Marlen: Book 1

Chapter 85

Tyreen Mackenzie's head was spinning. She hadn't really believed it when Henry Harper had told her what Scorpio wanted. But now she had heard it straight from the devil's mouth.

She was to marry Henry Harper? Memories of her first, short and ill-fated, marriage flashed through her mind. Could she go through that again?

It was unthinkable, but Tyreen needed time to figure out what Scorpio really wanted of her. She wanted a cigarette, but knew Scorpio wouldn't allow it. "Does Henry know all this?" she asked instead.

"All what?" Scorpio shrugged, spreading his hands.

"About him being your godchild? About his father and you?"

"No! No --- and he must never be told." A shade too fast, and tinged with anxiety. A raw nerve, perhaps, Certainly it was out of character for Scorpio.

"Why not?" She tried to sound casual.

He hesitated. "Because of how I must appear to the world."

"Why do you want me to marry him?"

"I'd originally thought to marry him off to Emily Dupré, but, as we all know, that isn't possible now."

That made some sense. Emily's millions could have ensured that Harper was looked after. "When would you want the ceremony to take place?" she asked.

"As soon as possible. I can preside over the ceremony, naturally."

Naturally. At least that brought some hope. A marriage performed by Scorpio would be invalid anywhere outside The Society. She needed time. Maybe Wollenstein's people were already alerted. Time. But why should Scorpio give her time, as he appeared to be doing? The whole idea was crazy. "When you say as soon as possible, how soon?"

"Why not tonight?"

Tonight. That wasn't very much time. Tyreen did not believe a word of it; the story of Henry Harper being Vladimir Scorpio's godchild; of promises to Harper's father; of coincidence; of Scorpio showing concern for Harper's future. She guessed the real answer might be to keep both Harper and herself happy and out of the way, while the last stages of terror were played out. She did not even know if Harper was Scorpio's spy or not, though she suspected Harper had always told her the truth. She certainly did not believe the tale about Trilby and the state in which she had arrived at her parents' home. She did not know what to believe about Trilby being the legal wife of Vladimir Scorpio. Plainly, Tyreen now considered, she knew very little of the truth --- who to trust; who to doubt; who to destroy; as she planned to destroy Scorpio himself.

Scorpio spoke again, the voice even lower than before. "Why not tonight?"

Without looking at him, Tyreen replied. "Why not." Play for time. Maybe she would still find a way. Though, as she accepted Scorpio's proposal, once more Tyreen Mackenzie knew, deeply within her, that she was simply accepting her own death warrant. Nothing else made sense in Scorpio's nightmare world.

The moment Tyreen had agreed to the wedding, Scorpio's hand had reached out for the telephone.

"Wait!" sharply from Tyreen. "What're you doing?"

"If the ceremony's to be tonight, there's a great deal to be done."

"Well." Tyreen spoke quietly. "The arrangements will have to wait."

"You can't back out now." There was alarm in Scorpio's voice.

"I'm not backing out. But it's not up to me alone. Marriage requires two people. If I am to marry Henry, he shall have to ask me first."

"There's no need. He'll marry you. I know he'll marry you."

Scorpio sounded a little too certain. "I want to hear that from him," she said.

"Trilby." Scorpio's voice rose for the first time that evening. "Get the Harper lad and bring him here this instant."

"No!" Tyreen held up a hand. "I wish to see him in private. Back in the guestrooms. If not, the deal's off, Scorpio. If you want me to go through with this, I have to see him alone. He must ask me, like any man would ask any woman. Also, he must understand what he is getting into."

Scorpio hesitated for a moment, then put the telephone down and nodded. "Very well. But he'll marry you, all right."

Tyreen thought she heard Trilby stifle some kind of choking in her throat. She looked over, and the girl had turned pale. You could see it even under the thick makeup. Again, she thought, why? Why marriage? A whim of the mad Scorpio? Some subtle torture? Why in heaven's name was Scorpio so anxious to go through with such a farce?

A knock on the door heralded the arrival of Bodyguard Bob, who was told to lead Tyreen back to the guestrooms and wait for her there.

"You shouldn't..." Trilby's voice trembled. "Really, you shouldn't..."

"I shouldn't what?" Tyreen asked.

"Yes" --- Scorpio, harsh and menacing --- "yes, Trilby, what shouldn't Ms. Tyreen Mackenzie do?"

"You shouldn't let him see you," Trilby almost sobbed. "It's such bad luck for the groom to see the bride on their wedding day. The groom should never be allowed to see the bride on the day!"

"I don't think we need to bother with superstition." Scorpio now sounded almost intolerably patronizing.

"I have to see him, Trilby. It would not be right. How could I possibly marry a man who did not propose to me?"

Trilby gave a little nod, her eyes brimming with tears.

"You okay?"

"Yes," she said in a small voice. "Yes... it's just... Well, I get so emotional about weddings."

Tyreen touched her shoulder in a gesture of comfort, and to her surprise the girl shrank away as if Tyreen was a leper.

Henry Harper was sitting on his bed, still wrapped in the toweling robe, when Tyreen Mackenzie arrived back in the guest apartments, escorted there by "Bodyguard Bob." A logo on the pocket of the robe said Hilton Head Disney Village. It seemed appropriate to Tyreen.

"Teri! You've been away forever." He sprang to his feet and came to her.

She sidestepped him and at the same time cupped a hand to her ear, looked up at the ceiling, and made a circling motion with her index finger signifying that ceilings, walls, telephones, lamps, and anything else in the room almost certainly had ears.

He nodded, understanding her: he had already said they were stealing sound, though not, as far as he knew, secretly looking at them through one of the many devices that were available on the market of sophisticated market of electronics. In cases like this there was one way, and only one way, of dealing with matters. Tyreen --- and many like her --- had used it before.

"Henry," she began, taking his hand and leading her into the furthest corner of the room, where there was a large, comfortable-looking armchair. "This is damnably difficult, Henry. I've only done it once before." Under cover of speech, she had taken a silver Tiffany pencil and a small leather notepad from her purse. Now, she pushed him down into the armchair and then sat down on his lap.

"Only once, Teri?" He gave her a lecherous smile. "A beautiful girl like you?" One arm snaked around her waist and his tongue flicked out, tracing the line of her throat and curling around the point of her chin.

She placed the notepad on an arm of the chair and began to write. "I have talked for a long time with our host," she said aloud. "For reasons I won't go into now, it would seem that our immediate futures are secure if..."

"Go on, Teri." He pulled his face away to look down at what she had written on the pad:

When did Trilby Shepperton marry Scorpio?

He took the pencil from her as she continued to speak. "... if we get married." I did not know they were married!

Then he said aloud, "Married? I told you, Teri. I told you that was what he wanted. You believe me now?" He shook his head, frowning, concerned, trying to tell her something else.

"Yes..." She took the pencil from him. "Yes, but I'm rather old-fashioned about these things. I am, naturally, fond of you. Quite fond of you." His close proximity, with only the toweling robe between her and his naked flesh, began to make her uncomfortable.

"So I see..." He allowed a hand to brush the side of her breast. Leaning forward, he read what she had written: You realize that if we marry I shall do my best to escape and take you with me as soon as possible.

"What I'm trying to say, Henry, is that if you did ask me, and if I accepted, it would be a marriage for our mutual salvation. Our mutual well-being." She wrote on the pad: For the present at least.

He took the pencil again. "Of course, Teri." A long pause as he wrote: If you are going to escape you'd damned well better take me with you.

"Teri, what you're saying is that you're not really in love with me, right?"

"Right." On the pad she wrote: Scorpio is going to perform the ceremony tonight. You realize that it will be in no way legal or binding on either of us?

"And?" he queried, snatching the pencil from her and writing.

"And, in spite of that, I'm willing to go through with it."

He had written: I do know that, but it is the only way.

She made a beckoning motion, and he immediately caught on. "Teri Mackenzie, will you marry me?"

"Yes, I will." She bent her face down to his. Either Henry Harper was an expert who had majored in kissing at whatever school through which the IRS sent its agents, or had not kissed, or been kissed, in a long time.

As she came up for air, Tyreen realized there could be two other explanations. Scorpio had detailed him to go through this whole business to keep her occupied --- which had been a thought earlier --- or he genuinely wanted her with an explosive passion --- which had not been an uncommon happening in her experience.

"Oh, Teri," he whispered. "I'm so glad it's tonight. I really don't have anything better to do."

She gave him a withering smile and wrote on the pad: Tonight we plan our escape. Breathing heavily, to give any listeners the idea that they were once more clasped in an embrace, she then added: But only after the consummation. We might as well get something out of this.

The smile on his face when he read that was almost worth the whole thing. "Teri, you don't know how much I've wanted this since we first met." He was almost convincing. Perhaps he really means it, she considered.

Well, Tyreen thought, they would go through with it. Maybe this was the chance she had been waiting for. But why a wedding? Why did this seem to matter so much to Scorpio? She still did not know a great deal about Henry Harper. Now that she had revealed an immediate plan to escape, his true intentions would be made clear very quickly. If he was in some way a double --- part of Scorpio's team --- he would let their captors know, and certainly take steps to prevent himself becoming involved in any dangerous attempt to escape. On the other hand, if he was on the level and working for the US government, she could rely on his sticking close to her, so that his assignment could be completed. One way or the other she would soon find out if he could be trusted.

"Oh, damn," she said, getting up and creasing her brow.

"What's wrong?" He also got up.

"I've absolutely nothing to wear." She looked up and grinned again, though her eyes were deeply troubled behind the lighthearted front. "That doesn't matter for later, but what can I wear for the ceremony?"

"I'm certain Scorpio will think of something," he whispered, wrapping an arm around her waist.

