“They’re almost certainly abandoned or chopped by now,” said Dar. “But if white guys were driving, it could be our Russians and not just the cappers or their stooges.”

“We’ll give you a call later,” said Lawrence, and the three went their different ways.

Dar had things he had to do, but he found himself wandering the hallways of the Old Courthouse for a while, and considered “catching up on his soaps.” Syd would be free by 10:00 A.M. Just then, he saw W.D.D. Du Bois, Stewart Investigations’s attorney, coming quickly down the hall toward him. The man walked with a cane, but his stride was still brisk.

“Good morning, sir.”

“Good morning, Dr. Minor,” said Du Bois. “You’re precisely the man I wanted to see. We need to talk in private.” Du Bois led Dar to an empty witness waiting room and locked the door.

The lawyer sat at the end of the table and made a small ceremony of setting his cane, battered briefcase, and hat in place. Dar took a seat on Du Bois’s left. “Am I in some sort of legal trouble?” asked Dar.

“Well, other than Dickweed still wanting to prosecute you on vehicular manslaughter, not that I know of,” said W.D.D. Du Bois. “But you are in danger, my friend.”

Dar waited.

“Before you join Investigator Olson’s task force,” continued Du Bois, “I have to counsel you, Darwin—not only as your attorney but as your friend—that this is very dangerous business. Very dangerous.”

Dar tried not to show his surprise. Syd’s meeting had not been over for more than twenty minutes—had word spread so quickly? So much for Internal Affairs Lieutenant Barr’s dire warnings to everyone. Aloud Dar said, “The bastards have tried to kill me twice. What more can they do?”

“Succeed,” said Attorney Du Bois. The lawyer’s heavily lined face usually showed merriment, or at least bemused irony, but the lines were grimly set today.

“Do you know something about this conspiracy that would help the task force?” asked Dar.

Du Bois slowly shook his head. “Remember, Darwin, I am also an agent of the court. If I knew specifics, I would have already approached the FBI or Ms. Olson. All I hear are rumors. But they are very persistent and ugly rumors.”

“And what do they say?” said Dar.

Du Bois locked his anxious brown-eyed gaze on Dar’s. “They say that this is very, very serious and that these new cappers are deadly. They say that getting in their way is like crossing the old Colombian drug lords. They say that it is a new era in fraud in this country, and that the small businessman is being pushed out as sure as new Wal-Marts in an area will shut down the mom-and-pop hardware and dry-goods stores.”

“Shut down the way Attorney Esposito was shut down?” asked Dar.

Du Bois opened his lined and gnarled hands in an expressive gesture. “All the old rules no longer apply,” he said. “Or at least this is what I hear on the street.”

“All the more reason to nail these bastards,” said Dar.

Du Bois sighed, gathered his cane and briefcase, set his fedora on his head, and clamped his hand firmly on Dar’s shoulder as the two stood. “Be very careful, Darwin. Very careful.”

Dar returned to Syd’s main office just as her meeting with Poulsen and Warren was breaking up.

“Just the man we wanted to see,” said the FBI agent.

Dar was getting leery of this greeting.

“We were talking to Captain Hernandez earlier,” said Syd. “He was bitching about the San Diego police overtime involved in watching you twenty-four hours a day, and we were bitching about how poor the protection has been.”

Dar waited for the punch line.

“So the Bureau will be taking over the protective duties,” said Special Agent Warren, softly, but with authority. “We’ll have at least a dozen people assigned to you full-time, so the protection will be both more intense yet much more subtle.”

“No,” said Dar. Syd, Jeanette Poulsen, and Jim Warren looked at him.

“The only condition for my continued involvement in this project,” said Dar, speaking directly to Sydney, “is that we drop the twenty-four-hour protection stuff. I want you to call off all the bodyguards. Agreed?”

“You didn’t say that there would be conditions to your joining the task force,” said Syd.

“There are now. Just that one,” said Dar. “Nonnegotiable.”

Warren shook his head. “You’re going to have to trust us on this, Dr. Minor. We’re experts at witness protection and—”

“No,” said Dar. “I’m serious about this. If we’re going to work together, I need as much freedom as the rest of you. Besides, we all know that no number of bodyguards can protect against a talented sniper or someone willing to trade his life for the kill.”

There was a silence. Finally Syd said, “We’ll have to honor that…demand, Dar. But only because we realize that what you say is essentially true. Who was it—President Kennedy, wasn’t it—who said, ‘If the twentieth century has taught us anything, it’s that anyone can be killed.’”

“Not Kennedy…” said Jim Warren.

“Michael Corleone…” continued Dar.

“In Godfather Two,” finished the FBI man.

“God, you men and the Godfather movies,” said Jeanette Poulsen. “That movie a few years ago…whatchamacallit…with Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks was right. You guys think everything in the universe can be summed up by dialogue from the three Godfather movies.”

“Just the first two,” said Dar.

“The third one was a mess,” said Warren.

“Didn’t count,” said Dar.

“We pretend it was never made,” said Warren.

“Are you two finished?” asked Syd. “Or do you have any other pertinent dialogue from the first two Godfathers for this situation?”

Dar ran his hand through his short hair so it spiked up a bit and put on his best, husky Al Pacino voice and arm gestures. “Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in.”

“Hey,” said the NICB woman, “no fair. That’s from Godfather III.”

“That line is exempt from the rule,” said Special Agent Warren.

“Good-bye, boys,” said Syd.

“Notice how they can call us boys but it’s literally a federal offense if we call them girls?” Dar asked the FBI man.

Warren sighed. “I just make it a practice never to call a female wearing a Sig ninemillimeter semiauto on her hip ‘girl.’” He glanced at his watch. “You want to catch some lunch together, Dr. Minor? I hear there’s a great Kansas City–type barbecue place near here.”

“There is and I would,” said Dar. He waved good-bye to the two women standing there like elementary teachers with their arms crossed in mature disapproval.

“Hey,” said the perfectly groomed, soft-spoken Special Agent Warren in a good imitation of Fat Clemenza’s voice. “Leave the gun—bring the cannoli.”

Downtown San Diego was already emptying out in a lemming rush for the suburbs by the time Dar finished his lunch with the FBI man.

At one point, Warren said, “The Bureau will do anything it can to help you.”

“I’d like to have copies of all the dossiers available on Pavel Zuker and Gregor Yaponchik,” said Dar. “Not just FBI files, but CIA, NSA, Interpol, Mossad, NDA—any that are out there.”

Warren looked dubious. “I doubt if I could get clearance to show you even the Bureau’s limited files. What makes you think we could come up with Israeli documents?”

Dar answered him with silence and a poker face.

“Why would a civilian need this stuff?” asked Warren.

“The only civilian who would need it is the civilian who’s been attacked twice by these two Russian gentlemen,” Dar said softly. “That information might keep the aforementioned civilian alive, rather than dead.”

The special agent looked like he had swallowed an olive pit, but he eventually nodded. “All right,” he said. “I’ll try to get you copies of whatever is available.”