Diego Vasquez stepped out of the car. He smiled when Mathieson introduced him to Jan. “A great pleasure indeed.” Vasquez bowed over her hand.

Jan was bemused. There was a chilly precision in Vasquez’s deep voice that was out of kilter with the elegance of his attitudes. He still made Mathieson uneasy.

They went up toward the cabin. Walking behind them, Mathieson was surprised to realize Vasquez was no taller than Jan.

There was a round of introductions. Amy was captivated at once. The boys came out to meet Vasquez and they were impressed; they were inured to celebrities but Vasquez had an odd anachronistic flamboyance. After a while Mathieson knew what it reminded him of: radio voices from the age of fustian—Murrow, Alex Dreier, Kaltenborn, Westbrook Van Voorhis. It was with transparent reluctance that Roger gathered Amy and the boys and bundled them off on the pretext of casting a pool. The four of them went down the trail into the pines, fishing poles bobbing, lugging their picnic.

“I’ve enjoyed some of his films,” Vasquez said. “I’ve never decided whether he’s a competent actor but I rather doubt that matters. He cuts an impressive figure on the screen.”

Mathieson said, “You know he was a rodeo champion before he came to Hollywood.”

“It’s more than horsemanship, I’m sure.” Vasquez settled into one of the weathered rockers and glanced up at Jan. She stood with her hands in the pockets of her sheepskin coat, one shoulder tipped against the log pillar that supported the porch overhang. She watched Vasquez with tight expectant eyes. Vasquez put his whole attention on Jan. “May I assume you concur in your husband’s decision?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“You said that a bit casually, Mrs.—what name should I use?”

“I don’t care. Suit yourself.”

“You’re tense. I’m sorry—I’m sure my presence only exacerbates that.”

She didn’t reply; she took her hands out of her pockets and folded her arms, hugging herself against the mountain chill.

Vasquez said gently, “I really ought to know how to address you.”

She glanced at her husband. “Jan Mathieson.”

“Thank you.” Vasquez tipped the rocker back, crossed his legs and folded his hands in his lap. He looked comfortable—in command, fully assured. “You’ve had nasty experiences. It’s natural that you should be troubled by great anxieties. We hope to allay those.”

“I hope you can.”

“My staff is already at work. My organization is rather unusual as you may know. You may have been misled by publicity. The news media pay attention only to climaxes. To the public I’m sure some of our operations appear reckless. I’d like to assure you that isn’t the case. It may appear otherwise but we’ve never jeopardized innocent people. The Stedman kidnapping was a case in point. The media made it appear that the boy only escaped by great good luck. This wasn’t the case. At no time was there any risk of the boy’s coming under fire. Our movements were coordinated and prepared down to the inch. We had the camp under visual and electronic surveillance for sixteen hours before the moment came when we knew the boy had been left alone, temporarily, in his hut. That was when we made our move, and our first objective was the hut itself—to make sure the boy was protected. Corralling the kidnappers was only the secondary objective. Do you follow my drift?”

“Yes.”

“The primary objective in your case is to insure the safety of you and your son. I won’t expose you or the boy to risk, and I won’t permit you to expose yourselves to it. As for your husband, he must make up his own mind as to the limits of risk; we’ll conform to his decision in the matter. You’ve decided to counterattack those who have attacked you. This ambition is laudable only if it has a reasonable chance of success. There’d be no point in approaching it as a kamikaze mission. Does this coincide with your view?”

“I suppose so.”

“You have reservations.”

“It’s a last resort, isn’t it. This whole madness. I’d be a fool if I held out much hope.”

“I understand your depression. But the forecast isn’t as bleak as you may believe.”

The wisp of a polite smile fled across Jan’s mouth. Mathieson looked away in distress.

Vasquez said, “It’s an oversimplification to state that every man has a weakness that can be exploited. What is true is that criminals like Frank Pastor are particularly vulnerable to pressure. They appear formidable but in some ways they can be reached much more easily than can honest citizens.”

“Honest citizens don’t retaliate by blowing up houses.”

“To be sure. But we’ve got to push your enemies back to the corner of the chessboard and achieve, if not checkmate, at least stalemate. At the moment it’s you who are in check.”

“That much I understand.”

“The tactics remain to be defined. The strategy, however, is quite clear—to make it so costly for Pastor to persevere in harassing you that he will withdraw his threat and leave you in peace.”

Jan smiled wryly. “Even the federal government hasn’t been able to do a thing about it with its thousands of agents and billions of dollars.”

“Offhand I can point out three specific advantages we have over the police and the federal government. One, we don’t need to secure ironclad evidence before we can move against them. Two, our actions can’t be deflected or frustrated by their efforts to subvert the judicial and enforcement machinery by corrupting officials. Three, we don’t need to obey the law.”

“That’s very glib.” Jan was watching Vasquez, holding his glance too long; it became a challenge. “Suppose we put ourselves in your hands. Suppose Frank Pastor approaches you and offers to outbid us. How do we know you won’t sell yourself?”

“I’m an attorney,” Vasquez murmured. “You and your husband are my clients. It would be an obvious conflict of interests.”

“But you consider yourself above the law. That’s what you’ve just said.”

“Unhappily there’s a distinction between statutory law and moral law. I flout the one with unfortunate regularity. I am bound by the other with absolute rigidity.”

“It doesn’t cost you anything to say that, does it.”

Vasquez turned his hands apart, palms out. “Then we’re at an impasse. The only way you can determine whether you can trust a man is to trust him and see what happens.”

She only brooded at him. Vasquez said at last, “I’ve taken you on and I won’t sell you out. It would be fruitless to offer further assurances than that. Either you believe it or you don’t.”

“The moral law you’re so concerned with—in your case it seems to include cold-blooded murder.”

“Don’t believe everything you read.”

“That’s an evasion.”

“Mrs. Mathieson, I might be able to influence you by proffering slick rationalizations about the differences between murder and execution, or justifiable homicide—self-defense—that is to say, by pointing out that the Commandment against homicide is hedged with innumerable exceptions. I’ve killed human beings, yes. I haven’t killed many.” He lowered his head. “It’s fair to say only that I can’t answer to your conscience—I can answer only to my own. It is clear.”

In the same subdued voice and without lifting his head Vasquez said, “You’ve got to make a decision, you know. If you decide not to trust me there’s no point going on with this.”

Mathieson waited for Jan to turn and look at him. Finally she did.

He couldn’t decode her expression. “I don’t have a choice,” she said. She turned back to Vasquez. “Neither of us does.”

“Then I’m to proceed?”

“You’ll have to forgive me. I don’t give this much of a chance.”

“Mrs. Mathieson, a sentence of death has been passed upon you by Frank Pastor’s kangaroo court. You have three options. Give up and succumb. Run and hide. Or fight and hope. No human being in sound mental health would consider the first. You’ve already tried the second and found it wanting. Therefore, regardless how poor the chances appear, you’re pretty well stuck with fight and hope.”