Infiltrator

He almost choked on his drink. "No," he said. "Nothing like that. Why should I?"

She raised one brow. "I don't know," she said. "You just seem really nervous for somebody paying a neighborly visit. Is there something on your mind?"

"Uhhh, yes," he said, brushing the cookie crumbs off of his hands. "I was wondering if you would do me the honor of having dinner with me. There's a concert in Asuncian this Saturday and I was hoping you'd accompany me."

Sarah's mouth opened and she blinked. The honor of having dinner with you? she thought. Boy, there's a poser. Do I want to have dinner with the incredible looks-like-a-Terminator man? Get into a car alone with him and go as far as Asuncidn?

Yuh, that sounds smart. So how was she going to answer?

She caught movement in the distance as John came back around the barn.

We need to know about this guy, she decided. Her usually reliable sources were still strangely mute. Von Rossbach might be nothing to worry about, as his public record suggested, but he didn't feel like a nothing to her and she hadn't made it this far by ignoring her instincts. To her he felt like trouble. And she'd be armed, of course. So he won't be a problem if he is human. Damn. Looks like I'm going on a date.

"What a gallant way of putting it," she said at last, smiling.

"Does that mean you accept?" he asked.

She shook her head in disbelief, then catching his expression, she hastily said,

"Yes! Yes, I'd love to go. It's just"—she shrugged—"no one has asked me out in such a long time. You took me completely by surprise."

"I'll pick you up at five, then," he said. "I hope that's not too early, but the concert starts at eight and I thought you might like to have dinner first. And with the drive taking an hour…"

She nodded, smiling as he explained. I wonder what this is all about? she thought. Maybe he was going to pick her brains. Maybe he was just a lonely guy looking for feminine companionship. Maybe peacocks can sing grand opera.

Time would tell.

And, hopefully, so would her contacts. She was surprised that she hadn't heard back yet and feared that when they did get back to her the news would be bad.

John clumped up onto the portal and flopped down into his chair.

"Ah," he said, reaching for another cookie.

"I see you've made another conquest," his mother said, plucking at a green stain on his sleeve.

He grunted his assent around a mouthful.

"My son is to horses what catnip is to cats," Sarah said. "They just can't get enough of him."

"Animals know whom to trust." Dieter looked at John, then glanced around. "I'm surprised you don't have a dog. Especially being alone here so much, with your son at school. I'd think you'd want a watchdog."

Sarah and John exchanged a glance. The Terminator look-alike was talking about dogs, and animals knowing whom to trust. Sarah turned and smiled at von Rossbach.

"You're trying to unload that disreputable little mutt that followed you home the day we met, aren't you?" she said. "It's not gonna happen; sorry."

"But he's such a nice little dog," Dieter cajoled.

"But it's you he adores," she reminded him. "It would break his heart if you left him here. He'd probably just follow you home anyway."

"Well, I've got another one that could use a good home," von Rossbach began.

"No, thank you, Dieter," John said seriously. "We don't want a dog."

"But it would be company for your mother when you're away."

"You're gettin' kinda pushy here, Dieter," John warned.

"Hey," Sarah said mildly, tipping her head forward and looking at him meaningfully.

John subsided, taking a sip of his Coke. This is too weird, he thought. The Coke stayed in his throat for an uncomfortable moment before he could swallow, then hit his stomach like acid. A dog, for God's sake!

"We had to leave the family dog behind when we moved here from the States,"

Sarah explained. "No way could we get him through all those countries we were going to drive through." She spread her hands helplessly. "We've just never had another."

Dieter was silent for a moment, chewing thoughtfully on one of Sarah's cookies.

"Then it's time you had one," he said firmly. "I've got just the one. I'll bring him with me on Saturday." He stood up, smiling. "I'll see you then." And with a jaunty wave he was gone.

Sarah watched him walk away with her mouth open. John watched him through

narrowed eyes, chewing, then he looked at his mother.

"Pushy, ain't he?" he said.

Sarah nodded slowly. "Shall we continue sparring?"

"Nah, let's just sit for a bit." John put his feet onto the table clumsily, upsetting the tray.

"John!" Sarah exclaimed, jumping to her feet and knocking over Dieter's chair.

