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  Truth was, Ted felt swamped because there was nobody in the office who had any real authority. Derek would’ve been a steadying influence, but he was still in LA attending to family matters. Julia would’ve pitched in, probably taken over, but she wasn’t due back from her vacation till Saturday. Ted had thought of asking Rae to come in and help out—she had a real intuitive talent, had to have since she wrote those crime novels. But he wasn’t sure Shar would approve of him calling Rae, seeing as she hadn’t been briefed on the current situation, and…

  By the time Kendra came through the door, he knew he was mentally babbling to himself.

  His Paragon of the Paper Clips set a little paper plate containing a croissant, a pat of butter, and a container of jam—strawberry, it looked like—in front of him. Hunger pangs instantly kicked in.

  “You buy this?” he asked.

  “No.” She smiled—her little cynical quirk of the lips that hinted of a devilish sense of humor that she hadn’t chosen to fully reveal in her ten months with the agency. “Friend of Mick’s did. Tall blonde lady name of Alison, carrying a wicker basket. Came in here looking like Li’l Red Riding Hood, but I’m guessing she’s the Big Bad Wolf in disguise and has her sights set on eatin’ him up.”

  Ted buttered the croissant. “You don’t like her?”

  “I don’t like her, I don’t dislike her. I just think she’s a tall blonde lady name of Alison with a wicker basket. And the breakfast things she delivered are great.”

  The phone rang. Kendra answered. “For you,” she said. “Hy Ripinsky.”

  SHARON McCONE

  One of the keys on the ring Craig had found looked as if it might fit a heavy-duty padlock. Another was a standard dead bolt type. Both newish. Two others, one small and one large, were old and tarnished. Pockmarked and crusty, the way the keys Hy and I kept at Touchstone got if we didn’t occasionally treat them with WD-40.

  The blue tag felt finger-worn and smooth to the touch. Faint broken lines showed where a number once had been, and when I held it up to the light and squinted I made out the numeral 6 and the letter C. Across the bottom was a faded pattern of flames, or perhaps a sunset.

  Craig was watching me anxiously. “Mean anything to you?”

  “Not really.” I turned it over. The back was blank except for scratches. “You sure this doesn’t belong to Adah?”

  “I’d’ve noticed it if it was in the ashtray before. Adah usually keeps the case of whatever CD she’s playing propped in there.”

  “And you haven’t seen it at home? Say, on that rack with the key hooks by the front door?”

  “Never.” The word was sharpened by impatience, but I ignored it, reexamining the tag.

  I said, “It could be to a hotel or motel room. A lot of the older places still haven’t converted to key cards.”

  “If Samson stashed Adah someplace like that, she’d’ve figured a way out by now.”

  “Unless he’s been sedating her.”

  “Even then, places like that are too public. People coming and going, curious about what’s happening in the adjoining units. Besides, hotels and motels don’t require that many keys.”

  “No.”

  “Shar.” Now his voice crackled with impatience. “We’re wasting time.”

  “I’ll take the tag to Richman Labs, see if they can bring out the writing.”

  “Will they put a priority on it?”

  “They’d damn well better; we send a lot of business their way. I’ll call to alert them, and you call RI, ask for the chopper to come back for me. You take Hy’s Rover down and park it someplace inconspicuous on the lower road. Then drive Adah’s Prius back to the city. By the time you get to the pier, we may have something on her whereabouts.”

  ADAH JOSLYN

  Face it, the only way you’re getting out of here is by forcing that door.

  But with what? Not the underwire. It wasn’t strong enough to move that dead bolt. And she’d been over the whole space exhaustively; all she’d come up with was a damned useless toilet bolt. She looked at it where it lay on the quilt, then flung it away into the bathroom.

  Childish reaction, but a situation like this reduced you to that. Brought out all those resentments and fears and tantrums that stalked the terrain of the young and helpless. She had been a willful child, and when someone crossed her—a playmate in the schoolyard, a babysitter, her own parents—then watch out! Rage had been her favorite and usually most effective weapon.

