He considered the dog problem while the hard drive churned. If he could make it look as if the dog had been poisoned, then the mess in the other room and the dog’s sleeping would seem natural.

Not poisoned, but inebriated.

The bottle of wine. The smell might dissipate the scent of the mace as well.

Nuri glanced at the computer screen. The virus needed another twelve minutes to finish.

He went over and grabbed the wine. The bottle was only about a quarter full, but that would do; the dog was already drugged, after all.

Crouching down next to the desk, watching the computer count down, his anger dissipated. He held the bottle of wine to his nose. It was earthy, a fresh red—probably grown and bottled right here.

Nuri felt himself relaxing, just a little. Things were going well. He’d been right about the mafia don letting his guard down. The party complicated things, but only barely. And the dog—the dog was a chance to show his ingenuity.

The computer beeped. The program was done, and sooner than he’d expected.

Leaning to his right over the desk, Nuri looked through the window toward the pool. Moreno was still floating in the middle of the water, a girl hanging on either side of him.

Not a bad life, Nuri thought. Smuggle some dope into the country from time to time, hire international killers to avenge your grandfather, then float the nights away drinking wine and getting laid.

Nuri pulled over the keyboard and typed a new set of letters and numbers: stndby334*.* The hard drive churned again, implanting the virus deep into the operating system. It would send out fresh information each time the computer was booted. Assuming, of course, that Moreno didn’t realize he’d been bugged.

Curious about what had been uploaded, Nuri followed the command with one for a listing of programs on the hard drive. There were dozens, including a shareware encryption program that he had encountered before. He paged through to the e-mail program and fired it up. It wasn’t even protected with a password.

Then again, how many home computer e-mails were?

Nuri flipped through the most recent bunch. They seemed to concern business, but the details were vague—a ship that would leave port, an airplane flight number, nothing of immediate help. There was also a surprising amount of spam—ads for working at home, better erection pills, and invitations to join dating services.

Spam? Or messages disguised as spam? MY-PID would have to sort it all out.

Nuri closed the program and looked at the Internet cache, examining the list of recent sites Moreno had surveyed. For a guy who could pay for whatever real pleasures he wanted, Moreno sure liked his porn. The cache was filled with images.

“How’s it going?” asked Flash.

“Almost done.”

He paged through, looking for bank account screens. He didn’t see any. But he did find a range of search queries on banks and post offices in Moldova.

Did Moreno have business there?

If so, it wasn’t obvious. The pages left in the queue looked almost random, as if Moreno had been thinking about visiting and was just looking for information.

“Guards are moving around in the little building,” warned Flash. “I think we’re up against a shift change.”

Nuri flipped off the computer. He resisted the impulse to look inside the desk or file cabinets and began crouch-walking toward the door.

He was three-fourths of the way there when he realized he’d forgotten the wine bottle. As he went back for it, he looked through the window and saw one of the girls pulling herself out of the pool.

She wasn’t wearing a top.

She was also heading for the house, as Flash warned a few moments later.

He scooped up the wine bottle and went back to the door to wait for her to pass. But instead of going up the hall as the other girls had, she stopped at the office door and tried the knob.

“Fredo, Fredo,” she called. “La porta—the door is locked.”

She tried the door again.

“MY-PID, locate Alfredo Moreno,” said Nuri.

“Subject is in the pool.”

“Tell me if he moves.”

“Subject is swimming to the western side of the pool.”

Shit.

Nuri reached over to the lock and undid it.

Try it again, he willed the woman outside. But she didn’t.

“Subject is approaching the house,” said MY-PID.

Nuri took out his pistol. The hell with subtlety. He’d just shoot the damn son of a bitch and be done with it all.

“Nuri?” whispered Flash.

“Stand by,” whispered Nuri.

“C’e cosa?” said Moreno, coming into the hallway. The music was blaring behind him. What’s wrong?

“I want more wine,” said the woman.

“You’ve had enough I’m sure.”

“Don’t be a prude.”

Nuri raised the gun. He heard a loud slap outside the door.

Then the woman laughed. Moreno laughed. The woman giggled.

The door opened. Nuri stood against the wall, holding his breath as the pair came into the room. He could smell the chlorine fresh on their bodies.

They went straight for the couch, tumbling over the back.

The girl giggled. Moreno told her that she was beautiful and needed to be made love to. She asked for more wine. He told her first he would fill her up with something more intoxicating. He pulled off her bikini bottom and went to work.

Gun pointed in their direction, Nuri squeezed out from behind the door and backed into the hallway.

The dog was snoring beneath the table where he’d left him. It jerked upward as he poured the wine over its muzzle, but then slipped back down to sleep.

He paused when he reached the French door to leave.

Wouldn’t he be doing everyone a favor going back and plugging the son of a bitch and his whore?

Maybe not the woman, but definitely the mafioso. Who the hell would care?

Only Reid, really. Maybe not even him. The Italians certainly wouldn’t raise a fuss.

The dog stirred.

Time to go, Nuri told himself, and he slipped outside.

13

Washington, D.C.

Zen and Breanna Stockard were one of Washington’s power couples, and while few people would literally trade places with them—Zen, after all, had spent two decades in a wheelchair—they were still envied by many, not least of all because they seemed to have an excellent, even perfect marriage. They supported each other’s careers and worked together to take care of their daughter Teri. While they were only sporadically seen on the political cocktail-dinner circuit, they did get around—Zen had box seats for the Nationals, and Breanna’s position on the board of directors of the Washington Modern Dance Company meant they often attended shows there.

Not a few of which Zen was reputed to sleep through, though no videos of him snoring had yet been posted on the Internet.

But even so-called power couples still took out the garbage: a task Zen assigned himself tonight while Breanna was working on homework with their daughter. Teri’s English Language Arts class was studying Shakespeare, specifically The Merchant of Venice. The language had been scaled back and the theme watered down to make it appropriate for third graders, but it was still an ambitious project.

Teri had won the role of Portia. Two other girls were sharing the part, and to really shine, she needed a judge’s costume to die for. Breanna had many talents, but sewing wasn’t one of them. Still, she was giving it a good try, and not cursing too much, at least not loud enough for her daughter to hear.