides he wanted to keep the Subaru ‘clean’ and he certainly didn’t want Emily to spy it by accident. A man walking was far too conspicuous. But a jogger? Nobody noticed a jogger. He’d already seen over a dozen of them, and come end-of-workday time, there would be a gazillion of them roaming the streets. Best disguise ever.

***

Al Sontag watched them leave in what he presumed to be her car. He didn’t think they’d noticed him, and why should they? It was inconvenient that the woman should have hooked up with someone so suddenly, and he’d have to investigate what it meant and implied. Her lifestyle was an issue. The DNA he would get from the hairs she had lost on the seat wouldn’t tell him anything about acquired diseases. And the clients liked the merchandise clean; not just right now but for the foreseeable future. Hence lifestyle mattered, because the merchandise was, after all, allowed to live their lives in the usual style—until they were required that is. Hence a complete profile required research, which was, if experience was anything to go by, at least several weeks of work. Still, a potential million for a few week’s time was a nice return.

Al Sontag put away the digicam on which he had recorded the BMW’s license plate and considered his next move. It was time to register the item with the database, thus in effect staking a claim on this particular individual. Better that way than to have another operator accidentally hit on the same person and thus create potentially acrimonious and time-wasting conflicts of interest. It was unlikely, of course, at least in this business and the stage it was at, but paranoia was better than complacency.

Damn shame that the guy with Riley wore the cap and the shades. No way of getting a decent picture of the face. Otherwise it would've been easy to find out who he was.

Sontag returned to the airport and proceeded to the AVIS counter to hire a car. The only thing they had left was a small Focus, but that suited him just fine. A short time later, sitting in the car before leaving the rental lot, he opened up his laptop and logged into the secure https server of an organization calling itself ‘VitaeFons’, quartered in a medium level floor office in a glass-and-steel tower inside the Jebel Ali free zone. The ostensible and legitimate business of VitaeFons was the provision of a worldwide database for human tissue and organs, sources and requisitions. Attached to it was a booming business associated with the spin-offs of the trade in human-derived bits and pieces, from organs to bones and embryonic tissue. Because of the nitpicky and widely diverging legalities associated with such a trade in the various nations in which it was conducted, basing the company in Dubai and the JAFZ made perfect sense. Nobody cared about much else but profits around here, surrounded as one was by people whose wealth and powers made Bill Gates seem like a midget.

And nobody cared about what VitaeFons called its ‘special business’ either. That was mainly because nobody actually knew about it. The ones who owned it were less visible than shadows in the darkness and behind them stood others of whom it was better not to know. Ever.

The process of getting into contact with VitaeFons’s ED, Extended Database, was complex, convoluted and precisely regimented. The punishment for non-compliance with any of the procedures was instant and irrevocable disconnection from any contacts with this lucrative market. Al Sontag understood that the reasons for this were less punitive and more paranoiac. The slightest deviation might signal an attempt by an intruder to access the ED, for purposes that might range from sabotage to investigation.

Al oriented so that the tiny camera in his laptop’s cover was aimed squarely at his face. He entered his access name and a sixteen character passcode, provided to him when he first joined the ED. Normal VitaeFons users used eight digits.

After a small delay he was put through the usual identification sequence: two shots of his face in half profile and a voice analysis with a phrase appearing on the screen.

Next the day’s random IP address, which could not be copied off the screen, but had to be typed into the browser’s address field. He has a maximum of five minutes to complete the process. After that the address became invalid, and using it would instantly strike him forever off the ED access list—and, for all he knew, the consequences might even be more dire than that. The people he was dealing with thought of a million dollars as small change. That bought a lot of power, including that of disposing of potentially troublesome people without much fuss.

The IP address, whose server could be anywhere, routed through who know how many intermediate servers and anonymizers, put him through the same ID procedure, before clearing him, for a maximum period of thirty minutes, to access the ED. He wasted no time and uploaded all the information he had on Emily Riley, including photos and whatever he knew about her so far. Thus he had staked his claim to her and any profits deriving from her use. He checked the DNA sample available box and was given an address to send the hair samples to. It was a PO Box in NYC, which probably would only exist for a month or less. The results would be made available to him in due course, possibly a week from reception. If the tests for every genetic defect currently known and identified were negative, the rating of the merchandise would climb steeply, depending on who ultimately was interested in laying a claim on it.

Satisfied that he had done what need to be done, Al Sontag broke the connection, emptied the browser’s cache and started a utility that overwrote all the free blocks on the hard drive with random digits—twice! He placed the laptop on the seat beside him with the screen folded open and drove out through the gate of the parking lot. A scanner would register departure of this vehicle. No people required at the exit anymore.