"Think so?"

"Yes." He pulled her closer, putting his lips close to her ears. "I'm sure he's got everything planned --- every damn thing from the ceremony to the way we're to die. There's no way he'll let us go on living, Teri. You do know that, don't you?"

She turned away, now wanting him to see the look in her eyes. "Then we'll have to do something to prevent it," she whispered.

Everything seemed completely unreal. In many ways life had taken on a dreamlike quality. There they were in the Prayer Hall, now decorated with flowers --- Aretha Franklin, with Detroit's New bethel baptist Church Choir, belting out Walk in the Light through hidden speakers, while Henry Harper, with Goldy Goldman as his best man, stood waiting near the steps to the platform where Vladimir Scorpio, gloriously arrayed in his "Papal" robes, smiled unctuously.

Scorpio indeed appeared to have thought of everything. There was full gray morning dress for Harper and his best man, complete with silk cravats and buttonholes.

Aretha faded, and an organ blared out the bridal march. The lights dimmed and spots slowly came up on the center aisle. The smooth hoodlum whom Tyreen Mackenzie had dubbed Bodyguard Bob came down the aisle with her on his arm --- she in a gown of pure white silk, a wide skirt nipped in at the waist where it turned into a low-cut bodice decorated with embroidery and pearls. On her head was a full bridal veil that covered her face and fell around her shoulders, flowing down her back to half the length of the long train, which she managed with splendid elegance. She shone and glimmered in the lights, a radiant white goddess slowly descending to be joined to her waiting groom.

Her procession also was a stunning sight, as though lit and directed by some great theatrical talent --- Tyreen holding a demure bouquet of pink and white flowers; Trilby Shepperton in cream silk, with a wreath of flowers on her head, as matron of honor; and three of the young female Meek Ones, including Goldman's daughter Rachel, dressed in the same cream silk.

By Harper's side Goldy Goldman muttered, "Look at my Rachel. What would her grandmother say? A good Jewish girl like Rachel taking part in all this. It's not right, and there's that wimp husband of hers. Look at him." He nodded toward a young man, pale, thin, and bearded, sitting a couple of rows up the aisle. As Rachel passed him, the young man gazed at her with moist eyes. "She should have married someone with a proper profession. With a future."

Harper whispered back, "Your son-in-law, the astronaut? Or the paratrooper?"

"Shut up," Goldman said, a shade loudly.

Tyreen arrive beside Harper, handing her bouquet to Trilby and smiling through the veil as though he was the only man she could love or marry. Perhaps he was the last. The thought did not worry her, though their combined future did. From that moment onward, she had to keep one thought in the forefront of her mind --- This is not real, she told herself. Not legal, not anything.

The odious Scorpio stepped forward and began to intone his own version of the marriage service. "Dearly beloved, those who are meek in mind, heart, and body, we have assembled here to join these two persons --- Tyreen and Henry --- in marriage, according to our faith and our belief that only those who have embraced The Society of the Meek Ones shall attain true paradise..."

It went on for about half an hour, a whole commixture of Jewish, Christian, and other religions. Their hands were bound together by a silk scarf, similar to a stole; Bob the Bodyguard acting as Tyreen's father passed over a velvet purse containing fifty Krugerrands; they exchanged rings; each drank three times from the same silver cup; and Harper smashed a wineglass, placed under a cloth, with his foot. This last, Scorpio explained, was the shattering of all persons who stood between the true meek and the way to paradise. Tyreen knew well enough that this was plagiarized from the Jewish ceremony, which is symbolic of the destruction of the Temple and reminds the couple that marriages must be well guarded or they also can be broken.

At last Scorpio pronounced them man and wife. Tyreen's veil was thrown back and Harper was allowed to kiss his bride.

A small party took place in a large anteroom, where they were joined by all the Meek Ones present. There were toasts in champagne --- a Pol Roger 71, one of the great vintages --- and good wishes, followed by short speeches. Harper looked at Tyreen with adoration in his eyes, and she realized that, while she could never truly fall in love with this man, she did care greatly for him. Whether the marriage was a sham or not, she was determined that this one would have a better, happier outcome.

By now it was very late, almost two in the morning. Already, Tyreen had made up her mind that, though it could well cause more deaths in England, they would have to wait until the early hours of the following day before chancing the escape plan, now well formed in her mind. At least that would give her some daylight in which to look at the terrain outside the huge windows that made up almost the entire exterior walls of the guestrooms facing the sea.

With much cheering and many tasteless jokes, the couple was led to the guest chambers, which they found almost too adequately prepared for them. The room Tyreen had already been allotted as her bedroom was sealed off, and the overnight-briefcase had been brought into the sitting room. There were flowers, more champagne, and chocolates. One of the bodyguards had said they would not wake them early, while Scorpio made it plain that he did not expect to see them for two or three days at the least.

Tyreen's was feeling the onset of fatigue, after the long day, coupled with the time change. She sat down on the bed to catch her breath. Harper, without the benefit of her Arion constitution, excused himself and went into the bathroom to wash and begin his nightly routine.

The first thing she did was to remove the wedding band. Even though it was only a single finger, she could feel the energy-damping effect of the gold. Feeling somewhat better after that, she began removing other items.

When Harper emerged from the bathroom, Tyreen was lying on the bed in nothing but her slinky slip. Rising, she came toward him, wrapping her half-clad body around him, pulling him back to the bed.

As always, she held herself back, not wanting to reveal her Arion strength. It would not be good for her to hurt her "husband" on their "wedding" night. And, she wanted him at full strength for their attempted escape.

Well, perhaps not "full" strength. He definitely did not seem lacking in energy --- or enthusiasm. Nor was he lacking in skill; if she'd earlier thought that he was a great kisser, that was merely a prelude for what followed.

Still, she had another reason for holding herself back. She had not revealed her Arion heritage to him, not wanting to build up his hopes for their attempted escape.

Even then, it had been a while since she'd let herself go so far. In fact, there had only been two men before with whom she'd been this physical. One, of course, was Jean-Claude, her Arion husband of less than a day. The other was John Bannon, who had known about her Arion heritage from their early days working together with MI5.

In the early hours of the morning, well down under the sheets where her words would not be picked up by the microphones, she began to question him. "Did you know that Scorpio wanted to marry you off to Emily Dupré?"

"He did say that you were his second choice," he said, after she had told him who Emily was --- had been. "Though you're my first choice."

"Thank you." She smiled, even though he couldn't see it. "But why have a wedding now?"

"He said he was determined to have a wedding. It was as though he had become obsessed by it. He's completely crazy, you realize that?"

"Oh, indeed I do."

"It seemed as if a marriage was essential to his plans. He has some really horrific operation running, and..."

"I know."

"...and in his madness, it seems as if the idea of a wedding was some form of superstition; as though, in his paranoia, he believed the plan --- whatever it is --- would work only if he married someone. Performed the ceremony, I mean."

"Yes," Tyreen whispered. It made some kind of sense --- Scorpio, the death-bringer, had come to believe the mumbo-jumbo he preached, and now --- on the verge of something internationally dreadful --- there had to be a sacrifice to his idea of God.

As though picking up on her thoughts, Harper said, "He seemed to see a wedding as a sacrifice. He said he would give me a couple of days' pleasure. He'd see me married. Then, when his great task was complete, he would see both bride and groom suffer the pains of the damned. We would see what power he held in the world --- that's very important to him in his madness --- then we would die, slowly." He swallowed, gulping back the tears. "I'm frightened, Teri. Very frightened. He's got something truly horrific in mind for us. The man's the devil incarnate." He clung to her, as though trying to find some peace of mind in her body.

Holding him close, she tried to talk of her plan of escape from the dangers ahead. She was sure of the man now, and knew she had to do all that was possible to save him --- and maybe hundreds of other lives. "Listen, Henry," she began. "I've got a few interesting items in my briefcase, and..."

"Oh, my God," he said, reaching out and cupping a breast, "You've got enough interesting things here." He rolled her nipple between thumb and index finger before pinching it hard enough to draw a gasp from her.

No, he most definitely was not lacking in energy. And he had some interesting things there under the sheets as well. It would be the following afternoon before she could begin explaining what she intended.

At this moment, though, exhausted by lovemaking, the couple talked --- of their lives, their childhoods, their likes and dislikes. Tyreen edited her life story slightly; her Arion heritage made her appear his age when in reality she was nearly twice that. Harper, Tyreen discovered, was an essentially serious young man, but with wit and strength. In many ways their sense of humor was identical, while they discovered there was more than mere sex in their mutual attraction. They could be both lovers and friends.

Toward the first pearly light of dawn Harper fell into a quiet sleep. Climbing out of bed, Tyreen went, softly, over to the window. Dawn would break within the hour, and she noticed that the floodlighting had already been turned off.

Harper stirred, and called her back to bed, his voice husky.

The young man had incredible stamina. Not enough to match her own Arion stamina, but certainly not bad for a Terran. Smiling to herself in the dark, she returned and slipped in beside him.

The afternoon was brilliant and clear, the sun high and the cloudless sky that deep blue that is one of the wonders of life. Above the beach and sea, pelicans swept in formation, like clumsy aircraft, diving to scoop food from the ocean. Far away, down by the water's edge, Tyreen Mackenzie could see the tiny black spots that were sandpipers, foraging for tasty morsels as the tide came in.

A red biplane, used for tourist flights over the island, banked steeply, put its nose down, and seemed to be set on a strafing run over Three Pines. At the last moment the pilot pulled out, and the little stunt airplane seemed to stand on its tail, grasping at the hot air, climbing and then going into a couple of flick rolls. She wondered how the fare-paying passengers felt.

