Mike studied the sheet of typed directions, feeling a bead of sweat trickle down his forehead. It's real, he realized. It's not some kind of elaborate joke. It's really going to happen. Nervous dread made a hollow nest in his stomach. "The palace-" He'd seen maps of that already, a big stone pile near a small town, at one end of a road lined with slightly smaller stone piles.

"Over the page." A basic sketch map showed Zone Blue in relation to the palace. "There are complications to do with the transport protocol for this run."

"What do you mean?" Mike looked up.

"It's in the center of town. The courier may try to escape." Smith stared at him. "You're going piggyback. Hold out your hand."

"What-"

Smith snapped a bracelet shut around Mike's wrist. "Transmitter. Very short range. Here's the key." He handed Mike a key. "Turn clockwise to release the transmitter. Two twists anticlockwise and it will send the detonate command. If Three tries to attack you-"

"Okay." Mike stared at the thing, repelled and fascinated. "What do I do with it?"

Smith shrugged. "If it goes according to plan and Team X-ray meets you in, they hold Courier Three while you take the bracelet off and hand it to him. Then you send him back over to us and we take the necklace off and put him back in his box. If he tries to run, or attacks you, kill him." He stared at Mike. "I'm serious. If he does either of those things, he'll try to kill you. Wouldn't you, in his situation?"

In his situation-Mike tried to get a handle on it, but his mind kept slipping up unwelcome channels, looking into irrelevances. "Courier Three-I thought you only had two?"

"Need to know." Smith shook his head. "Look, we're there."

Manhattan wasn't just skyscrapers; old brownstones still thrived in the shadow of the tall towers. Smith waited for the other minivans to draw up, then opened the door and led Mike up the front steps of an ordinary-looking house while half a dozen men and a couple of women in the sort of business attire that yelled "cop" stood discreet guard.

The house looked ordinary enough from inside-but Smith headed straight for an unobtrusive door and into what had probably been a living room before someone ripped out the furniture, boarded up the windows, installed antiblast paneling and floodlights, and spray-painted a big X in the middle of the floor. Now there was something sinister about it, a cramped, dark terminus that needed only a trapdoor and a dangling rope to turn it into a place of execution. "Wait here."

Mike waited while Smith and two of his underlings bustled back out again. A minute later they returned, half-supporting and half-dragging a third man between them. He was unshaven and looked tired, bent forward with his hands cuffed tightly behind his back: his scalp had been shaved and there was a big dressing taped to one temple. As he looked around and saw Mike his eyes widened with fear. Then another of the anonymous guards stepped forward and swiftly clamped a metal collar around his throat.

"Shizz…" His knees sagged.

"Wait," Mike said, trying his hochsprache. "You-carry-me. Yes?" He saw the other man's eyes. The expression of terror began to fade. "Come-go-back here." Mike paused. "Does he know what the collar is?" he asked Smith, lapsing into English.

Smith nodded.

"They take"-gesture at throat-"undress, off. You run"-tap at wrist, at the bracelet Smith had put there, then finger across throat. "Understand?"

"Yes," said the prisoner. Then a gabble of words jumbled together too fast for Mike to parse.

"Slower."

Courier Three fell silent. "Not kill."

"No. You carry me."

"I carry, yes, I carry!"

The courier's head bobbed as if his neck had been replaced by loose springs. Mike tasted stomach acid, swallowed. This isn't right. I'm supposed to capture more people, so we can use them like this? Even a prison cell had to be better than being led to a dingy room and having a bomb clamped to your neck.

"Ready?" asked Smith.

"Yeah." Mike pointed to the X on the floor. "Stand here." Courier Three crouched down on the spot, legs and arms braced. Mike looked at him, momentarily perplexed. "What do I do now?" he asked.

"You sit on him," said Smith. He was holding something. "Go on."

"Okay." With some trepidation, Mike lowered himself onto Courier Three's back. The man grunted. Mike could feel his spine, the warmth of his ribs through the seat of his pants. This is weird, he began to think, just as Smith held something under Three's nose. Then the world changed.

Mike blinked at the darkness. Someone tapped him on the back of the head with something hard. "Say your name."

"Mike Fleming." His seat groaned and began to collapse, and he fell over sideways. "What the fuck-"

A thud was followed by a muffled groan. "Okay, wiseass, cut that out!" Light appeared, and Mike rolled over onto his back and tried to sit out.

Someone else was groaning-Courier Three? he wondered. "What's going on?"

"All under control, sir," drawled the man with the gun. "You just sort yourself out while we keep watch."

Mike nodded, taking stock of the situation. He was in some kind of room with no windows, a door, a dirt floor, three armed strangers, and a captured Clan courier wearing a bomb around his neck. The good news was that the desperados were pointing their guns at the courier, the door, and the ground, respectively-which left none for him. Ergo, they were friendly. "Which of you is Sergeant Hastert?" he asked.

"I am." Hastert was the one covering the ground. He grinned at Mike, an expression he'd have found deeply alarming if it wasn't for the fact that any other expression would have been infinitely worse. Courier Three groaned again. Mike realized he was clutching his head. "Dennis, keep laughing boy here covered. Mr. Fleming, you've got the remote control. If you'd care to pass it to me, we can take care of the mule until it's time for him to go home. Meanwhile, you 'n I've got some talking to do."

"Okay." Mike unlocked his bracelet with a shudder of relief and passed it to the sergeant, who leaned over Courier Three while one of the others kept his AR-15 pointed at the prisoner the whole time.

"Listen, you," said Hastert. "This here won't go off now-" He was speaking English, loudly and slowly.

"He doesn't understand," said Mike.

"Huh?"

"He doesn't speak English. He thought we were going to kill him, back in New York."

"Hmm." Hastert stared at him with pale blue eyes. "You try, then."

Mike stared at Courier Three. "You go. Soon, now, back over. Not die. Shoot if run? Yes."

The prisoner nodded slightly. Then went back to groaning quietly and clutching his head.

"Not much to look at, ain't he?" Hastert was genial.

"Let's get out of here."

Hastert opened the door and led Mike through into another bare room with a dirt floor, leaving the two other soldiers with their precious courier. There was a window in here, with wooden shutters, and Hastert switched off his flashlight. As Mike's eyes adjusted he got a good look at what the sergeant was wearing: rough woolen trousers and jerkin over another layer that bulged like a bulletproof jacket. "We stay indoors during the day," Hastert said, acknowledging his curiosity. "But this is a special occasion. Keep your voice low, by the way. It's a crowded neighborhood."

"You know where the palace is?"

"Yeah. We'll get you there. Once laughing boy has gotten over his headache and gone home."

"Huh." Mike sank down into a crouch against one wall. It was whitewashed, he noticed, but the plaster or bricks underneath it were uneven. "This the best hotel you could get?"

"You should see how they live hereabouts." Hastert shrugged. "This is the Sheraton. Let me fill you in…"