For the first time in his life, money became important to him. And at that very juncture, another major need for money appeared. He discovered a magnificent abandoned church on Long Island that he instantly recognized as the ideal home for himself and his paintings.

His pressing need for money, his Sphinx training, and his peculiar psychological makeup, devoid of any sense of guilt—these things combined to make him ripe for Mr. Dragon.

Jonathan sat for a while, deciding where he would hang his Pissarro when he purchased it from the pay for the Montreal sanction. Then he rose lazily, cleaned and put away the hookah, sat at his pianoforte and played a little Handel, then he went to bed.

The high rise apartment complex was typical of middle-class democratic architecture. All of the dwellers could get a glimpse of La Fontaine Park, but none could see it well, and some only after acrobatic excesses from their cramped, cantilevered balconies. The lobby door was a heavy glass panel that hinged eight inches from the edge; there was red commercial wall-to-wall carpet, plastic ferns, a padded self-service elevator, and meaningless escutcheons scattered along the walls.

Jonathan stood in a sterile hallway, awaiting response to the buzzer and glancing with distaste at an embossed Swiss print of a Cezanne designed to lend luxury to the corridor. The door opened and he turned around.

She was physically competent, even lush; but she was hardly gift wrapped. In her tailored suit of tweed, she seemed wrapped for mailing. Thick blond bangs, cheekbones wide, lips full, bust resisting the constriction of the suit jacket, flat stomach, narrow waist, full hips, long legs, tapered ankles. She wore shoes, but he assumed her toes were adequate as well.

"Miss...?" he raised his eyebrows to force her to fill in the name because he was still unwilling to rely on the pronunciation.

"Felicity Arce," she said, holding out her hand hospitably. "Do come in. I've looked forward to meeting you, Hemlock. You're well thought of in the trade, you know."

She stepped aside and he entered. The apartment was consonant with the building: expensive anticlass. When they shook hands, he noticed that her forearm glistened with an abundance of soft golden hair. He knew that to be a good sign.

"Sherry?" she offered.

"Not at this time of night."

"Whiskey?"

"Please."

"Scotch or bourbon."

"Do you have Laphroaig?"

"I'm afraid not."

"Then it doesn't matter."

"Why don't you sit down while I pour it." She walked away to a built-in bar of antiqued white under which lurked a suspicion of pine. Her movements were strong, but sufficiently liquid about the waist. He sat at one end of a sectional divan and turned toward the other, so that it would be downright impolite of her to sit anywhere else. "You know," he commented, "this apartment is monumentally ugly. But my guess is that you are going to be very good."

"Very good?" she asked over her shoulder, pouring whiskey generously.

"When we make love. A little more water, please."

"Like so?"

"Close enough."

She smiled and shook her head as she returned with the drink. "We have other things to do than make love, Hemlock." But she sat on the divan as he directed her to with a wave of his hand.

He sipped. "We have time for both. But of course it's up to you. Think about it for a while. And meanwhile, tell me what I have to know about this sanction."

Miss Arce looked up at the ceiling and closed her eyes for a second, collecting her thoughts. "The man they killed was code call: Wormwood—not much of a record."

"What was he doing in Canada?"

"I have no idea. Something for CII home base. It's really none of our business anyway."

"No, I suppose not." Jonathan held out his hand and she took it with a slight greeting pressure of the fingers. "Go on."

"Well, Wormwood was hit in a small hotel on Casgrain Avenue—hm-m-m, that's nice. Do you know that part of town?"

"No." He continued stroking the inside of her wrist.

"Fortunately, CII home base was covering him with a backup man. He was in the next room, and he overheard the hit. As soon as the two assassins left, he went into Wormwood's room and made a standard strip of the body. Then he contacted Search and Sanction immediately. Mr. Dragon got me right on it."

Jonathan kissed her gently. "You're telling me that this backup man just sat next door and let this Wormwood get it?"

"Another whiskey?"

"No, thank you." He stood up and drew her after him. "Where is it? Through there?"

"The bedroom? Yes." She followed. "You must know how they work, Hemlock. The backup man's assignment is to observe and report, not to interfere. Anyway, it seems they were testing a new device."

"Oh? What kind of device? I'm sorry, dear. These little hooks always confuse me."

"Here, I'll do it. They've always had a problem covering the movements and sound of the backup man when they stake him out in the next room. Now they've hit on the idea of having him makenoise, rather than trying to keep him quiet—"

"Good God! Do you keep these sheets in the refrigerator?"

"That's silk for you. What they're experimenting with is a tape recording of the sound of an old man's coughing—playing it day and night, advertising the presence of someone in the next room, but someone no one would imagine is an agent. Oh! I'm very sensitive there. It tickles now, but it won't later. Isn't that clever?"

"The coughing old man? Oh, yes, clever."

"Well, as soon as Mr. Dragon sent me the B-3611 form I got to work. It was pretty easy. The outside is particularly good for me."

"Yes, I sensed that."

"It seems this Wormwood wasn't a total incompetent. He wounded one of the two men. The backup agent saw them leave the hotel, and even from the window he could tell that one of them was limping. The other one—the one who wasn't hurt—must have been panicked. He ran—Oh, that is beautiful!—He ran into a lamppost across from the hotel. When he stopped to recover, the backup man recognized him. The rest was—agh! Agha!—the rest was easy."

"What's the mark's name?"

"Kruger. Garcia Kruger. A very bad type."

"You're kidding about the name."

"I never kid about names. Oh-a-ar! Graggah!"

"What do you mean, he's a bad type?"

"The way he got Wormwood. He—Oh, God! He... He..."

"Press down with the soles of your feet!"

"All right. Wormwood swallowed a pellet he was carrying. Kruger went after it with a knife. Throat and stomach. Oh! Adagrah! Oh, yes... yes..."

"Read much Joyce?"

She forced words out through a tight jaw, small squeaks of air escaping from her contracted throat "No, Agh! Why do you ask?"

"Nothing important. What about the other man?"

"The one who limped? Don't know yet. Not a professional, we're sure of that."

"How do you know he's not a professional?"

"He got sick while Kruger was working on Wormwood. Threw up on the floor. Ogha? Ogah? Arah-ah-agh-ga-gahg!" She arched her strong back and lifted him off the bed. He joined her in release.

For a time there were soft caresses and gentle pelvic adjustments.

"You know, Hemlock," her voice was soft, relaxed, and a little graveled from effort. "You really have magnificent eyes. They're rather tragicomic eyes."

He expected this. They always talked about his eyes afterwards.

Some time later, he sat on the edge of the tub, holding up a rubber sac in an unsuccessful attempt to allow water to seek its own level. Part of his charm lay in these little attentions.

"I've been thinking about your gun, Hemlock."

"What about it?"

"The information sent up by Mr. Dragon indicated you used a large caliber."