It returned three times, and Tyreen felt nudge of intuition. Was it usual for tourists to get three or four close views of Scorpio's hideaway? Would it, perhaps, be better to wait another day, or even a couple of days, before making her move? No, it was too much of a risk to leave it any longer. So again she went over the very serious business of the proposed escape --- first gauging the distance from the window to the reed-strewn, marshy strip that held the true danger from the vast nest of water moccasins. Earlier in the day she had reckoned it at twenty paces; then ten paces through the marsh to the relative safety of the beach.

In bed, once more under the sheets, with whispers she explained her plan to Harper. Scorpio and his people had searched the briefcase, there was no doubt about that, for she had set up the old and tried methods to detect any tampering --- a hair here, a liver of matchstick there. But R&D's technology had triumphed. No secrets had been given up.

The shielded compartment in the overnight-briefcase contained the Browning Compact 9mm, fully loaded and with two spare magazines. There was a small medical kit, which would not help them one iota against the venom of the water moccasin; a set of lock-picking tools; some assorted lengths of wire which could be used for several purposes; a vicious tool which could be used as a nine-inch lethal knife or be transformed into a hacksaw, file, or jimmy. This was the ultimate answer to its smaller, versatile brother, the Swiss Army knife.

Last of all, neatly packed in wax paper, were a dozen strips of plastique, each the size of a stick of chewing gum. Well away from these were detonators and fuses. She told Harper about the explosives, keeping the gun and other items to herself.

She also stressed the danger of the marshland, and rated their chances at less than fifty-fifty, particularly when he admitted that he was only a moderate swimmer, a fact which meant she would have to slow to his swimming pace once they actually made it to the sea.

"I'm going to set up three pretty large charges from the plastique. Two sticks to each charge can produce quite an unpleasant bang," she murmured between pleasant kisses. She told him there were three electronic fuses that he could set to delays of between two and ten seconds. "The first one will be two seconds, the second four, and the last eight."

The operation would be simple and straightforward, but required meticulous timing and a cool concentration. "Once we're out, on the other side of the window, we stand still until our eyes have adjusted to the night. I'll nudge you and we run straight to the marshes." She said he must keep in step with her, counting the number of paces. "Leave the plastique bombs to me," she said. "I'll have to throw them on the run --- the longest fuse first, then the middle, and the shortest last. That way we should --- if I can throw accurately, get a simultaneous explosion. If I've judged it properly, the explosives should cut a path through the marsh. Nothing will live in the blast area, and any snakes within a few feet on either side should be stunned. They will certainly be frightened, but remember they are very belligerent."

She'd been afraid that he'd object to her taking the lead; that he'd want to be the macho man rescuing the damsel in distress. However he'd readily conceded that she had the field experience for this kind of work. The fact that she had plastique while he had nothing helped. "Now, if that marsh was filled with shady tax shelters instead of water moccasins..." he'd told her.

"We go like bats out of hell straight through the swathe I hope to cut in the marsh. With good aim, and better luck, we'll get to the other side, down the beach, and into the sea. But we do have to go straight and fast. I give us less than thirty seconds to go through the blast path. If I'm wrong, and if one snake on that path, or even near it, doesn't get blown away, then we're in for it. One of us could get bitten. If that happens, whichever one is left has to press on. If we make the water, we swim to the right --- I reckon we're placed nearer to the right-hand extremity of the plantation than the left. We'll have to keep going out a long way, because I suspect that, should we make it that far, Scorpio will have a lot of firepower laid down to left and right of his property."

"You really mean that if you get badly bitten, Teri, I have to leave you?"

"To stay means death."

After a long pause, he held her very close. "I don't know if I'd want to live without you now, darling Teri."

"Come on, Henry, nobody's that important, and there're more people than the two of us to consider. Scorpio must be stopped. Stopped now. So if I go down, you go on. Understand?"

It was then that he asked her what she really thought of their chances. There was little point in lying. She could only be honest with him. "Tell me if you want to back out, Henry," she said. "I give us less than fifty-fifty on getting through the marshes. About fifty-fifty if we make the water."

"I suppose that's better than our chances if we stay here."

She told him that if he survived, and she did not, he must get to the nearest telephone and call the police. "If I buy the farm in the marsh, you've got to make it." She did not add that if she was lucky --- or, better still, if they both made it, she would take a very different course. It would not be the local police she called, but a number she knew would react at great speed. Her mind went back to the aircraft that afternoon. It still preyed on her mind. Were they, even at this minute, preparing to knock on Scorpio's door --- with shotguns and tear gas? Well, if she could get them in quickly, the Meek Ones would be contained. In many ways she wished it was possible for her to go, a thief in the night, to the dining room and look at the map, taking down all the details from the winking lights. That would have to be left until later.

She made Harper go over the moves several times, and at dusk they both stood by the window looking at the ground they would traverse.

During the day, smirking bodyguards had brought food and taken away the dirty dishes. So, before dinner Tyreen locked herself in the bathroom, ran a bath --- not that it made any difference these days, for sound-stealing equipment will filter out all extraneous noise --- opened the undetectable section of the case, and began to make up the three plastique bombs. She took her time, checked and rechecked the electronic fuses, then put each of them in a separate place --- one in the secret compartment; one in the briefcase itself, and one in the bathroom cabinet. She knew exactly which fuse was set to each deadly and pliable little ball of plastique. She left the other items locked away, and made the only other preparation, that of adapting a shower cap --- the bathroom was well stocked with items that bore the labels of some of the best hotels in the world. Scorpio was obviously a thrifty villain. When she had finished with the cap, using a length of wire, she had a perfectly good waterproof holster into which she could slip the Browning pistol before going into the sea.

Over dinner --- a chicken gumbo, beef Wellington, and raspberry torte --- she could see that Harper was becoming tense. Fear of the unknown, which could be death, began to show in his eyes and the way in which he paced the room.

The food was cleared away, and they each bathed before going to bed. She had chosen four-thirty in the morning as the jump-off time, and once in bed, she felt Harper shivering with the fear and anticipation.

"You can still call it off," she whispered. "I can always try and blast us out through the house itself, but they're both dangerous ways, and I truly believe that we're going by the less deadly route. The snakes'll be dazed and we can get through the marsh in seconds. I don't believe they'll follow us, either. But, if we try to go through the house, Scorpio's men'll just gun us down. They have mobility and they know the interior better than we do."

"Don't worry, Teri." He snuggled close to her. "I'm coming, and I won't let you down. Just love me now, my darling Teri. That's the best tonic."

She had to agree.

Before midnight, Tyreen went to the bathroom and brought out the three bombs. She would carry all of them, stacked in throwing order, in her left hand. The Browning would be in her waistband --- to be transferred to the converted shower cap already attached to her belt --- the knife and other odds and ends were distributed around her pockets.

She went back to bed, but could not sleep. Neither could Harper, so they made love once more, then rested in each others' arms until it was time to get ready.

Because of the microphones, they had worked out a routine for dressing in almost total silence, and, by four-twenty-five they stood by the window, Tyreen going through the moves one by one in her head. Outside, the floodlights had been turned off, and at exactly four-thirty she nodded. Harper reached out, giving her one last kiss and hug. She held him close for a second, then slid back the door.

Harper reached out in the half-light, feeling her back before grabbing hold of her belt. They took about two paces forward, then she felt herself collide painfully with something that felt like a brick wall.

Everything around them went black, then they were flooded with light and surrounded by images of themselves.

In the fraction of a second during which it happened, she realized how the trap worked. Looking from the window was only an illusion. Looking from the outside, you were caught in a large box --- as big as a normal-sized bathroom --- made entirely of glass, the edges curved so that from the inside of the room the illusion was complete. Once you passed into the box, the sliding door automatically closed behind you and a powerful light came on from above. The disorienting images of themselves were caused by the glass being treated so that once the huge lights above them came on, the walls turned into near-perfect mirrors.

So this was what Scorpio had meant by adding some refinements of his own.

Harper began to scream, pointing and trying to scrabble his way through the glass itself.

At ground level, hard against what they had imagined was the exterior of the guestrooms, long grilles had opened up. From the grilles, pushed forward by some unseen device, came large, crawling scorpions --- big arachnids, angry and frightened by the harsh light.

They came in droves, not tens or twenties, but, it seemed, in hundreds, until their progress appeared infinite. Some seemed to be dropping from the top of this glass prison, while others tried to climb up the glass. Some killed one another, or themselves, but the march was relentless and Tyreen stood frozen in horror, with Harper screaming and clinging to her as though rooted to the spot, hypnotized by these horrible arachnids. Her flesh began to crawl like the scorpions themselves, and all she could register was the vast army marching from the bowels of the earth, and the fact that they all had their long tails back, the stings visible and ready to strike.

Harper's screaming was in his head also, conjoining his real terror with a silent agony, the cry that would not travel from her brain to her lips. It was the screaming in every sweating nightmare; every skin-burrowing dream; and all the worst horrors of fantasy when alien things came at you silently, deadly in shuffling droves, with pointed death and poison aimed at your heart.

She reached for the Browning, yelled, "Cover your face!" prayed that the glass was not shatterproof, and pulled the trigger three times --- top, middle, and bottom. This was not something you did not stop to think about --- locked into a glass box, with a hundred or so scorpions doubling and trebling with every second. She yelled, "Come on! Pull yourself together! Stick to the plan! Count the paces and move!"

The glass had blown away, letting in the chill of dawn and fresh air --- leaving a jagged opening through which they could pass. Tyreen felt a slight pain as the end of a shard ripped at her shoulder, tearing through jacket and shirt. Henry Harper was still beside her, taking a deep breath and still clinging to her belt.