  As an adult she’d learned to control her temper and use anger sparingly, but in certain situations it had served her well. This was not one of those times. Aimless fury sapped your strength, made you careless, and could plunge you into despair. She needed to regroup, regain focus. But focus on what? Escape? She’d apparently exhausted all possibilities of that.

  Actually the bolt wasn’t completely useless. She could chip away at the doorjamb with it. But she’d need something thin and strong to slide into the hole she’d create and force the bolt and snap lock aside.

  She’d make one more search.

  Nothing in this room. She went into the bathroom, retrieved the bolt from the floor and stood still, looking around. Her eyes rested on the metal flashing from which the shower door had hung. It was coming loose from the rest of the enclosure.

  She felt a rush of excitement. What she needed had been here all along, she just hadn’t examined it closely enough.

  She reached up and pried the flashing free. Carried it to the other room and began chiseling at the doorjamb. At first the noise unnerved her, but no one came to investigate. She tried prematurely to slip the flashing in beside the lock, but it wouldn’t go, so she continued chipping. The wood was old and splintered easily.

  Now that she was close to freeing the lock, her little prison had started to feel damn cozy to her. Variation of the Stockholm syndrome, she supposed: instead of bonding with her captor, she was bonding with this tiny squalid hole he’d stuffed her into.

  She felt the bolt on the lock move slightly. Eased off on the pressure, then tore at it again.

  I want out of here. I want an hour-long shower and clean clothes. I want the biggest steak and the richest zinfandel I can find. I want my cats. I want Craig. I want to get laid!

  Another slight giving motion in the lock.

  Maybe the steak and zin can wait till later. Cats and the clothes too. But not the shower.

  And certainly not Craig!

  Wait, what was that?

  Voices.

  She stopped gouging at the doorjamb to listen. The voices were faint, but audible over the dripping and creaking sounds she’d by now normalized. Above her? Below? Couldn’t tell.

  Somebody coming to kill me?

  Somebody coming to save me?

  The voices were louder now. Two men and a woman. Words mostly unclear, but emotionally charged.

  Adah moved into a defensive stance and grabbed the garrote. If they were coming for her, she’d put up the fight of her life.

  “… what’ve… done…?” First man.

  “… gave… it.” Woman.

  First man: “… get back…”

  “… kill…” Second man.

  “No…!” Woman.

  Second man: “… who…”

  “Can’t…” Woman.

  “… have twelve hours…” First man.

  Woman: “… can’t…”

  A scuffle. A thud. Pained scream from the woman.

  “Let her alone, you bastard!” Second man, loud.

  Silence, except for the woman’s exhausted crying.

  A shout: “What did you do with it?” First man.

  Woman. “I won’t—”

  More scuffling noises, and then a gunshot, reverberating hollowly. Its sound and echoing vibrations defined her prison’s space and shape. Adah closed her eyes and began visualizing her surroundings.

  MICK SAVAGE

  It was there, staring out at him from one of the obscure sites he’d been reduced to sea
rching for information on TRIAD.

  The site was short on facts and long on messages from fans of the rogue organization. Not as raunchy as the CIA/SAD fan sites, but full of sickening letters from wing-nut supporters of the previous administration’s torture policies.

  Who and wherever you are, bless you for keeping us safe. Anybody threatening our country deserves to die.

  You’re the true patriots, not the bozos in the military who don’t really even want to be fighting.

  They’ve kicked you out of the CIA, but you’ll kick ass soon.

  Anybody with information on this fine organization, please contact me.

  Hey, Middie, you want to swap?

  Middie. Swap what?

  More mindless praise. What was it about people that made them glorify outlaws? Yeah, some of the USA’s most memorable individuals had been outlaws; in fact, the country—particularly the West—had been defined by them. But the same people who idealized outfits like TRIAD would scream like trapped eagles if anyone ever probed into their lives.

