Darryl shook his head. "Wearin shades, man. The only thing I could see was her forehead and her hands."

    "What color—dark or light?"

    "See, that's the thing that got me curious. Arabs got dark skin, right? Hers was real pale."

    Hank felt his saliva evaporating. "Did you see any of her hair?"

    "Like I said, she was covered up pretty good, but I was suspicious, so I went to take a peek under her veil and some guy dressed like a chauffeur pushed me away. Told me not to touch her. Even called me 'sir.' "

    "Chauffeur?" Oh, hell, could it be the Enemy? "What'd he look like? Brown hair and eyes, average height?"

    Darryl shook his head. "Nah. Tall and skinny, but a no-nonsense type. I wasn't gonna raise no ruckus with him."

    "Chauffeur means a car. Did you—?"

    "Scope the plates?" Darryl grinned and pulled a folded flyer from his pocket. "Sure did. Big black Mercedes. Number's right there."

    Hank let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Here was their first break.

    "What time was this?"

    Darryl shrugged. "Around four, maybe?"

    He turned to Menck. "When did that call come in?"

    Menck checked a sheet in his hand. "Four-oh-seven."

    Dawn. She thought Jerry was still alive so she'd worn a Muslim veil to hide from him. After leaving Darryl, she'd called here.

    Yeah, it was her.

    But a chauffeur?

    He clapped Darryl on the shoulder. "Good work, my man."

    Darryl grinned and squinted, then headed for the door.

    Hank turned to Menck, who was in charge of the Be-on-the-Lookout sheet that every Kicker was supposed to carry in his or her back pocket. Only one thing on the sheet now: a picture of Dawn.

    "We need an updated BOLO list. Add that everyone should be on the lookout for a pale-skinned girl in a Muslim veil. They see her, don't get near, just tail her."

    Menck nodded. "Got it."

    Hank pulled a piece of paper from his shirt pocket. "And find a way to add this."

    He handed him a crude drawing of the dream blade—the best he could manage from memory, but it gave the general idea. He'd written "sword blade" below it.

    Menck looked at him. "What the—?"

    "Just do it. And put down that if anyone sees it, bring it to me. And if you can't bring it, tell me about it. I want it."

    A long shot—very long—but who knew? One of his Kickers might be passing a junk store or antique shop and see it in the window. Worth a try.

    As Menck moved off, Hank felt his elation fade. Dawn's shock at seeing the flyer meant one thing: She'd been out of town the past few weeks.

    He looked around at the phone bank and wondered if maybe all this was a huge waste of time. If she'd just got back into town, where from? Had the Enemy gotten her an abortion? Had she been spending the time recovering?

    Hank wanted to scream. If she killed the kid, she killed the Plan. And for that, he'd kill her. It wouldn't bring the baby back, but it would be the right thing to do. And he'd enjoy it. Oh, how he'd enjoy it.

    Hideo Takita sat in first class and stared at his laptop screen. The face staring back looked very much like his.

    Yoshio, his twin, had flown this same route less than two years ago. Sent by the board to investigate the mysteries surrounding someone named Ronald Clayton, a man who had died in the crash of JAL Flight 27 on his way to meet personally with Sasaki-san and the entire Kaze board.

    Nobody met with the entire Kaze board.

    But rumor had it that Clayton had developed a world-changing technology so revolutionary that the country—or company—controlling it could call the tune to which every other nation around the globe would have to dance.

    Yoshio's failure caused Hideo loss of face within the company. Had he succeeded he might have raised Japan to first among nations and Kaze to first among economic powers.

    Hideo switched to another face, one of a number of photos Yoshio had sent back during his investigation. This one had Arabic features. Hideo knew his name: Kemel Muhallal. He also knew he was dead.

    He clicked the arrow to proceed with his grim slide show. The next face was Caucasian: Sam Baker, an American mercenary. Also dead, his corpse found along with Muhallal's and three other bodies in the rear of a panel truck abandoned in the Catskill mountains. Two of those other bodies were mercenaries hired by Baker.

    The fifth had been Yoshio, the victim of a bullet into the back of his head.

    Another click and up popped a blurred photo of the mystery man. Yoshio hadn't known his name, but had labeled him "ronin." The ronin was missing. Perhaps he was dead too. And perhaps he was alive, the one responsible for executing Yoshio.

    Execution… the manner of his death showed that he had allowed himself to be captured alive. And that meant he might have talked. Hideo knew that no form of torture could make Yoshio give up Kaze secrets, but still… bushido lived on in Kaze Group.

    Hideo stared at what he could see of the face. The photo had been shot at an angle and the focus was poor. A very forgettable face. Not the face of a killer. But what then did a killer look like? Yoshio had killed in the service of Kaze. And Yoshio and Hideo, while not identical twins, had often been mistaken for each other.

    Which means I wear the face of a killer.

    Hideo shook his head. He could never kill anyone. Yes, he worked in the espionage wing of Kaze Group's corporate intelligence, where he spied on companies, traced money trails, hacked systems and intranets. But the only things he killed were worms and viruses and trojans.

    Killing a human? Unthinkable. He hesitated killing a fly unless it became especially bothersome.

    Sasaki-san obviously knew of his lack of aggression, why else would he have assigned three hoodlums as Hideo's traveling companions? Why then had he chosen Hideo of all people to chase down this ruined katana? Was it because of his computer skills? Or his language skills? He'd begun learning English as a child. He could say "Lulu loves lollipops" as well as any American.

    Futile questions.

    He again accessed the flash drive and stared at the scan: a cardboard shipping tube packed with foam popcorn and a bubble-wrapped katana, stark white against the surrounding grayness, measuring ninety centimeters from the tip of its blade to the butt of its naked tang. But a ruined katana, its blade filigreed with perhaps one hundred small holes of varying sizes and configurations.

    He had heard that Sasaki-san collected katana. But why would the chairman, who could afford the finest blade ever made by Masamune—could probably resurrect Masamune-san himself and force him to make a new, custom blade—want this unsigned piece of junk?

    And the inscription:

    Gaijin… what was the significance of that?

    Questions, questions. Maybe he'd learn the answers. But more importantly, he prayed a Takita would not let down the chairman again.

    He returned to the photo of the ronin.

    I will be looking for you, he thought.

    He glanced at the yakuza dozing beside him, and then at the two others seated ahead of him. If he found the ronin and established that he had killed Yoshio, he personally would do nothing. But he foresaw no problem in convincing his travel companions to take decisive action. They'd no doubt enjoy it.