"Now, go!" They started to trot gently toward the marshes, eighteen, nineteen, twenty paces. Tyreen's right hand reached for the first bomb, her arm came up, and she pushed on the detonator, then hurling it straight ahead. They covered another two paces before the second bomb went; and two more for the third, which had hardly landed before the first --- furthest --- plastique exploded with a heavy crack and a bloom of fire.

The other pair went off almost simultaneously, and they quickened their pace. The little bombs had been well placed, ripping a trench through the marsh. In the half-light they could see the way through the charred and burned reeds.

"Faster, Henry! Faster!" And they were skittering through the trench, running hard for their lives, feet splashing and sinking, slipping in the sandy water.

As they came to the beach, beyond, Tyreen heard Harper cry out and something moving faster through the reeds to their left. She raised the Browning and put two rounds in the direction of the movement.

Then Harper cried out again. "Teri! Oh, my God, Teri!" She felt him tug heavily at her belt, but they were on the beach now and there was no stopping. She thrust the pistol into its watertight bag that hung, sporran-like, from her belt, and used the other hand to pull Harper along. His legs still moved but became more sluggish at each step. Tugging hard, she all but hoisted him to her shoulder.

Almost at the water's edge now, and tiny pebbles suddenly seemed to hit the sand in front of them; then, from what seemed a long way behind, there came the thump --- a shotgun trying to put down a cone of fire around them, but too far away to be effective.

Surf washed around her ankles, and she was quickly knee-deep in the anxiously moving ocean. She plunged, and found that she had to drag Harper with her.

"Swim, Henry. Damn you, man, swim!"

He was a dead weight, making little moaning noises that she put down to the considerable exertion they had both made in getting to the sea.

She heaved him, getting hold of a handful of the dark rollneck he had put on with his jeans. Like her, he wore no shoes. Together they had decided going barefoot would give them more chance during the long run to the sea.

She turned on her back, pulled the limp man face up, holding him under the armpits so that the back of his head lay on her breast. She then started to kick with every ounce of her Arion strength, plowing through the water, sending up a plume of spray like a skiff being sculled fast. All the way, she talked, telling Henry they would make it together, unaware of the fact that he was becoming heavier in her arms.

The sea now started to move, the water taking on a light chop which, as she kicked, occasionally took her head underwater. Once, as she came through a small wave, spluttering and spitting the salty foam from her mouth, she was conscious of gunfire, far off from the area of the beach and house.

Five minutes later there was the sound of a whirring motor and she thought, Hell, Scorpio has a boat coming after us. She kicked harder, going under again, tilting her body to the right. In a minute she would have to stop and get her bearings.

She went under again, came up, and shouted at Harper, "Keep going! They won't get us! Just keep going!"

This time there was a reply, but shouted from behind his head. "Teri, we're here, you're okay. Just tread water." It was a voice she dimly recognized, and she swiveled in the water, treading hard and holding Harper's head well clear.

A large, motorized inflatable was bobbing close to them. In the bow she could see a figure squatting, a light machine gun balanced on the prow. There was another figure crouched behind him, and at the stern the man shouting, "Teri, stay there! We'll pick you up."

The inflatable maneuvered closer, and Donald Wollenstein --- the CIA's London resident --- held out a hand. "Jesus Christ, Teri, what were you trying to do? Get us all killed?"

"What... what?" Tyreen spat out more water. Her limbs sagged and she heard herself tell them to take Harper first. Then, for a while, the fatigue closed in, and she knew nothing but a cold darkness.

It could have lasted for only a few seconds. When the lights came on again she was lying in the bottom of the inflatable, shivering, wrapped in a blanket. Wollenstein leaned over, and she felt the burning of raw spirits as the CIA man dribbled brandy into her mouth.

"What happened?" She tried to raise herself up, but Wollenstein gently pushed her back. For a second all her fears returned. She had not trusted Wollenstein, especially when she had spotted the man on the Piedmont flight.

"Shush, Teri. Keep warm and calm. If you'd stayed put in the house we'd have gotten to you."

"You'd have what?"

"We mounted an op against Scorpio yesterday."

The sea, wind, and outboard motor were noisy, and she strained upward, trying to lift herself in order to hear what he was saying. "You did what?" she asked, coughing, clearing her throat, and taking in gulps of air.

"When you disappeared into Three Pines with the SAS guy, we did a reconnaissance and asked a few questions. Then we talked to C and some of his people --- three of them are with our boys here."

Oh, God, she thought. She remembered questioning the wisdom of waiting, possibly for just one more day.

There had been two further atrocities in England, Wollenstein told her. "It was decided we couldn't wait any longer. So we laid on a joint operation. Us, FBI, and your guys. Dawn. We went in at just about the time you crashed out of that glass contraption. It's quiet in the house now, so I guess we can move back in. We were standing off in this thing just in case any of them made a run for it to the sea. They've got a damned great wooden pier for use when the tide's in. Juts out from the far end of the house. That's where we're heading now."

Tyreen began to laugh. "Donald. Jee-ru-sa-lem, Donald. We risked our lives to get out." She raised her voice. "Henry, we risked our lives for nothing. They were coming in to get us. Henry?" There was no reply. She struggled up onto one elbow. "Henry?"

Wollenstein put a hand on her shoulder. "Sorry, Teri." He moved, and she could see the contours of Harper lying in the bottom of the inflatable, a blanket thrown over him.

"Henry?" she said again, her voice unsteady.

"Teri, it's no good." Wollenstein leaned back and pulled the blanket away from Harper's feet. One leg of his jeans was rucked up to display four horrific marks; a quartet of deep bites where water moccasins had sunk their fangs into the soft flesh of his calf. The blood around the bites was black and congealed, while the leg itself was misshapen, massively swollen. The flesh had turned to a dark blue, the edges black, like the blood around the wounds.

"No!" Tyreen shouted. "For heaven's sake, no! He can't..."

Wollenstein took her by the shoulders. "Teri, he was already dead when we got him into the boat."

She may not truly have loved him, but she did really care for him. "No!"

Tyreen lay back against the bouncing rubber, looking up at the sky. It's your own fault, she thought. One day more and you'd both be alive. The horrible irony circled around her head, then seemed to come together in a lump, which stuck deep within her as her subconscious pushed truth to the back of her mind. She struggled up, and reached inside the makeshift waterproof holster for the Browning Compact. "Let me get Scorpio." Her eyes seemed dead as she looked into Wollenstein's face. "Let me be the one."

"We've got to try and take him alive, Teri. We're coming into the pier now."

She pulled herself into a kneeling position and crawled forward, dragging the blanket from Harper's face. His hair was plastered against his scalp, but his face was in repose. She might have imagined it, but he seemed to turn his head for a second and, on the sea breeze, she heard him say, "Goodbye, darling Teri. I loved you."

Leaning forward, she kissed his cheek and said aloud, "Damn it, Henry! Why?"

She then asked herself the same question. If only she had used her Arion strength to carry him instead of having him run behind her, he might still be alive. But she had wanted her hands free. And look what that had gotten her...

She covered his face and looked up, her eyes raging fire. "See that he's taken care of," she ordered. "Don't mess him about. When we've tied all this up, I want to see he gets a proper funeral. But I'm now going to give friend Scorpio an improper funeral."

The inflatable bumped against the pier, which she had never seen and did not know existed. Would things have been different if she had known? Would they have waited? Gone a different way? Who could tell now?

She jogged up the pier with Donald Wollenstein at her side. Goldy Goldman stood in the doorway at the far end. "They've got everyone contained." He looked at Tyreen. "You okay, boss lady?"

"I'm fine," she replied sharply. "Where's Scorpio? And that turncoat wife of his?"

Goldman shook his head. "She was never his wife. She's singing her heart out to a couple of FBI chaps at this moment. Trilby was for the chop from the start, it appears."

"Scorpio?" Tyreen shouted.

"Still trying to track him down, boss lady. He hasn't got out, that's for sure. We've got his sidekicks, the bloody bodyguards; and the Meek Ones are all locked in what they called the Prayer Hall. There're people taking statements from them now."

They followed Goldman along a corridor and into the main hallway, then through to Scorpio's study. Several armed men were in the hall, and Tyreen spotted a colleague from London, going through the books on the shelves.

"Mac, how nice to see you." He grinned, his eyes going first the damp hair slicked back from her face then to the wet shirt plastered to her chest. Then he was back to business. "You don't happen to know where Father Valentine kept his records, do you?"

"You not found them yet?" Her voice rose angrily. "Good grief, man. The whole terrorist plot's laid out for you in detail. Look." She took a pace forward, located the imitation copy of War and Peace and pulled. The section of bookcase came away, leaving the door to the dining room in full view.

She gave the door a push and walked past her colleague, who was looking up at the bookcase, muttering, "Well, good old Tolstoy." Goldman came trotting at her heels.

Her third step took her into the room, and face to face with Vladimir Scorpio, who was in the process of pulling down the big map of the British Isles. In the second before either one took action, she saw that he had a large book open on the zinc bar.

"I hope you haven't done anything to harm that nice map, Vladi," she said. Her mouth barely moved, and her eyes took in the map, still intact and only just beginning to slide down to replace the appalling prints. "Good. We need that. Now, Scorpio, if you'd put both hands on your head..."

Her thought processes seemed to slow and warp what next occurred. She was hardly aware of what happened, yet she saw it all with the clarity of a camera lens. Scorpio began to move, then turned. The gun in his hand looked like a toy, and seemed to come up very slowly.