"Oh, what's that?" She pointed to a small silvery object stuck to the bottom of the seat. She looked up at John, tightening her lips.

"Looks like some kind of battery," John said. He plucked it off. "What should I do with it?" He raised his brows at her. The thing was obviously a microphone.

"Throw it out, I guess," Sarah said, picking up spilled cookies and glasses. She pointed off in the direction of the barn and beyond. "We don't have anything it would fit."

She lifted the tray and stood, then looked up at him and nodded. He gave her a wink.

"Hey," he said. "Why don't you give me those broken cookies. I'll take 'em down to Linda."

"Good idea," Sarah said. "She'll like that."

She paused in the doorway; the tray in her hands, and watched John head for the corral. When he got there he'd throw the microphone von Rossbach had planted

as far as he could from the house. Microphones, yet! she thought. I have got to get some info on this guy. Stat!

She was just putting the last glass in the dish drainer when John walked slowly into the kitchen and leaned against the door frame.

"What?" she asked, sounding a little cross.

He stared at her until she turned to look at him.

"I've been thinking," he said. "Maybe you're right. Maybe we have been getting complacent. And lazy."

Sarah turned around thoughtfully and leaned against the sink, her arms crossed.

"Because he snuck up on us?"

"Mom! He was right on top of us! Unless he slithered all the way up the driveway I don't understand how we could have missed him. I mean, it's not like he's short and skinny and disappears when he turns sideways. He's a very noticeable guy! He could walk through walls and leave a Terminator-shaped hole!"

Sarah nodded. "I know."

"I mean, I could see one of us missing him. But both of us!" John waved his hand between them. "Both of us overlooked him. And then he plants a bug on us! Not to mention that he's been living a mile from this place for over a month and we didn't even notice!" He took a few steps away from her, then turned.

"Mom, we're not safe."

"I know," she said softly.

"What are we going to do?"

Sarah looked at him: he wouldn't be asking her that question much longer. It wanned her heart that he was still doing so.

"We're going to do better than we did today," she said, pushing herself away from the sink and crossing the room. "For starters I'm going to send out some more e-mails, rattle a few cages if I can. I'm finding this silence rather ominous."

"I find that microphone a little ominous," John muttered.

"Maybe we would be better with a dog," Sarah said.

"Mom, any dog Dieter von Rossbach brings us is probably going to be trained not to notice when he's around. So, as a watchdog, it wouldn't be worth much. I mean, what if Skynet made itself a cyberdog, or something? Besides, you know how I feel about us having a dog."

She did; they'd had to leave Max, his German shepherd, behind at his foster parents' house and had no idea what had become of him. But they thought they knew. He would have been sent to the pound, and if unclaimed within thirty days, he would have been put down. John had refused to have a dog since then.

If you can't be sure of taking care of it, he'd often said, you shouldn't have one.

It had been hard, at first, to give in to him on the dog issue. She'd had a dog at her side since before John was born. At first it was because they could sniff out Terminators and she'd desperately needed the assurance of an early-warning

system. Then, as she spent more and more time around dangerous and often evil people, her dogs became her protectors until she learned how to take care of herself… and even after, when she needed someone absolutely trustworthy to watch her back.

Dogs— the only love money really can buy, she thought.

The only thing that had kept her marginally sane in Pescadero State Hospital was the knowledge that Max was with her son, watching over him. It grieved her to just leave him behind like that, even knowing they'd had no choice. But John had taken the loss of Max even more deeply.

Sarah had seen the very real pain in his eyes when he insisted they didn't need a dog and she'd acquiesced. But now, here was Dieter.

Could that stray have been a cyberdog? she wondered. Skynet could do that, but… Nah, she thought. Too elaborate, too indirect, too… inefficient. In her experience, Skynet just went for you; it didn't dance around and tease like this.

Probably nothing in its experience had given it any reason to try anything more subtle than a sledgehammer.

"Well," she said aloud, "I don't see that we're going to be able to refuse. I'll let von Rossbach know that if it doesn't work out, or if we can't take care of it for some reason, he'll have to take it back."

"If it doesn't work out?" John said. "What reason are we going to give for that?"