  Another posting for Middie: We’re waiting.

  And another: Come on in, Middie.

  Middle of the road? Midshipman? Midtown?

  Wait a minute. Mick checked his files. Ryan Middleton’s nickname was Middie.

  Swap. Trade wife for information?

  Mick checked the date of the postings: the first on Sunday night, the last yesterday evening.

  Was TRIAD using this little fan site to contact Middleton? How could they know their messages would reach him?

  Easy—Middleton had been an intelligence specialist. If he was on the run and trying to reach Piper, he would monitor every possible source from untraceable places like Internet cafés.

  Mick kept reading. More mindless praise. More bad logic.

  Then a posting from three hours ago: Middie, how about a C KRUIZE?

  What the hell?

  Sea cruise? Why the eccentric spelling? But then it might be a person’s name, a place, an anagram….

  Lots of possibilities.

  Mick clicked on his and Derek’s new search engine, soon to be up and running under the management of Omnivore. Whenever possible, use the very best.

  HY RIPINSKY

  The chopper had touched down on top of RI’s building, but before Hy could get out, an employee came scuttling under the rotors calling out to the pilot. Mr. Morland wanted to know how soon they would return to their destination to the north?

  Hy smiled grimly. Craig had observed the organization’s need-to-know policy. And a good thing, given what had gone down there earlier.

  “Mr. Ripinsky?” the pilot said.

  “Go now. I’m riding with you.”

  The pilot didn’t protest; he knew better than to question the boss’s judgment. Hy gave the employee a thumbs-up sign as the chopper rose again.

  Shar and Craig must’ve found something that required their quick transport back to the city, he thought. Or else the rifle shots and chopper had attracted unwanted interest in the property. Either way, he was here to see that they got out safely.

  “Reconnoiter the property before you attempt to put down,” he said to the pilot through their headsets. “And let me have your weapon.” All RI pilots were firearms-qualified and had handgun carry permits.

  The man handed a .38 back to him without a question.

  Moments crawled by as Hy stared moodily down at the changing terrain. His shoulder throbbed dully, but he didn’t have a fever or any other symptoms of infection. Still, the wound would slow him down for a while. He’d have to ground himself from flying till it was fully healed.

  And McCone? Would she experience a setback from the rigorous activity? She’d been winded and pale when he left, but otherwise seemed okay.

  All of this mess had happened because McCone couldn’t leave the disappearance of her friend alone, but Hy couldn’t condemn her. Quite the opposite. She’d go to extremes for those she cared about, and it was an example a legion of people—himself included—would do well to follow.

  He made a couple of calls, again requesting the pilot’s permission, then watched as the sea and the retreating fog bank appeared over the pine-blanketed hills. He checked his watch—seventeen after one in the afternoon. Yesterday had flowed seamlessly into today, and today might well do the same into tomorrow. But something had quickened in his blood, and he sensed a resolution coming before too long. Good or bad, he couldn’t say.

  But a resolution.

  The pilot flew low over the Samson property. No cars, no sign of new arrivals.

  “Put her down,” Hy said.

  As the chopper hovered closer and closer to the ground, he saw McCone step out of the trees and wave. She was alone. And smiling—thank God.

  But where the hell was Craig?

  CRAIG MORLAND

  He tapped the steering wheel of Adah’s Prius in impotent rage. Tie-up on the fucking Golden Gate Bridge, stalled car in a southbound lane, traffic squeezing around it. Angry drivers, resigned drivers, drivers moving their heads to music, and—of course—the inevitable driver talking away illegally on a cell phone, even though that practice, at least without a hands-free device, had been outlawed for a couple of years now.