The shot was like a missile going off in a room, and Scorpio appeared to be enveloped in smoke. There was a thud as the first bullet hit the paneling --- copied from London's Connaught Hotel --- to Tyreen's right. Scorpio had fired and missed, she reasoned. Then Tyreen, suddenly freed from this strange sense of torpor, fired from the hip. She saw Scorpio's gun leap from his hand as her bullet grazed the man's wrist.

"Leave him! He's mine!" she shouted, and heard Wollenstein call, "Teri! Alive, Teri! Get him alive!"

By this time Scorpio had leaped for the door --- the same door through which Trilby Shepperton, posing as Scorpio's wife, had come only such a short time ago.

Tyreen lunged and smashed the half-closed door open, so hard that it was ripped from its hinges. She was in a long passage, and Scorpio ran fast, far away now, almost at the end, where the passage turned.

Before she could go in pursuit there was motion to her left, and she barely had time to recognize the man she had named Bodyguard Bob before he sprang at her.

She ducked under his charge. The Browning Compact still in her right hand, she reached up with her left and grasped one of Bob's wrists. The big man went flying over her head, howling in surprise and pain. As she kept her grip on his wrist, there was the crack of bones breaking just before the louder thud of his body hitting the floor.

Obviously Goldy hadn't gotten all of Scorpio's bodyguards, for another of the gray-clad men was standing behind where Bob had been. He had a pistol in his hands, in the standard two-handed grip, trying to draw a bead on her without risking hitting Bob.

Tyreen had neither the time nor the inclination to be subtle. Unfortunately, her gun hand was pinned under Bob's arm. There was only one thing she could do. Pushing off with her right leg, she swung her left arm again.

For the second time in that minute, Bob's body flew through the air over her head. Unlike the first time he didn't howl in pain, the impact against the floor having knocked him unconscious --- or worse, Tyreen didn't care. Also unlike the first time, she released her grasp on his wrist before completing her swing.

Limbs flailing uncontrolled, Bob sailed through the air to slam into his partner. The weight of Bob's body sent the other man against the wall. Both bodies slid down the wall to fall on the floor in a tangle of limbs, the second man's gun skittering across the corridor.

"Take care of them," she called to Goldman, returning her attention to Scorpio, who had almost reached the turning at the far end of the corridor.

She took aim, low, and fired twice, but he kept going without even looking back. Taking a deep breath, she followed, her feet thumping on the bare wood. She turned the corner and he was still in sight, well ahead.

Down one passage. Up steps. Into another uncarpeted corridor, Tyreen gaining slightly. She skidded around the next turn and, with almost a thrill of pleasure, realized where he was heading. She fired low again, meaning to miss, for there was a more fitting reward waiting for the Guru of the Meek Ones, the one-time arms dealer who had become contractor for terror in any shape or form. It was best this way. Scorpio would die, and die in the prescribed manner of Tyreen Mackenzie's personal law.

Her long Arion legs were gaining on the Terran now, and she saw the fire doors ahead. In a moment they would be in the wing that housed the guest apartments. She caught up with him just inside the fire doors, where the bare wood changed to deep pile carpet.

He was struggling with the door that had once led into her bedroom, now closed off from the suite she had shared with Harper. She brought the man down with a flying tackle that jarred her own body and set her shoulder throbbing. For a moment she remembered having cut it on the spikes of glass surrounding the scorpion trap. If Scorpio was heading for her old room, it probably meant there was no trap on the other side of that window. Father Valentine Vladimir Scorpio had some wild plan of escape.

She was on top of him now, with the Browning almost screwed into his ear. Her hand wrenched at his left wrist, female Arion strength easily heaving the male Terran's arm up behind him, holding it high against his shoulder blades.

"Up!" she commanded, stepping back and lifting the man to his feet, dropping the gun from her captive's ear and holding it down, well behind her own thigh, remembering all she had ever learned about the proximity of captive and gun. "Now, get that door open!"

He began to whimper, the fight ebbing from him, hope drifting away like a rescue raft just out of reach.

"Open the damned door or I'll blow you away piece by piece." She used her Arion strength to bodily shove the man against the door.

The hand trembled with the key. You could smell the fear coming from his sweat,

"Right. Now open it."

Slowly he obeyed, and she pushed him into the room. It was then he began to blubber out his last chance. "Money, Ms. Mackenzie. I can make you a rich woman. Let me get away! Come with me! I'll give you half of what I have. Half, Mackenzie. Millions. Just let's get away."

"And how do you propose to do that?"

"Please. If we're going it must be fast. The others'll be close behind."

"Tell me first."

Scorpio dripped with the sweat of fear, his body trembling, the words falling over each other as he tried to speak. "This window... there's no trap here... If you get outside, there's a metal cover... like a manhole cover... it leads to the basement and a set of tunnels... you can get right out of the plantation from there... goes under..."

"So you don't have to risk life in the marsh?"

He nodded violently, shaking with the terror that had come upon him.

"Right." She dropped her voice. "We'll go out of the window. Now."

He gave a massive sigh of relief. "Come with me. I'll see you get the money. You'll live a life of luxury, Mackenzie. I promise you'll never regret it."

"I'm sure I won't."

Still holding Scorpio by the arm, rammed high up between the shoulder blades, she forced the man toward the window, which slid back easily.

Seconds later they were outside, the sun already rising and warm.

"There! There-there! There!" Scorpio pointed, his hand shaking, down toward the square metal manhole cover.

"Good." Tyreen put almost as much of her considerable Arion strength into the push as she had used in throwing Bodyguard Bob, hurling Scorpio away from her, out toward the sand.

He scrabbled in the dirt, on all fours, trying to crawl back, so she put a shot directly in front of him, the round kicking up a long spurt of dust.

"But... but!" Scorpio blurted.

"But me no buts," Tyreen snarled. "The next one'll go through your hand."

"But you said... You said..."

"I said, 'Good.' Good was what I said. Move! Stand up!"

He hesitated a shade too long, so he got the promised bullet, which smashed into his hand. He looked shocked, holding the broken, bloody paw lamely up in front of his face, not believing either what he saw or felt.

"Turn and start walking!"

"Where? What? No!"

The next bullet clipped his arm, creasing it, stinging and burning into the flesh.

"Move, Scorpio! Move! Straight for the sea."

"No! No! No!"

"Yes," said Tyreen, clipped and commanding. "Yes! Yes! And yes! Move!" She fired again, aware that she had only a couple of rounds left. The last bullet nicked his foot.

He began to scream as she took careful aim again, speaking softly now, "Run! Run for the sea! Run like I ran! Run like Henry ran!"

Blubbering with terror, he loped away, halting and looking back, one hand dripping blood as he went. Stopping again, to turn and whimper like a dog.

She put one last bullet past his head, and, at last, seeing all hope was gone, Vladimir Scorpio plunged into the marsh.

He staggered two steps before the first moccasin hit him. Tyreen saw the creature rise at great speed out of the water and latch onto Scorpio's leg. Then another and another.

Across the sand came Scorpio's final sound, a great screeching, "NOOOooooo!" Then he threw up his hands and fell forward. There was a sudden, horrible movement around the hump that was his body. A dozen or so fully grown water moccasins writhed and struck at the man who had been a hidden terror to so many.

Behind Tyreen, the door of the room was forced open. Goldman and Wollenstein came blundering in. "Teri, for God's sake..." Wollenstein joined her and saw the moving, wriggling, and squirming mass out in the marsh.

Tyreen shrugged. "I couldn't do anything. I tried to wing him. Got him in the hand, arm, and foot, but he wouldn't stop. I suspect he wanted it that way." She smiled. At least Henry was avenged.

She turned to the two men. "Hadn't we better get moving? There's a lot to do. Still a lot to find out. The credit card scam. Contact London about picking up all those human bombs, now we know where they are. And, not least, who in hell's name was Scorpio's man in London? You, Goldy?"

Goldman shook his head slowly. "Don't be silly. No, not me, boss lady. But I think we'll figure it before the day's out. Personally I thought the bugger'd have me blown away after I brought you here."

"You then, Donald? I always rated you, but I suppose if you were involved with the final taking of Three Pines..."

Wollenstein shook his head. "Just take my word for it, Tyreen. No. There's something more immediate," he said. "They're sending signals back to London about the Meek Ones with death-tasks. But there's something else. Something that requires speed and tact. Come and see for yourself. We think friend Scorpio has left us a legacy. A deadly legacy, and time's running out."

They led Tyreen back along the corridors, pausing by an open door to what had obviously been Scorpio's master bedroom, which --- Tyreen commented --- appeared to have been decorated in what she called "The Prisoner of Zenda period." There, they searched among cupboard full of clothes --- certainly not all of which had been acquired for Scorpio; for from among Trilby Shepperton's things they found underwear, socks, blouse, and slacks that fitted Tyreen reasonably well. Goldman had gone back to the guestrooms to collect her soft shoes.

She was allowed to take a quick shower and change before they moved on. Back in Scorpio's amazingly bad-taste dining room they had plugged in scramblers.

One of Wollenstein's people was having an agitated conversation with someone in Washington --- she heard the President mentioned several times. At the other scrambler, one of her colleagues was steadily talking, reading from a long list and the book she had seen earlier lying on the zinc bar.

Peering over his shoulder, she saw that the officer was quietly giving London dates, times, targets, names, and --- where possible --- last known address of Meek Ones involved in the death-tasks. There was a separate list containing around a hundred names. This last was headed Avante Carte.

"We'll have to give it a minute until Charlie's finished talking to Washington," Wollenstein told her.

"The Avante Carte business?" she asked. "I gathered from Scorpio that it was more than just a phony slush fund threat."

