"No. The place opened in August, the sword was gone by mid-September."

    Jack now knew what museum Naka was hiding from. But he couldn't have stolen it—not unless he was a lot older than he looked. Must have been his father.

    "That brings us back to the reason I'm here." How to put this? "Look, you're known in certain circles as a guy who provides a service for goods of uncertain origin."

    Well, that was better than just coming out and calling the guy a fence.

    O'Day gave him a mean look. "What are you saying?"

    Jack held up his hands: peace. "Look, I'm in those circles, and I even do a little myself. Thing is, you're also known as an expert on swords. So, if I was burdened with a katana that I wanted to be rid of, you'd be the guy I'd call."

    O'Day said nothing, simply sat and glared.

    Jack cleared his throat. "Well? Heard anything?"

    Finally O'Day shook his head. "Nothing."

    Lie. He hadn't heard about the Masamune Gaijin—his shock had been too genuine—but he'd heard something. What?

    "Too bad. Look, you hear anything, you call Abe. There's a finder's fee in this for you."

    He smiled. "If I find it, better hope the guy doesn't know what he's holding, because if he does, he's either not going to part with it, or he's going to want a ton."

    "So it's worth a lot?"

    "Ohhhhhh, yeah. I hear from him, I'll point him toward you—and expect a fat finder's fee."

    "And if he doesn't know what he's got?"

    "Hell, I'm going to buy it from him."

    "Then what? Sell it back to my guy?"

    "Yep. Hope he's got deep pockets."

    "He might."

    "He'd better."

    Jack sensed a lie. This guy was a katana-collecting Gollum, and the Gaijin Masamune was his Precious. If he got his mitts on it, no way was he letting it go. Not for any amount. At least not now. Maybe he'd part with it down the road—cash in and be able to brag to his katana-collecting buddies that he once owned the Gaijin Masamune.

    Jack couldn't wait around. If O'Day got to the blade first, Jack might be forced to play rough and gank it. An iffy and dangerous proposition he wished to avoid. The best solution here was to find this Eddie Cordero before O'Day did, and hope for the same: That he didn't know what he had.

    Jack turned and headed for the door. "You hear anything, you'll call Abe, right?"

    "Absolutely."

    Suuuuuure.

    Hideo leaned close to the computer screen as he ran through the tape from the security camera focused on carousel seven at Kennedy International. He'd arrived, gone straight to the Waverly Place mansion—one of a number around the city owned by Kaze Group—and set up shop.

    He hadn't had to ask how the baggage scan had made its way to Sasakisan. Kaze Group had a hand, in one form or another, in the production of almost every piece of electronic equipment in the world. The chairman had no doubt ordered an image of the sword embedded in the pattern-recognition software. When that image passed through the scanner, it was automatically forwarded to the chairman.

    And since Kaze had a hand in most of the world's security systems and surveillance cams, Hideo had easily hacked into JFK's network.

    The tube had been loaded onto Northwest Flight 804 out of Kahului Airport, then transferred to Delta Flight 30 in Seattle. Flight 30 had arrived on time at 3:36. Hideo fast-forwarded ahead to 3:45 on the day in question and watched the passengers crowd around the carousel. He watched the baggage start to slide down the chute. The tube appeared at 3:58 and was picked up by a stocky, dark-haired man who had already picked out a suitcase. As he turned and walked toward the cam, Hideo executed a number of freeze frames, enhancing and downloading each to the server in the basement.

    He was glad this was streaming video rather than a three- or five-second refresh. He might well have missed the opportunity for a close-up.

    The man was traveling as Eddie Cordero. Hideo would soon learn his true name.

    Then he switched to the exit cam, advanced it to 3:58, and waited for the man with the tube and the rolling suitcase. He appeared and walked over to the taxi area and waited in line for his turn. Hideo downloaded enhanced frames of the taxi's license plates and the medallion number on its roof light.

    He leaned back and smiled. All he had to do was track down those plates and medallion number, pass a little cash, and he'd know where that particular cab had dropped off the passenger picked up that day shortly after four P.M. at JFK.

    He was beginning to understand why the chairman had chosen him: His computer skills made finding the man easy.

    As easy as brewing tea.

    Dawn stroked against the jets in the endless lap pool in Mr. Osala's private rooftop health club. She'd always liked swimming and now she could swim as long and as far as she wanted without ever having to make a turn. She'd read it was the best exercise of all, and knew it was toning her body.

    She'd hoped the repetitive activity would totally numb her brain, act like a physical meditation mantra, but just the opposite. It cleared her head of everything but what she needed a break from.

    Those posters.

    Her mind wouldn't let go of what they meant: Jerry wasn't the only one looking for her. She'd thought she was in a bad situation before, but now she knew it was worse. It had ruined her day out—everything had been super up till then. But at least now she knew what she was up against.

    She stopped swimming and stood panting in the warm flow from the jets.

    What to do?

    She was a virtual prisoner here, but if Jerry found her, she'd be a total prisoner until she gave birth. And that would be, what, like January? Like next year? She shuddered. No way.

    Here at least she had tons of comfort and Mr. Osala would cut her loose as soon as he'd tracked Jerry down and dealt with him.

    What did he plan to do with Jerry once he found him? He always said "deal with him." But what did that mean?

    God help her, she hoped he meant totally kill him. After what Jerry had done to Mom, she wanted him dead—he deserved to be dead. God himself should strike him dead.

    A sob broke free.

    And this thing inside her… every day it got a day older. Right now she could think of it as a thing. But what if it got to the point where she could feel it kicking and turning inside her? When did that happen? It wouldn't be a thing then. It would be a baby. Even with the total grossness of what it was and how it got there, she sensed she'd get to a point where she couldn't kill it.

    So despite what Mr. Osala said about the thing being like an insurance policy, she totally had to get it out of her ASAP. Even if that meant running the risk of Jerry killing her if he caught her and found out.

    And she thought she might have a way. It would be tricky, but if it worked she might have her cake and eat it too, so to speak.

    "You say Eddie Cordero is his AK? You know that for sure?"

    Jack sat in an inside booth at the Highwater Diner, perched on the west side of the West Side Highway, practically in the Hudson. Reaching it was real-life Frogger, but worth the risk.

    Teddy "Bobblehead" Crenshaw slouched on the far side of the table, slurping iced coffee through a straw. Atop his pencil neck sat a size-eight skull that tended to wobble back and forth as he walked. Nobody called him Bobblehead to his face—he got testy about that. But no one referred to him as Teddy behind his back. When out of sight, he was Bobblehead all the way.