"You're going back to school," Sarah said calmly. "I have to work full-time. It's not good for a dog to be alone all the time. If necessary, I'll come up with a

reason, John; you don't have to worry about that."

"I can't help but worry," he said. He took a deep breath. '"I'm growing more certain by the minute that I'm not going back to school this year."

Sarah raised one eyebrow. "Is that a worry or a wish?"

"He laid a bug on us," John said simply. He raised his hands slightly and let them drop. "There's nothing normal or neighborly in that, and in the long run I think it means our life here has just changed drastically."

Sarah looked at him for a long minute, agreeing silently.. She pursed her lips.

"I'm not prepared to jump without more information!," she said. "We're not sure what type of threat he represents. Maybe running would be the worst thing we could do."

"Mom! That was a very expensive, very sophisticated mike he planted on us.

There is no innocuous reason for anyone to do that! He's either a cop or a pervert."

"Well, if he's a pervert we don't have to go anywhere. We can turn him over to the police."

John burst out laughing. "I never thought of that," he said. "That'll be a first, the police helping us." He hoisted himself onto the kitchen counter. "You don't really think he might be a pervert, do you?"

"I guess not," she said. "He asked me out Saturday night and I said yes."

John blinked. "You're going out with him? On a date?"

Sarah nodded thoughtfully. "Maybe he's a smuggler, too, and he's just checking out the competition," she suggested.

"Maybe he's a cop and you won't be coming home Saturday .night."

With a shrug she turned away.

John's smile froze as he thought about what else von Rossbach might be that could prevent his mother from coming home.

"Maybe I'd better get to work finding something out about: this guy so we can make some plans," she said.

Yeah, John thought, maybe you'd better. And maybe he'd better put together some emergency stuff in case they had to vacate suddenly.

Dieter put in the earpiece as soon as he was out of sight. As he rode off he heard a crash and the conversation that followed.

I can't believe they found it that soon, he thought in amazement. Was this an accident, as it sounded, or were they just being very clever? He was certain neither of them had seen him plant it. Though I must admit I'm out of practice.

Maybe he should come back sometime with a metal detector and see if he could recover the very expensive mike he'd planted. Maybe he could try to leave it in the house sometime when they weren't home.

Didn't Sefiora Salcido say something about a camping trip? Hell, I could put in

video while they're away. He forced his mind away from some tantalizing images of Suzanne. This was business. If he had time to actually hide his bugs it would be a lot more cost-effective than having his mikes discovered and disposed of instantly.

He looked over his shoulder at the small estancia and lifted one corner of his mouth in a crooked smile. Time to go home and check his e-mail. Maybe Jeff had finally gotten back to him.

Dinner had been excellent; the restaurant was pleasant and the food superb. The concert, mostly Vivaldi, had been wonderful, sprightly, humorous, and soothing.

"Would you like to have a drink before we start home?" Dieter asked.

Sarah checked her watch. "Um, it's later than I thought. Would you mind if we started home right away? I don't want John to worry." Not to mention the fact that so far this had been just a date. She was going crazy waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"It's not even ten-thirty," von Rossbach protested. "Did he give you a curfew or something?"

"I'd like to see him try," Sarah said, grinning. "No, I'm just kind of tired. And, to be frank, I'm not used to this."

"Concerts?" he teased.

Sarah rolled her eyes. "And dinner and being picked up…"

He smiled and they walked along in silence until they came to where he'd parked the car. She looked very nice in a blue dress with a full skirt accented with a colorful scarf and a wide belt. It was the sort of outfit one's wife might wear, very respectable.

Dieter supposed it was intended to send a subtle message. Keep your distance, or something of that nature. He opened the door for her, then went around to his side. She was one of those women who didn't like to be touched, he'd noticed. In his experience there was usually a story behind that sort of behavior.

"Maybe it would be easier if you didn't think of this as a date," he suggested.

"Just two friends going to a concert together."

Sarah looked at him, then smiled. "Maybe that's what we should do next time,"

she said. "But I'm afraid that if the man does the asking and the paying and the driving, it's unequivocally a date."

He laughed. "Well, what if the woman does the asking and paying and so on, what do you call it then?"

"I suppose you'd call it a date," she said, smiling.

"Then you owe me one. After that, we can just go as friends, if you like."