"Happily, your own people had already got their eyes on that one. It seems they could do more with it than just push money around different accounts. There was a microchip in that thing which gave them access to the Stock Market. Would've thrown everyone into a panic. The world's markets would have reacted. The Avante Carte could actually buy and sell stock. Your people figure the idea was to cause a massive run on sterling in the middle of the election campaign." Now that they had the names and addresses of cardholders, the police would be hard at tracking down every card in Britain. "I think they'll contain that one." Wollenstein shrugged. "I have a more immediate worry on my hands. Just hang on until Charlie gets Washington's reaction."

Tyreen nodded, wandering through into the bare, book-lined study. Goldman came with her. "Why d'you think Scorpio really put my life at risk earlier on, Goldy? The car business? Hereford?"

"I really think that was an accident, boss lady. Thought they were being bloody clever by keeping you under surveillance. Making certain you were the one assigned to the job. Didn't imagine they'd get rumbled." He looked a little shamefaced. "I'm sorry. I should've known better than to get involved. It was only because of Rachel, and I had no idea..." He floundered for words. "No idea it'd end up like this. People getting blown away by human bombs. The whole business stinks. It was bad enough a couple of years ago when that guy put his girlfriend on a commercial jet loaded to the gills with explosives, but these people were really made to believe they were serving future generations by decimating themselves together with innocent folk."

"Not your fault, Goldy. Any man would have done the same if his son or daughter was mixed up in it."

Goldman was silent for a minute, shuffling his feet. "Really should've reported it to someone, though. Think I'll go down to the Prayer Hall. Find Rachel and have a word."

"You do that." She nodded, aware of two other people, seated at Scorpio's desk. One was another colleague from London --- John Parks, short, ebullient, and a good "creative" interrogator. He sat opposite a red-eyed, nervous Trilby Shepperton.

"He said he'd have me thrown into the swamp alive if I didn't go along with him," Trilby was saying. "Truly, when I realized what was happening --- the death task business and all that --- I got out, or tried to, just like poor Emily Dupré. Only I can't remember much about it. Scorpio had already filled me with dope. I'd an idea that he was planning to use me on a particularly sensitive target --- even though I was not married, and hadn't given birth. That was the only true way of getting a death-name and a death-task." She looked up, saw Tyreen, and said, "You believe me, Ms. Mackenzie, don't you? I could never have married that... that... living Satan."

"I believe you, Trilby." She gave her a steady warning look. "I didn't really fall for it when Vladi brought you in to that odd little dinner party. Nothing rang true. But had have to convince this gentleman." She turned to Parks. "Sorry, John. Your job. I shouldn't stick my oar in."

"Right," the interrogator agreed, icing Tyreen out.

"Mac?" Wollenstein was beckoning from the dining room door. The CIA man called Charlie stood behind him. They both looked as though they had received bad news.

"Proof that the world is to end today?" Tyreen asked, trying to lighten the atmosphere.

"Just about." Wollenstein sounded as though his nerves were stretched like piano wire. "Here's your first clue." He threw down a copy of The New York Times, front page up. The headline was in bold type and shouted:

"Oh, sweet Jesus," Tyreen muttered under her breath. Then she told them what Scorpio had said when she had commented on the Prime Minister not being on the death list. "He told me he had special plans for the PM." Her stomach turned over as she realized what Scorpio had actually said. "The words he used were, 'Oh, no, Tyreen Mackenzie. The Prime Minister is not forgotten. Certainly not. But I have a very special fate for the Prime Minister that does not show on this map.' " She inclined her head toward the map on the wall of the British Isles, which was twinkling away with all its lights winking. One of her colleagues was rechecking the targets shown by the pinpoints of light, making sure nothing had been left to chance. "Later," Tyreen continued, "Scorpio stopped himself from elaborating. I would say you're right. The Prime Minister and the President, both!"

"Bet your ass we're right," Wollenstein said through his teeth. "There are indications here, in this place, that a similar campaign --- against this country --- was in the early stages of planning."

"Then there are no doubts. There's death-task running against the PM during this visit. What's the schedule?"

"At the moment the schedule doesn't matter much." Charlie, Wollenstein's man, sounded as disenchanted as a priest who has lost his faith.

"Why? Of course the schedule matters. This could be set for the Prime Minister and your President --- both of them. Two great world leaders in one blow!"

"Exactly how we see it." Wollenstein looked ready to spit violently. "Unhappily, it's not the way our Secret Service --- who, as you know, are the VIP bodyguard service --- sees it. Nor is it the way your Prime Minister looks at it either."

"What?" Genuine disbelief from Tyreen.

Wollenstein gave one of his characteristic shrugs. "The Secret Service says they are the best bodyguard unit in the world." He raised his eyes toward the ceiling. "Even though you can pick them out a mile away by their little unobtrusive lapel pins, the dark shades, walkie-talkies that crackle from hidden holsters, or the fact that some of them wear long raincoats when it's a hundred and ten in the shade." He put on a mock-tough face. 'It's okay, Mr. President. By the time we go out that door we'll own the goddamned street.' I actually heard one of them say that."

"You have pointed out the real danger, I presume?" Tyreen's voice remained full of shock and disbelief. "If there's a death-task out on the PM and possibly the President as well, then there's little they can do about it."

"I've told them every way I could." Charlie imitated Wollenstein's shrug. "It appears that your Prime Minister is also oblivious to the true danger. Apparently the PM's got extra Special Branch people in tow, and the Secret Service says nobody's going to get within fifteen or twenty yards of either of them."

"Twenty yards!" Tyreen gave a gesture of despair, clenching her fists and shaking them at shoulder level. "Twenty yards could just as well be twenty inches."

"We know that, Teri. So I've got a call in to Chief of Security at the White House. He's an old buddy and I might at least get him to listen. Maybe he'll even let us go up there and lend a hand."

Behind them the telephone buzzed, and one of the spare FBI men answered, then called to Wollenstein. "That'll be him now."

Almost at the moment the CIA man turned to walk to the telephone, so Goldman reappeared through the door to Scorpio's office. His face was the shade of old parchment, his eyes wide with concern.

"Goldy..." Tyreen began.

"She's gone," Goldman said, stopping and looking around him as though in a daze. "Gone. Not here --- and that wimp of a husband's just kneeling there in a kind of trance."

Tyreen shook him gently by the shoulder. "Do we know when she left?"

"I talked to the people going through the records and information being offered by Scorpio's disciples down there. Boss lady? Boss, I don't like it." He sounded like a child frightened by some TV fairy tale. "They say she went yesterday and that Rudolf --- that's my bloody son-in-law's name. Rudolf, like the reindeer. Rudolf. I ask you, boss lady, who give a boy the name Rudolf?"

"You were going to tell us what they're saying about Rudolf."

Goldman looked down at his shoes. "Yes. Well, they say he's behaving like the husband of someone who's left to carry out a death-task. Scorpio apparently taught them this way of self-hypnosis. They kneel perfectly still until the business is over. It's like they're willing their partner to succeed."

Tyreen stayed as calm as possible. "Goldy, it might be too late for Rachel. But would you do us one favor..."

"Anything." He didn't raise his face.

"Get back down there. Try to talk with their experts. Their explosives people --- or the kids who've been trained in the business. I want details of how they make the bombs, what detonates them, what safety factors they have. The lot, okay?"

"Done, boss lady." He finally looked up. "They're weeding the wheat from the chaff in the Prayer Hall. Those who have death-names for the future. Everything."

"Get the full SP on it, Goldy."

As he turned around, she went over to where Wollenstein was still talking, grabbed a pen and paper from the desk, and scribbled, We know who the bomb is. It's a girl. Tell him we have a man here who can finger her.

Wollenstein went on talking, picked up the paper while he spoke, read it, nodded to Tyreen, and said into the telephone, "Walter, listen. We've got some positive proof here. It's going to happen. This Meek Ones business in England, right? You're definitely going to get it in Washington today. We now know who it is, and there's a fella here who can make the ID." He listened, the silence punctuated with, "Yes... Okay... Good. Okay, you call me back when it's fixed." He put down the telephone and turned to Tyreen. "Well?" he asked.

She gave him a very brief résumé of the part Goldman had played in the whole business, ending with the latest information about this daughter Rachel. "I've got him working on how they operate the bombs now."

"Well, my friend seems to have bought the idea. You sure about this girl?"

"About a hundred and fifty percent sure."

"They're going to do what they call a manual override on the Secret Service. He's calling me back when it's all arranged, but it looks like we're going to be allowed a minimal armed response --- three at the most. They're arranging for a military jet to go into Savannah to pick us up --- that's forty-five minutes by car from here. The jet'll take us into Andrews Air Force Base. Your Prime Minister arrives there at noon."

Tyreen automatically looked at her stainless steel watch. It was only eight-thirty. She could really use a good strong drink, but she settled by asking if she could have some coffee. Black. She did not insist on --- even inquire about --- the brand. Some FBI gofer scurried away to get it. She then asked for a cigarette.

One of the FBI men offered her a pack. She'd never liked American cigarettes, laced with who knew what in order to keep them burning. In her current state, however, she probably could have smoked a rolled-up newspaper. Gratefully taking a cigarette from the pack, she held it to her lips as the man flicked a lighter.

Wollenstein continued. "There's a military honor guard at Andrews and a helicopter to take the PM and party right onto the helipad at the White House." He glanced down at the notes he had taken. "No problems thus far. No press at Andrews except the long-range TV people --- and I do mean long range. There'll be three helicopters --- Number One, the Presidential, for the Prime Minister and some of the party; Numbers Two and Three for Secret Service and three of us. ETA at White House 12:55. President greets Prime Minister. Six TV crews as usual. No other press. The expected length of lunch and the meeting is three hours. There's a general press photocall, to last for ten --- they're saying strictly ten --- minutes, at two o'clock in the Rose Garden. That's to let all the newspapers get good pictures for late evening and tomorrow's editions." He turned the page. "The Prime Minister's expected to leave, from the helipad, at between five and six. Straight to Andrews. Up, up, and away, back to election problems. Your press is screaming that the PM's making election capital out of the meeting. The Prime Minister has frostily announced that the meeting was planned long before an election was called, and you know the PM. When something like a tête-à-tête with the Prez is on the menu, not even a General Election is allowed to get in the way."