Next stop: Emily Riley’s apartment. The long hard slog of surveillance had begun.

***

Emily watched in the rear vision mirror as Ridley held up a hand in a brief wave as she drive off. She resisted the temptation to wave back and continued onto the street and around two corners until she was out of sight and then doubled back the long way to her apartment. She grinned to herself. Ridley was a clever kind of guy, to be sure, but he’d never know just how close she was to him. Of course, if he wanted to, he could...

The thought gave her pause. But it was what she might do. He had her home phone number and basically could just keep on dialing and hanging up until she picked up the phone. Depending on how long that took, it might give a fair indication of the time it would have taken her to get home from where she had dropped him off.

Of course, he had no reason to want to go to such lengths.

None that you know!

At any rate, she decided that she would let the answering machine screen any calls for at least half an hour.

A shower and some unpacking later she flopped herself back onto her bed and closed her eyes, tried to think this thing through. She had a clear choice here, and Ridley had known that. He had also given her a clear option to let things be and not pursue this thing any further.

Decisions, decisions.

Thing was, if she did contact him there was every chance that by tonight they might end up on top of this very bed together. There was no denying the attraction, and that it had chemical as well as other, potentially dangerous and far-reaching components. The greaseball on the plane had started something he’d never know of.

Emily took a deep breath and considered the possible ramifications. If she didn’t call him, he wouldn’t call her. Of this she was certain. He’d dumped all the choices about this thing into her lap. Some people would have interpreted that as cowardice, but in this instance she knew it wasn’t so. It had to do with respect and giving people choices. He’d asked her to make one. Once she had, and if it involved seeing him again, he would no doubt that that to be a ‘yes’.

As he should.

Emily turned her head and looked around her bedroom. She’d been in this apartment for just over a year and no man had ever been in here. Right now the place was a mess, and she would have to...

As he will.

She sat up, saw herself in the dressing table mirror, and realized that she was nude. She’d forgotten about it because it was so hot, even in Seattle; with the rain clouds refusing to come and some of the parks getting flecked with brown, where usually there was luscious green.

Not bad for 32, she told herself.

Do you know what you’re about to do?

Did anybody?

She swung her legs off the bed.

Time to make this place presentable.

If I’m going this far, I might as well care about what he thinks.

She stared at herself in the mirror, not entirely shocked when she realized that she did care.

***

It was nearly five p.m. when Ridley left the motel in full runner’s gear, including the tacky cap and specs for additional cover and the Cougar safely tucked away in this small backpack. His cellphone was clipped into the elastic waistband of his boxers. He made sure that he didn’t run past the office, but worked his way around the back of the complex of units. The less people took note of him the better.

He jogged the three blocks to Emily’s apartment complex, taking note of the layout, traffic patterns and parked vehicles. He turned into the driveway to the apartment complex and continued running. Nobody would think anything of it.

Ridley spotted suit-man the moment he laid eyes on him. Only now he wasn’t wearing a suit, but a light-colored casual jacket. Nothing to disguise head or face.

So he knew where Emily lived. The car was parked between two others, facing the top floor of the building containing apartments 300 to 303.

Ridley jogged right past the rear of the man’s car, noting that the occupant had a small spotting scope aimed at Emily’s apartment. He headed for the end of the access road and turned back, running past Emily’s building and right across suit-man’s visual field. He looked neither right nor left, but plodded along, like any decent jogger would. Once back on the main road and out of sight of everybody, he stopped, leaned against the wall of a segment of wood fence flanking the entrance, as if exhausted and needing a moment’s break.

He reflected that so far Emily hadn’t called—which probably meant that she had changed her mind. A pity. He really liked her—and more. It didn’t take much to recall the feel of her against him on that plane.

At that moment the cellphone buzzed.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey.”

“What’s up?”

“Didn’t think I’d call, did you?”

“I had my doubts.”

“Ye of little faith.”

There was a small pause.

“So,” he said. “What’s it going to be?”

“Wanna have dinner?”

“Sounds good.”

“I’ll pick you up.”

“If you must.”

“I do. Unless you pick me up.”

“For that I would have to know where you live.”

“There’s that.”

“What time?” he asked.

“Eight?”

“I’ll be ready.”

“I’d hope so. How’s car buying?”

“Done.”

“What?”

“You sound disappointed.”

“I...I just though it might take longer.”

“I’m a man of quick decisions. Seven breaths for the really important ones.”

“Eh?”

“Long story.”

There was a silence on the other end.

“You just be there,” she said then.

“Promise.”

