Rome's Death Wolf, Lupus Mortiferus, had come to Shangri-La.

What purpose could the Circus's deadliest gladiator possibly have in coming here? Marcus the former slave didn't know-but he intended to find out. He owed the men and women who'd befriended him here that much. Heart in his throat, blood pounding in his ears, Marcus waited until the Wolf of Death turned his attention elsewhere, then cautiously eased from his seat and began to follow.

Skeeter Jackson, in heavy disguise, wheeled his cart toward a tourist near the Conquistadores Gate. The man was in the middle of a nasty harangue directed at a harried tour guide. Her face was flushed with anger, but her job prevented her from venting it. Skeeter stepped in with a smile.

"Sir, baggage check for leave-behind luggage?"

The man turned to note the other tagged suitcases on Skeeter's cart, each tag with the owner's name and hotel scrawled across it, with the tear-off stub missing. The tour guide's eyes met Skeeter's and widened in recognition. For a second, he thought he'd been blown for good. Then her eyes flashed briefly with unholy joy. She winked and fled, leaving Skeeter's quarry to his just deserts.

"Why, yes, that would be convenient. That idiotic guide-"

It was the same old story. Stupid tourist doesn't read the rules, then takes out his mad on the guides. Skeeter smiled as charmingly as he could-which was very, and tagged the man's expensive leather bags, tearing off numbered receipts which he handed over. "Thank you, sir. All you need to do to reclaim your luggage on return is present those claim stubs to your hotel. Have a good trip, sir."

The man actually tipped him. Skeeter hid a grin, then maneuvered his now-full cart toward the edge of the growing crowd. And there, just as he was passing a woman whose cases were also on his cart, it happened. He came eye-to-eye with Goldie Morran.

"Is that the man?" Goldie asked the tourist whose cases Skeeter had "checked."

"Yes!"

Goldie smiled directly into Skeeter's eyes. That was when he noticed security ringing the area.

"All's fair in love and bets, Skeeter, darling." Goldie's eyes glinted far back in their depths with murderous amusement.

It was either ditch hard-won gains or lose the bet and his home. Skeeter did neither. Goldie's own mouth had uttered his one chance for salvation.

"Mike!" he yelled, "Hey, Mike Benson! Over here!"

Goldie's eyes went round and her pinched mouth fell slack.

Benson lost no time approaching. "As I live and breathe ..."

Before he could finish, Skeeter said indignantly, "Here I am saving these poor folks from Goldie's clutches, making sure she doesn't make a grab for their luggage, and she has the nerve to accuse me -well, Mr. Benson, I want you to take a good look at these tags, here. I was on my way to all these hotels to turn over these cases, when Goldie, here, furious I'd got in her way, started making nasty accusations."

Every tourist within earshot was goggle-eyed, listening to nothing else.

Mike's forehead creased with vertical and horizontal lines. "And you just expect me to swallow that pack of-"

"Not only do I insist you believe it, I demand an escort to every one of these hotels so I can make sure every bag is locked safely away. Don't trust Goldie, Mr. Benson. She might have me waylaid by some of those paid thugs of hers."

Mike Benson stared from one to the other, then started-astonishingly-to laugh. "Look at the pair of you. Priceless! Okay, Skeeter my boy, let's go put these cases in the hotels' lock-up rooms. I'll go along just to be certain nobody waylays you on the trip."

Skeeter seethed inwardly, having hoped Mike would let him just trundle his cart away for some time to rifle the contents of watches, cameras, jewelry, etc. Instead, he smiled and said, "Sure thing."

"Just a minute!" Goldie snapped. "If you're so altruistic, why the disguise?"

Skeeter smiled into her eyes, noting the fury in them. "Why, Goldie, so your agents wouldn't recognize me and drop a sap across the back of my head to get these." He waved expansively at the suitcases. "There's gotta be a fortune in uptime jewelry in 'em, and who better than you to break up the pieces and fence the stones?"

Without waiting for a smarter and potentially deadlier protest from Goldie, Skeeter shoved his cart forward through the aping crowd and sang out, "Coming, Mr. Benson Gotta lot of work waiting, getting these good people's cases back safe."

Benson did as he'd promised, following Skeeter to each and every hotel on Skeeter's list. He verified each case as it was put into storage, then checked his list against Skeeter's supposed-to-be-fake manifest of names, hotels, uptime addresses, the works, not to mention the claim-ticket numbers. He grunted when the work was finally done. "Huh. Kept you clean this time, at least."

"But Mr. Benson, you wound me. Honest."

"Don't `Mr. Benson' me, punk. I was a damned fine cop before you were even born, so give it a rest. You came close, buddy, but you slithered out of it. Just be sure I'll be watching you double-close from now on."

"Well, sure. Hey, thanks for the escort!"

Benson just gave him a dour look. Skeeter lost no time vanishing into the thick holiday crowds, heading for the hotel he had "borrowed" the cart and claim tickets from. He didn't want to leave any loose strings if Benson should question the hotel manager or bellhops. Not that Benson could prove anything. He just didn't want to go through what Benson benignly referred to as his "lean-on-'em-a-little-and-they'll-sing" speech.

Although as the head of ATFs presence on TT-86, meaning that technically, Montgomery Wilkes was the highest-ranking officer of the law on the station, Monty's actual jurisdiction was limited to the Customs area near Primary (much to Monty's everlasting, abiding rage, since he guessed how often he got hoodwinked outside that jurisdiction).

In all else, Benson reigned supreme. And if he wanted to keep Skeeter locked up for a month on bread and water, just for questioning, there was nothing in the station's charter that prevented him from doing just that. It was one of the reasons Skeeter was always so careful-and it was also the impulse behind his effort to try a little scamming downtime, away from Benson's watchful eye.

Of course, that'd nearly gone sour, would have if not for that gorgeous racehorse. The Lupus Mortiferus incident had prompted Skeeter to give up any further thoughts of downtime scamming until he knew a whole lot more about the culture he was planning to rip off. He understood far better, now, why guides and scouts spent all their free time-most of it, anyway-studying.

That Skeeter's target would be Rome again was a foregone conclusion, despite his somewhat desperate, drowning promise. He intended to hit rich Romans often and hard, because the arrogant bastards deserved it so much. But not just yet. He needed a lot of hours in the library and its soundproof language booths. And before he could do so much as that, he needed to win a little bet, first. Goldie had already proven ruthless enough to arrange for him to get caught.

Goldie'd get what she had coming, of that Skeeter was certain.

He could hardly wait to wave bye-bye as she hauled as much as she could afford to pay taxes on when she was forced uptime and use the rest of her assets to make bail. Skeeter chuckled. If things really went his way, he might even have enough at the end of the bet to buy out what Goldie couldn't take with her, including that breeding pair of Carolina parakeets some visitor had brought back from Colonial Williamsburg. Extinct birds, and she had a breeding pair of 'em. Could get more any time she wanted, too, by pulling the right strings-the ones attached to her downtime agents. Skeeter made a little wager with himself that Sue Fritchey didn't even know they were on station.