Exhaling a cloud of smoke, Tyreen looked over Wollenstein's shoulder, turning the page back and pointing. "That seems to be the most dangerous time." Her slender finger rested on the photocall arranged for two o'clock.

He nodded his assent as Goldman came back into the room.

"Well?" Tyreen asked the SAS man.

"Not really." Goldman now looked haggard. "I have the details, though."

"Go on."

"They've been using this stuff that's damned difficult to detect. The dogs haven't latched on to it yet, and it'll go through security screens with no problem." He paused, wiping his brow. "If you want to see how they go about it, there's a complete do-it-yourself destruction outfit in the cellars, together with pounds and pounds of the explosive. It's pushed into a sort of large waistcoat, layer upon layer of the stuff, with a master detonator set into the back. The trigger is in a button, sort of mid-chest at the front. That's operated manually, and can be done very quickly, but Scorpio thought of everything. You have to turn the damn thing and then give it a tug. You can't trigger it accidentally or by falling or bumping into someone. It has to be a deliberate action, and it must be pulled off. Even a bullet through it won't blow the detonator." He mimed, thrusting his hand into his jacket, turning the hand, and tugging hard. "That's what it takes."

"And that's what you think Rachel's carrying."

"That's what I know she's carrying."

Finishing off her cigarette, Tyreen told him what they had learned, and, during the telling, the telephone buzzed again. Wollenstein hurried to answer as the gofer returned with Tyreen's coffee.

As she drank, Wollenstein returned with the news that everything had been agreed, if reluctantly, with the Secret Service. "Three of us," he said. "Permission to carry one handgun each. We'll have to get ID at Savannah. The jet's leaving in the next half hour. We'll only just make it in time for the Prime Minister's arrival. So who's it to be?"

Tyreen looked hard at Goldman, then turned back to Wollenstein. "You, Donald; myself; and Goldy here. It's his daughter who's carrying the stuff. If things get really close, it'll be Goldy who'll have to take her out."

Wollenstein nodded sadly. "They've given us an operational crypto," he said. "Operation Last Enemy."

"Last Enemy?" she queried.

"Biblical, boss lady." Goldman sounded resigned to what lay ahead. "New Testament as well. 'The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death.' "

At Savannah they had their photographs taken in a private room set aside for official personnel. Within fifteen minutes each was provided with a laminated, clip-on ID, signifying that they were attached to White House security and should be allowed anywhere without question. There was also a rider saying they could carry weapons. The security officer, whom Tyreen Mackenzie suspected of being an Agency man, had traveled from Andrews Air Force Base in the little anonymous Learjet, and he issued all three with standard short-nosed Police Positives, which they carried in shoulder holsters. They signed for the weapons and the ammunition that came with them.

It was just before noon when that they landed at Andrews, and there was not even enough time for introductions before the Prime Minister's Royal Air Force VC10 touched down on 19Right, the longer of the two runways.

Tyreen scanned the whole scene from a jeep moving quietly behind the band and honor guard. The aircraft steps were moved into place, the red carpet rolled out, and the door opened to reveal the familiar figure of the Prime Minister, who was closely surrounded by Diplomatic Protection and SB people. The remainder of the secretaries and advisers stayed in the background as the PM stood to attention on the aircraft steps while the band played God Save the Queen, followed by The Star Spangled Banner. Only when this was over did the party start to come down the steps.

"At least they've got a large team of bodyguards for once," Tyreen muttered, holding on to the rollbar as the jeep followed the PM's party up toward the three SH-3Ds waiting for them. "Could hardly see the PM for the heavies."

They rode aboard the big helicopters in silence, jinking across country to the White House, all three helicopters setting down, one after the other --- disembarking their passengers then taking off for the next flight in --- on the White House helipad. The blossoms were out, and from the air the city looked spectacular --- the Washington Monument, the Reflecting Pool and Lincoln Memorial set like dramatic jewels in the, now, pink and white parkscape of the Mall. Not for the first time Tyreen thought how like Paris the city looked.

By the time the trio reached the ground, the Prime Minister had met with the President, and they had disappeared inside that relatively modest building at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

Wollenstein contacted the Chief of White House Security who was, not unnaturally, slightly suspicious of the arrangements. He had agreed to them, but --- as he said --- with great misgivings. "These days our security is the best in the world." He looked hard at the two Brits, Tyreen and Goldman.

"But we know what to look for in this situation," Tyreen said quietly. "I know you might not believe it, but I promise you an attempt is going to be made." She paused and then seemed to be taking overall control. "Now, when is the press corps going to be admitted?"

"The TV people are already here. The others will be arriving anytime between now and around one-forty-five."

"Which entrance?"

"They'll all have to show White House press passes."

"Don't worry. This person will have a press pass. You can bet on it."

"Then you must do what you think best." The Chief of Security gave them a sober look, as if to say he thought they were making too much fuss. "They all come in by the East Gate."

By mutual consent they decided that Wollenstein should stay up in the Rose Garden --- where they all now gathered to take a quick look at the TV crews --- while Tyreen and Goldman should go to the East Gate. There they would see every person with access to the photocall.

"If she goes through with it... if she really tries..." Tyreen began as they strolled toward the entrance with its own stone and glass booth where passes would be checked. "Will you..."

"Have I the guts to kill her?" Goldman asked.

"Well, have you?"

There was a long pause that took them right up to the gate. "I just don't know, boss lady. I've accepted that, bar a miracle, she'll have to die. If I can't do it, you'll know soon enough, and I'll never hold it against you."

They stood in silence, watching the men and women of the press corps arrive and make their way through the gate, each checked by the guards, who seemed to know most of them by name.

The clocks ticked on. One-thirty.

No sign of anyone who looked remotely like Rachel Goldman.

One-forty-five. Still nobody, and the initial flood of photographers had dwindled to a trickle.

At one-fifty a young man, dark-suited and hung with cameras, showed his pass and was cleared through. He was on the plump side. Three cameras were slung around his neck. Short, fair hair showed beneath a large-brimmed, flamboyant hat, and a drooping mustache that gave the impression that he regarded himself as something of a Bohemian."

"Takes all kinds," the security officer in the booth called to them. "That's all, folks, as they say in Looney Tunes. Nobody else gets in now."

"Maybe we were wrong." Tyreen did not sound convincing. She felt the tension coming from Goldman like an electric charge.

"Maybe." The SAS man looked as though he could droop with stress.

When they reached the Rose Garden, the gaggle of TV and press photographers were setting up their gear, ready for the main event.

They joined Wollenstein, shaking their heads. Then Goldman spoke. "She's here, somewhere. I know it. I can feel it."

"Would they cancel?" Tyreen asked.

"No way. Not now." Wollenstein took a deep breath. "I'll stay to the rear. Would you two like to spread yourselves, one at each end of the bunch? Watch the photographers, not the President and the PM."

Tyreen nodded and they walked away, Goldman to the far left, Tyreen taking up position on the right.

There was a buzz of excitement from the press, not known for being impressionable. All Tyreen could feel was this continued mounting tension, and her own heart like a drumbeat, ticking off the seconds to some dreadful disaster. She began to scan the jostling photographers. There was nobody who resembled Rachel as she had last seen her, at the wedding. A cloud, like a bleak, cold fog, seemed to roll over her mind.

She glanced across at Goldman, whose eyes did not stop roving among the pressmen and women. Then the buzz became a hush as the President of the United States and First Lady escorted the Prime Minister of Great Britain out into the garden.

It was a cheerful arrival, with the President calling out quips to the members of the press he recognized and making ad lib remarks to the Prime Minister, who looked fit, well and happy, under no strain at all.

Tyreen dragged her eyes back to the photographers. Perhaps they had got it wrong after all. Was Rachel going to hit the PM alone --- even when the RAF aircraft arrive back at Heathrow? She looked toward the lineup again, the President and Prime Minister taking their places together, then turned her eyes back to the photographers, all worried about focus and position.

But this time she knew there was something wrong. In the seconds her eyes had been away from the group it had changed. She couldn't tell how, or why, at first. Then it became clear, fully focused in her own mind.

The young man with the Bohemian look had pushed through to the front, elbowing his way forward. There was something not quite right about him. Another second went by and Tyreen realized the newsman was not even bothering to handle the cameras around his neck. He wasn't taking pictures. He moved one pace forward, in front of the main crush of photographers, his hand starting to travel upward, going for the inside of the jacket.

"Goldy!" Tyreen yelled.

The dark-suited figure seemed to be on the verge of springing. Goldman had his pistol out, but he hesitated. Too long. Far too long, the SAS man stood there, undecided.

Tyreen acted without thought --- an automatic reflex, her gun coming up, two quick shots, followed by panic and screams.

The first bullet caught the young man in the arm, just as his hand was reaching inside the jacket. The hand was jerked away as the second bullet caught him full in the chest. He was lifted slightly and fell on his back, with Goldman running forward, his own pistol pointing, ready for a coup de grâce, should it be needed.

The wide-brimmed hat had been knocked form the young man's head, and with it the fair hair --- a wig. Rachel's own red hair seemed to spring from her head like a grotesque magician's trick. She twitched once, but Tyreen didn't see her. She had sensed something else.