  In such situations Craig often entertained a fantasy about jumping out of his vehicle and running off on foot to his destination, leaving others to clean up the mess he’d created. After all, hadn’t that person who couldn’t keep his or her car from stalling created one for him? A Volvo nosed in front of him, and he had a vicious urge to accelerate and smash into it. He calmed himself by thinking of Adah and how she loved the Prius. If she came back and found so much as a scratch on it there’d be hell to pay.

  If she came back.

  Who was he kidding?

  An extra lane branched off right before the toll plaza. He sped into it, and through the booth, his FasTrak registering on the monitor. The pier was his logical destination, but once on Marina Boulevard he was only a few blocks from home.

  He needed a few moments of peace. And besides, the cats would be wanting food—they hadn’t been fed in a while.

  He took a sharp right on Cervantes and another on Beach. And came home to the unexpected.

  MICK SAVAGE

  C Kruize Control: an Italian disc jockey hosting Nigerian parties and clubs worldwide.

  Norman H. Kruise, genealogy.

  C. Kruise Reddick: NHL drafts, Twin Cities.

  C. K. Videos: ass booty pole dancing.

  Kon Centsus Kruize: gambling site, based on an offshore ship.

  Kruise Funeral Home, San Antonio, Texas.

  Candy Kruize: lots of listings. A real entrepreneur.

  Kruise as a baby name: general consensus no.

  KruiseforKids: fundraiser for Camp YesICan.

  And more, and more…

  He sighed and finished the cold dregs of the coffee that Alison had brought that morning. Coffee and croissants for everybody because she thought they were all probably working too hard to bother with breakfast. She had no idea what they were working on, but she’d heard the weariness and tension in his voice when she called his cell that morning. It was a generous thing to do, and Mick appreciated her thoughtfulness, but he’d known her only two days and already she was behaving like a long-term girlfriend—or a wife.

  Long-term was great, either way, but there were areas of his life that he didn’t open up until he knew and trusted a person, and his work for the agency was one of them. She was moving in too quickly and it made him nervous.

  My God, Savage, you’ve got a beautiful woman interested in you, and you’re faulting her for bringing breakfast? Give her a break!

  He went back to the C Kruizes, and variations thereof.

  Kruise Family History: famed Iowa family.

  Kruize Photographic Supply, New Brunswick, New Jersey.

  C Cruises: houseboat rentals in the California Delta.

  C-More Cruises: tours of Fiji.

  Tom Cruise: now, this was g
etting ridiculous!

  Cruises, Okay!: a site for travel agents to advertise.

  Kargo Cruises: for those who didn’t mind steerage.

  Carnival Cruises, Viking Cruises, Galapagos Islands Cruises, Cut-Rate Cruises, Norwegian Lines…

  A lot of cruise lines. Mick had never been on a cruise. That Galapagos Islands tour might be interesting.

  Cruise lines…

  He altered his search slightly and began running through the new results.

  SHARON McCONE

  I was plenty pissed at Hy for coming back on the chopper instead of seeing the doctor as he’d promised, but I tried not to show it. I knew all too well how it felt to be criticized for how I handled my own health care issues, and I didn’t want to subject him to similar treatment. Even though he’d been the major critic of mine. Besides, he looked and seemed to be feeling all right. No fever… I had felt his forehead to make sure.

  On the way back over the Bay I told him where his Rover was, that somebody would have to fetch it from the secluded place Craig had parked it and that it was safe until arrangements could be made. Then I showed him the keys and tag Craig had found. He examined them, shook his head.

  “Could be from any hotel or motel.”

  “But an older place because of the condition of the tag.”

  “And the condition of these two keys.” He fingered them.

  “Somebody may have had the tag for a long time and slipped new keys on the ring.”

  “Why not take the old keys off and throw them away?”

  “Because maybe they still work for some lock.”

  I was silent for a time, taking the tag from him and running my fingers over its surface. Then I asked, “Any new information come in?”

  “If it has, Ted didn’t know about it when I talked to him.”

  “Have you called home? Spoken with Gwen?”