“Good. See you.”

“See you.”

Ridley clipped the phone back on the waistband and leaned his head back against the wall as he thought.

When in doubt ask—especially if there’s no other way to find out.

Right!

Ridley pushed himself off the wall and jogged back into the apartment complex, right to suit-man’s car. As he approached it, he noted that the door-locks were undone.

Very careless.

He stopped at the passenger side and opened the door. The man inside stared at him, his face registering surprise. On the passenger seat sat a folded-up laptop. Ridley grabbed it and plonked himself into the seat. He closed the door and twisted to face the man in the driver’s seat.

“Howdy.”

Quick as a snake the man’s hand right hand slid underneath his loose light jacket.

Ridley’s reactions were even faster. He dropped the laptop. His left hand snapped out, fingers straight and stiff, aiming for the man’s neck. A response from the man’s left arm, almost as quick, deflecting the blow. The right hand came out with a gun, aiming at Ridley—

—whose right hand grabbed the wrist and twisted it expertly. The gun aimed at the man’s throat. A reflexive twitch. The man’s index finger convulsed and pulled the trigger.

The shot was deafening. The back of the man’s head exploded outward, spraying blood and gore over the back of the car.

Fuck!

Ridley let go of the hand which fell back into the man’s lap, even as his head lolled back at a crazy angle and his body relaxed into the slump of death.

Ridley, following mental reflexes ingrained from years of operations in situations much worse than this, looked down at himself.

No blood on him.

Good.

What did I touch?

Door.

Laptop.

No prints on the fabric of the seat.

The laptop...

It was his best bet. Fleecing the man for ID would have been nice, but this might just end up looking like a suicide, and a missing ID wasn’t going to be congruent with that scenario.

The laptop was it.

Ridley grabbed the computer and opened the door. He decided against wiping it down. Prints would be expected, and his were definitely to be found for anybody looking, they were being randomly reassigned to a different, always non-existent individual with an almost complete but entirely bogus history and background. That was far more effective than classifying them. The moment that happened somebody’s ears would invariably perk up and make things more difficult. Much simpler to just divert investigations into dead ends with bogus information.

Ridley slammed the door close with his butt and started walking away, looking around for possible witnesses. If there were, they were hiding behind curtains.

He hoofed it out of here, with the laptop under his arm. He knew he looked conspicuous in his runner’s outfit with a small laptop under his arm, but it couldn’t be helped. In the event, no cars passed him as he exited the apartment block. He stopped as soon as he was outside and stuffed the laptop into the back of his jogger’s backpack, then loped off in a direction opposite to that of the motel. He went the long way around several blocks and returned to the motel from the opposite side to which he had left it. He went back in the way he’d left and immediately headed to his unit.

Once inside he divested himself of the jogger’s garments, the cap and the shades, and put them with the emptied backpack into the plastic Walmart bag, then had a quick shower and dressed himself in the jeans and black shirt. He left the unit and got into his car; drove to downtown Seattle and dropped the Walmart Bag into a trash receptacle in the city’s seedier districts, where he just knew that any number of of eyes were watching him as he pulled up in his fancy Subaru and dumped the bag. Within minutes it would be retrieved by somebody and searched for any goodies it might contain. A little late somebody would be wearing those same clothes and trying to flog the bag to someone else for a few bucks to buy drink or drugs. It was a fact of life and there was nothing anybody could do about it. Might as well make the best use of it. The clothes were gone for good. He had paid for them by cash, which meant that there was no electronic transaction to trace, even in the unlikely case that someone tracked things down that far.

That done, Ridley drove back to the motel, parked his new car in a space some distance away from his unit and then locked himself in to investigate the laptop. Of course, the damn thing didn’t have a charger and the batteries just had to be nearly empty. Ridley enquired with the reception for nearby Fry’s or Radio Shack, and less than an hour later had a charger and a working computer. Another hour later he knew that the owner had been a very careful man who had made sure that nothing was left on the machine that shouldn’t be. Except, that was, for the data he had collected on Emily Riley. Plus a heap of email addresses and an address book.

Very careless...

It still didn’t tell Ridley who the guy actually was or why he was collecting data on Emily. But now he had something to work from, and in due course he would know. It might take another call to Jan, but this time the query would be simple and not require risky high-security level access.

It was almost time for Emily. If she made it. Things would be happening at her apartment complex, for someone would find the blood-spattered car and he wouldn’t be surprised if already cops were crawling all over the place.

He hesitated, but then yielded to the inevitable and set up the connection to Jan. She’d give him hell, and there would be some serious explaining to do, but he really had no choice.