Turning on the balls of her feet, she traversed the party of VIPs who had been flung into confusion, the Secret Service men and bodyguards falling in front of them to give added protection. All but one. A member of the PM's protection staff stepped free of the group. With horror, Tyreen saw who the man was, and in seeing him, everything fell into place.

Detective Chief Superintendent Boyer's automatic pistol was out and coming up to the firing position. His legs were apart, the stance perfect, but his eyes never left his real target. The weapon, an extension of his arms, came to bear low down, onto the Prime Minister.

Tyreen's swiveling turn was followed through. In that infinitesimal moment she saw everything, knew everything, was assured of how Scorpio had always been one step ahead. Boyer had been there. Unusual, because normally it would have been Head of Branch. But for the whole of this operation it was Boyer. Detective Chief Superintendent Boyer, Vladimir Scorpio's man.

The thoughts commingled in a fraction of time, and within that second, Tyreen yelled a warning and pulled the trigger twice more.

The Special Branch man did not realize he was going to die, and could not have known what hit him. His body jerked only slightly as he was knocked off his feet.

Two additional bullets from Goldman struck the body before it toppled, crumpling into the rosebushes.

The last enemy had been conquered. Tyreen quietly holstered her pistol and joined the other security officers in trying to restore calm. One thing was sure: it would be a different kind of job for the bomb disposal people. It was not often they were called upon to render a corpse safe.

The couple picked silently at the food on the table between them. Despite not having had lunch --- and in her case, breakfast --- neither Tyreen Mackenzie nor Joshua Goldman had much appetite.

Goldman had lost his daughter --- seen her killed right in front of his eyes. There was no overt hostility directed at the young woman sitting across the table from him --- the woman who had killed his daughter. The woman who had killed Rachel Goldman because he had been frozen, unable to pull the trigger himself.

However hard he might want to, he just could not bring himself to hate her. she had merely done what he should have done.

Finally they were both done picking at their food. The waitress placed their coffee on the table and took away their half-full plates.

Goldman drank half of his coffee in one big swallow and then set his cup down and looked at the young woman across the table from him. "There's something I have to ask you, boss lady."

Tyreen took another sip of her coffee before answering. "Yes?" She continued to hold her cup in her hands as if she was trying to absorb all of its warmth.

"I wasn't sure I believed what I saw, but did I see you throw Bob? Going out of the dining room, I mean. Going after Scorpio."

Sipping the last of her coffee, she thought back to the incident. Yes, she had done that. And, at the time, she hadn't cared whether anyone saw the demonstration of her Arion strength. "What did you see, Goldy?" she asked, setting down her empty coffee cup and reaching into her purse for a pack of cigarettes. American, but she had little choice, her gunmetal cigarette case had been left behind at the London safe house.

He fixed his steely gaze upon her face as he also leaned forward. "It looked like you picked him up and threw him across the corridor." Lowering his voice, he added, "With one hand."

She paused with the unlit cigarette halfway to her lips. "You really saw me do something like that?"

"After everything else that happened this week, I wasn't so sure." He gave his head a brief shake.

Lighting her cigarette and drawing deeply, she sat back in her chair. "Are you sure you saw me do something like that?" she asked again. Exhaling slowly, she then took another draw.

"It wasn't something they teach at Bradbury Lines. And I thought I knew everything there was to know about unarmed combat."

"My stepfather was an unarmed combat instructor during the war."

He looked at her face as if trying to determine her age. Then, "Which war? The Falklands?"

"No, the big one. World War II." She smiled and shook her head. "I'm older than I look."

"You're at least twenty-five."

She frowned. "Thanks a lot." She then smiled, telling him that she was actually older than he was, though not how much.

"You sure don't look it, boss lady."

Her smile widened. "Thank you, Goldy." Stubbing out her cigarette in the ashtray, she signaled that the meal was over. Signing the check to charge it to her room, she led the way back to the elevator and up to their rooms.

Opening the door to her room, she paused. "Come back in fifteen minutes for a nightcap to celebrate the conclusion of the operation."

"You'll forgive me if I don't exactly feel like celebrating, boss lady." The pain of his daughter's death washed over his face again.

Sticking her foot in to hold the door open, she reached for his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. "I know. You just lost your daughter, and I'm a widow." Again, she thought to herself without voicing it. "But think of how many people aren't dead because of what we did today."

He squeezed her hand back before releasing it. "I know, but..."

She maintained contact. Lowering her voice, she said, "You know what they say about the best way to console a widow. It probably works for bereaved fathers, too."

"He shook his head. "I don't know, boss lady. It wouldn't be right."

"Come over anyway. Maybe I'll be the one telling you a long story this time." Then, still holding the door open with her foot, she handed him her key. "And tonight you won't have to pick any locks to come see me."

He nodded. "Fifteen minutes, then" he said, before turning to walk down to his room.

The FBI man who had dropped them off at the hotel has assured them that their rooms were clean --- not wired for sound. There certainly was no reason for anyone to be mounting surveillance on them now that Operation Last Enemy had been successfully concluded. Still, out of years of habit, on arrival she had checked the room as well as she could without her specialized equipment. It was indeed clean, as far as she could tell.

Going to the telephone, she called room service and ordered a bottle of Bollinger, specifying the vintage. It arrived within ten minutes, while she was still trying to decide just how much to tell the SAS man. Or how much to show him.

She knew that she could trust him with her secret --- he had proven that beyond a doubt --- but did he really need to know? But then, he had already seen some indications of her greater than Terran strength, enough to cause him to bring up the subject.

Would Henry Harper be alive now if she had used more of her Arion abilities during their escape? If she had just slung his body over her shoulder instead of leaving her hands free for her weapons, she could have carried him faster than he could run, and then he wouldn't have been bitten by the water moccasins.

It was no use going over that again. What was done was done, and she would have to live with it.

Just as Goldy would have to live with having seen his daughter gunned down in front of his eyes.

If was fourteen and a half minutes when Joshua Goldman returned to the door to Tyreen"s room, used the key to open it, and step inside. If he had expected to find her in something slinky, he was disappointed. He found her sitting on the bed, still wearing the same blouse and jeans she'd been wearing all day.

"Come on in and sit down," she said, gesturing to the one chair in the room.

He tossed her the room key as he walked to the chair.

She put the key on the nightstand and lay back. "You realize this is covered under the Official Secrets Act." As she moved to put her hands under her head, a corner of her blouse flipped open, revealing part of her stomach.

His eyes were drawn to the exposed skin. Then looking back at her face, he gave a chuckle. "Boss lady, if you're talking about what's under that blouse, remember I've already seen it." He chuckled. "Quite nice, too, as I recall."

"Thank you." She gave him a smile as she restored her blouse. "But you don't know what's really under it."

"It's not all that different, from what I remember. Except that it didn't show its age."

"Not everything shows." She sat up. "Even though I was born in Scotland, my parents weren't from there."

"My grandparents came from the Continent." He shrugged his shoulders.

She laughed. "My parents came from a little farther away than that."

"Australia?"

She laughed again. "Farther." She gestured to the champagne cooling in the ice bucket. "Why don't your pour for us and I'll tell you a little story."

As he poured, she retrieved a cigarette and lit it.

As they enjoyed the champagne, she gave him the "official" version of her life story, the one given to those in the know about her Arion heritage.

"I hope I haven't bored you," she said when she had finished.

He poured the last of the champagne into their glasses. "It looks like we're finished."

She stubbed out her latest cigarette. "We could order another one."

"No thank you, I've had enough." He stood up. "Thank you for the nightcap, boss lady."

She sat up and reached a hand toward him. "You don't have to go, Joshua."

He stopped in his tracks at her use of his given name. Turning around, he searched her face for the intent behind the invitation. Finding it to his liking, he came back to the bed and took her hand. Even though she'd told him about her strength, it still came as a bit of a surprise when she easily pulled him onto the bed beside her.

It didn't take him long to get her blouse unbuttoned the rest of the way. Nor did it take long for her to get him undressed.

"You know, I've never made love to a Navy officer before," he said, taking one of her breasts in each hand.

"Then I think we're even. I've never made love to a grandfather before." Taking her hands from his and rolling him onto his back, she lay atop him, covering his face with her chest.

After what they'd both been through, neither of them needed much foreplay. Pulling herself away briefly, she straddled him and impaled herself on his erect shaft.

His hands slid up her flanks, the fingertips caressing the sides of her breasts. Working their way underneath her firm mounds, he cupped and fondled them.

The pleasures of the connubial bed during her all-too-brief "marriage" to Henry Harper had left Tyreen wanting more. And the adrenaline from the excitement added to the successful completion of the operation simply added to her desire. Placing her hands on the backs of his, she pressed them harder against her soft mounds. Not too hard, only about double what he could have done on his own. At the same time, her legs began their powerful rhythmic pumping.

"I've been through hand-to-hand combat training that wasn't half so rough," he said, when he'd recovered his breath after a particularly vigorous round.

"That's too bad." She rolled onto her side, propping her head up on an elbow. "And here I was, just getting warmed up." She reached out and ran her fingers lightly across his chest. "But if you want to call it a night..."

He turned his face toward her and reached for one of her breasts. "Are you making that an order, Commander?"

"Do I need to?"

He responded in a very unmilitary, yet very satisfactory, manner.

Goldman woke to find Tyreen sitting beside him on the bed, a robe wrapped loosely about her. A quick look at his watch told him the time. "Morning already," he said, starting to sit up.

Putting a hand on his chest, she pushed him back down. "I think we still have a little more time before we need to go down."

"If you say so, boss lady." Despite his words, there was no reluctance in his actions as he reached a hand for her robe.

They did end up having to rush breakfast a little.

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