'Oh? Does that mean…?'

'You bet. I'm coming to town. Be at my mother's house at eight tonight.'

'I'm sorry, Tess. I can't. I'm scheduled to attend a reception for the Soviet ambassador.'

'With all respect to the Soviet ambassador…'

'Respect. Exactly. We're suddenly allies. I have to…'

'You're not listening, Brian. I need to see you.'

'But the Soviet ambassador…"

'Fuck him,' Tess blurted. 'You promised my father you'd be there if I ever needed help. I demand you honor your promise.'

'Demand? You make that sound like a threat.'

'A threat? Brian, I don't make threats. I make guarantees. I'm a journalist, remember. I know your secrets, just as I knew about my father's. I might be tempted to write a story about them. Unless you want to put out a contract on me.'

'Hey, Tess, let's not overreact. You know we don't…'

'Just be at my mother's. Eight o'clock.'

Brian hesitated. 'If you insist. For the sake of old times and your father. I look forward to…'

Tess broke the connection.

On schedule at five o'clock, her clothes moist from urgency, Tess carried her suitcase into the QUICK PHOTO store. Again, the bell rang. Again, the middle-aged Hispanic clerk glanced up at her.

Tess eased her suitcase onto the floor and breathed out. 'My pictures? They're ready?'

'But of course, 'the clerk said. 'As we advertise, one-hour service.' He reached in a drawer. 'Here they are.'

Tess opened her wallet.

'I'm sorry your friend got angry.'

'… My friend?'

'The man you sent to pick up the photographs for you.'

'But I…'

'A month ago, we gave out some wedding pictures by mistake. In truth, it was my fault. I forgot to ask for the claim check. Since then, I don't give out any pictures unless…'

'Here's the claim check,' Tess said. Her hand shook. 'You did the right thing. I didn't send… What did he look like?'

'Tan. Early thirties. Tall. Well-built. Good-looking.' The clerk paused, then frowned. 'He became quite insistent when I wouldn't give him the photographs. He was so upset that I almost feared he'd force me to give him the photographs. I reached under the counter.' The clerk held up a baseball bat. 'For this. In case he turned violent. Perhaps he noticed my gesture. Fortunately it wasn't necessary. Just then, three customers came in. He left in a hurry.' The clerk frowned harder. 'What I noticed most about him were his eyes.'

'His eyes?' Tess gripped the counter for support. 'What about them?'

'Their color was unusual.'

'Gray?'

'Yes, senorita. How did you?'

Tess gaped. Feeling sick, she dropped money on the counter, grabbed the package of photographs, and mustered the discipline not to tremble. She rushed toward the door to find a taxi.

'You're certain I did the right thing, senorita?'

'Absolutely. From now on, you get all my business.'

The overhead bell rang as Tess lunged out. Scanning the smoggy street, she suddenly realized, her stomach burning, that she wasn't just looking for a taxi.

The man the clerk had described sounded like Joseph. But Joseph was dead!

How could?

As she hailed a taxi and scrambled into it, Tess surprised herself by assuming one of Joseph's habits. Nervous, she darted her eyes in every direction to see if she was being followed.

La Guardia Airport.

The grim-faced man in the taxi's back seat leaned forward rigidly, straining to keep the taxi ten cars ahead of him in sight. He was thirty-eight, of medium height and weight, with brown hair and unremarkable features, so average that no one ever remembered him. He wore a conservative, moderately priced, nondescript suit, a cotton-polyester-blend white shirt, a subdued striped tie. His briefcase looked no different from thousands of others.

'Which airline?' the taxi driver asked.

The passenger hesitated, watching the taxi he was following.

'Hey, friend, I said, which airline?'

'Just a moment. I'm checking my tickets.'

'Don't you think you should have done that a little sooner?'

Ahead, the taxi the passenger studied turned right off the busy ramp, rounded a curve, and sped past a crowded parking lot. A sign said, TRUMP SHUTTLE, DELTA, NORTHWESTERN, PAN AM SHUTTLE.

'Turn right,' the passenger said.

'You waited long enough to tell me. Which airline?' the driver repeated.

'I'm still checking my tickets.'

'Hey, if you miss your flight, pal, don't blame me.'

The passenger squinted forward, noticing that the taxi he followed steered around the parking lot, passed the signs for Pam Am, Delta, and Northwestern, and approached a large new building on which a huge red sign announced TRUMP SHUTTLE.

'Up here will do,' the passenger said.

'Well, finally.'

When the driver stopped behind a limousine in front of the terminal, the passenger had already checked the taxi's meter. He added the cost of the bridge toll and a twenty percent tip, shoved several bills toward the driver, grabbed his briefcase, and hurried out his door.

'Hey, buddy, you want a receipt?'

But the passenger was gone. As he walked toward a set of automatically opening doors in the Shuttle complex, he glanced unobtrusively to his left, seeing the woman he was following get out of her taxi, pay the driver, and carry her underseat suitcase toward another set of doors.

They entered the terminal simultaneously, moving parallel to each other, separated by a throng of arriving travelers. The brown-haired, nondescript man paused next to a group of similarly ordinary-looking businessmen and pretended to inspect his ticket while he watched the woman hurry toward a line at a counter.

The line moved quickly – Trump guaranteed promptness. Nonetheless the woman looked impatient. When she got her turn, she urgently presented a credit card, signed a voucher, grabbed a folder that presumably contained a ticket, and rushed past the counter toward where the attractive female clerk pointed.

Excellent, the chameleon thought. He veered through the crowd, following his quarry. She'd already passed through the security station by the time he arrived there. Strictly speaking, no one without a ticket was allowed beyond this point. No problem, though. The chameleon always carried a bogus ticket with him, and in his considerable experience, few security personnel actually bothered to check that ticket.

He set his briefcase on the conveyor belt that led into the X-ray machine. A uniformed attendant nodded for him to proceed through the metal detector. The chameleon, by habit, carried no metal, not even coins or a belt buckle when he was working. His watch was made of plastic. The metal detector remained silent as he stepped through and picked up his briefcase on the other side of the X-ray machine. The briefcase, of course, contained nothing that would arouse suspicion. Only innocent boring documents. Certainly no weapons. His expertise was surveillance, after all. The chameleon had no need of weapons, although on a very few occasions, emergencies had forced him to defend himself, his average height and weight deceptive, his martial-arts skills impressive.

He increased his speed, climbing a moving escalator, just another of many harried businessmen in a rush to get on a plane.

Ahead, on the spacious upper level, his quarry walked faster. Again, no problem. The chameleon didn't want to catch up to her but only keep her in sight. He glanced at his watch. Five minutes to six. Peering ahead, he saw his quarry present her boarding pass to an attendant and disappear quickly through an open door toward the tunnel to her plane.