Moreau came down and rattled off a list of possible leads on Fisher's whereabouts, and he reported that there was nothing yet from local police on the Range Rover. Hansen, Noboru, and Ames barely paid any attention to him. Moreau asked why they weren't following up on the leads immediately, and Hansen answered him with two words: "Just chill."

Mr. Moreau's gaze grew harder. He nodded, then left the room. Ames checked his OPSAT simply for the time, but the screen was blurry. "What time is it?"

"Almost midnight," answered Noboru.

"Are we doing anything else tonight except waiting around for your buddy to call?" asked Ames.

Hansen shook his head.

"That's good. I want to rent some porn."

Noboru glanced to Hansen. "Do we have to?"

"No, we don't."

"Aw, come on. You guys are going to sit there and tell me you don't like porn?"

Hansen lifted a brow. "Not as much as you."

VALENTINAordered the vegetable plate and Gillespie decided that sounded good and ordered the same. They sat there, drinking sparkling water, staring at their vegetables, and wondering what the hell they were doing.

"I'm thinking about going back to being an analyst," Gillespie said out of nowhere.

"Maybe I'll join you."

"I thought we'd be doing something . . . I don't know . . . more dangerous."

"Yeah, I know what you mean," answered Valentina.

"And I sure as hell didn't think I'd be working on a team. No way."

"I hate your guts," Valentina said abruptly, then flashed a grin.

Gillespie smiled. "I hate you, too--because you're smart and pretty."

"And you're not?"

"You think I'm a slut."

"You're not a slut. I can understand how you feel."

Gillespie frowned deeply. "Oh, really?"

"Yeah."

For a moment, Gillespie's thoughts raced, and then she finally built up the courage to ask, "You slept with Fisher, too?"

Valentina began chuckling. "No. No!"

"Then, what?"

"I'm just saying I know what it's like to have feelings for a teacher or a coworker."

Gillespie bit her lip. "I wish I could take it back. Had I known it would come to this . . ."

"Don't have regrets. Just move on."

Gillespie nodded. "You know, I don't hate you as much anymore."

"Yeah, but I'm sure the boys would love a good cat fight."

"At least Ames helped us out. We both hate him more than we hate each other," she said through a chuckle.

"That's right. So, let me ask you, if Ben decides to follow up on this without Moreau and Grim, are you going along?"

"You mean break off from them and go find Fisher ourselves?"

"Yeah."

"Sounds crazy, but, you know what? I'm in. I think we'll call Grim's bluff and she'll be forced to turn over what she knows."

"That could happen."

Valentina thought a moment, then said, "So did Ben ask how Fisher got away?"

She nodded. "I told him the truth."

"Which is?"

"That he got out of there before I had time to take a shot. And that isthe truth."

"I believe you. Did Ben?"

"He says he did, but I'm pretty sure he's still wondering and hoping that I'm not the one who'll have to make that decision. If I were him, I'd feel the same way."

"But do you trust yourself to take the shot if it comes to that? If I were you, I don't think I could do it."

Gillespie eyed her plate. "I can say, yeah, I'd shoot him because, really, in the end, he was a bastard. But I really don't know."

THEphone rang sometime after 4:00 A.M., and Ames thought he was dreaming. He barely heard Hansen speaking on the phone, and it seemed the room was still spinning. . . . Finally, the fool shut his mouth, and the world seemed to balance itself on its axis. Ames settled back into the cool darkness. . . .

NOBORUwas down in the hotel lobby lounge by 6:00 A.M., sipping a cup of coffee and thumbing through a local newspaper, which he could not read, but the pictures were interesting. He observed the comings and goings of a few early-morning risers, and then, through the lobby's glass doors, he thought he saw a familiar face seated in a car parked across the street.

Gothwhiler.

No.

He rose, crossed over to the doors, but even as he squinted, to get a better look, the car pulled away from the curb and was gone.

It was just his paranoia. Again.

He turned around--and nearly knocked over Ames, who had glided up behind him.

"What's the matter, buddy? You look sick."

"Nothing. What're you doing down here so early? I thought you'd be hungover."

"I am. I came down for coffee. And now that you're here, I want to talk to you."

"About what?"

"We need your help. Hansen's got a good plan. I come from a law-enforcement background, but you . . . you were special forces in Japan, and I know for a fact that your agency has cross-trained with international forces. Now, listen to me very carefully. If I had to bet on it, I'd say Fisher's here on a job--and he's either working for Grim or at the very least getting help from her. And I'm willing to bet you've got a contact or two within the special ops community that could help us find him. People talk. Favors are owed. Money is exchanged, and information leaks."

Noboru didn't like the short man's tone; it implied that he knew a whole lot more about Noboru's background, and that was deeply troubling--especially after Grim's promise.

"I'm sorry. I can't help you."

"Nathan, let me put it to you this way: If there's anyone you know that could help us, you owe it to the team. You owe it to us. Do you understand?"

Noboru studied the man for a long moment. "You could die in an accident, and no one would question it."

"Come on, Brucie, don't be like that."

"Don't call me that."

"Oh, I forgot, only the big boy upstairs is allowed."

"I can't help you."

"Don't you want to put an end to this? Don't you think we should get Moreau to talk?"

Noboru considered this. He knew that if Fisher had gone mercenary, there was one man who might know where the ex-operative was.

Karlheinz van der Putten, a.k.a. Spock, lived in a village called Chinchon, southeast of Madrid, and Noboru had memorized his cell phone number and e-mail address. Spock had become a kind of "agent" and "packager" within the mercenary world, an old wizard of information who was once a formidable warrior himself and a dedicated collector of human ears, which he preserved and kept in glass trophy cases that he displayed on his office walls. His extensive collection had earned him his nickname, though he was hardly as even-tempered as that alien character. In the sixties and seventies, he had participated in more than a thousand operations, working for more than a dozen governments, and during that time he had formed alliances that now spanned the globe, alliances he had nurtured for nearly four decades.

Now in his early seventies, the once-muscular Aryan, with a jaw that appeared to have been hewn into shape by a hatchet, had grown fat, stoop shouldered, and hunched over, but he maintained the snow-white crew cut and narrow-eyed gaze that hinted at the menace of his past.