"That would be nice," Sarah said.

He was so damn nice. Her stomach was in knots. He was good company, he was pleasant, he was attentive, he was clean, not something she'd always been able to rely on. He's not what I would have expected a rich, spoiled playboy to be like.

And if he was a cop, then he was definitely off duty tonight. She wished he would do or say something crummy so she could stop feeling so ambivalent.

They talked about this and that as he drove, Dieter steering the conversation in a more personal direction by degrees.

"Why didn't you go back to the states after… your husband passed away?" he asked.

Sarah shrugged and looked out her window. "I didn't see any great need to go back. My family are all dead, I'd drifted away from my friends." She laughed.

"I'm a very bad correspondent. And besides, we'd put so much effort into the business. I was determined to make a go of it. And I didn't want to uproot John so soon after. That's hard on a kid."

"You moved to Villa Hayes," he pointed out.

"Yes, but that's still in Paraguay. And we visit Ciudad del Este at least once a year."

"Kids are amazingly resilient," Dieter observed.

"Maybe," Sarah said. "Or maybe that's just something adults say to make themselves feel better. Kinda like whistling in the dark."

"Well, you're the parent, I'm not," Dieter said.

The talk rambled all over the map from there and the long "drive seemed to last no time at all. When they pulled up to Sarah's house Dieter got out to open her

door for her.

I used to like it when guys did that for me, Sarah thought. Then it seemed to show a little extra caring. With Dieter it's probably Austrian formality. At least it might be if he was Austrian. It might also be that he likes intimidating people by standing over them.

He handed her out of the car and smiled down at her.

"Would you like to join us for dinner sometime soon?" Sarah asked, taking a step back and toward the portal.

"Yes," Dieter said as he shut the car door and stepped back himself. "Why don't you set it up with John and give me a call. I'll bring that dog I promised you."

His eyes glinted with amusement. He suspected that she thought her son might be watching them. John had left enough lights on to let them know he was still awake.

"I will," she said, smiling. "Thank you for a wonderful evening."

He nodded. "Good night," he said, going around to his side of the car.

"Good night." Sarah went up the steps and stood on the portal to wave as he drove off. Then she entered the house, turning off the outside light and locking the door.

"What, not even a goodnight kiss?"

Sarah turned and raised her brows. "Watching, were we?" she asked.

"Yeah, we were. How come you didn't kiss him?"

"Because I think I'm already getting to like him more than I probably should,"

she answered. "It makes me nervous."

"I thought maybe you didn't want him to think you were that kind of girl," John teased.

"If he ever finds out just what kind of girl I really am, I shudder to think what might happen," she said. "Any word yet?" She tipped her head toward the computer.

" Nada," John told her. "The silence is starting to freak me out."

"Me, too." She shrugged. "I'm going to bed."

"How was your date?" John asked. He backed up as she came toward him.

"It was nice." Sarah switched off the light behind her. "Very nice. I asked him to have dinner with us soon."

"Wow, the action intensifies."

Sarah smiled weakly. John watched her go on down the hall to her room.

"Mom," he said. Sarah turned to look at him inquiringly. "Should we leave? Is it time?"

"Maybe my instincts are blunted, John, but I honestly don't know. Let's give it another week and see how things shake out, okay?"

John shrugged. "Fine by me. I just wanted you to know that I'm with you, whatever happens."

She came back down the hall and hugged him.

"I love you, you know that?" she said, smiling up at him.

"I love you, too, Mom. Good night." He gave her a squeeze.

"G'night."

Dieter poured himself a brandy, then decided to check his messages before turning in.

Jeff had finally gotten back to him with a simple message that read: "Get back to me. RIGHT NOW!"

So he called, knowing it was brutally early in Vienna. It's brutally late here. And I'm not sure what I want to hear.

" fa," a sleep-muffled voice said.

"Jeff, it's me, Dieter. I just got your message. I'm sorry to call so early, but you said—"

"No, no, it's all right. Just a moment, I'm changing phones."

Dieter heard him speaking to his wife, asking her to hang up when he got on the other phone.

"Hi," she said.

"Hi," Dieter said. "I'm sorry to wake you up this early."

"S'all right," she said.

"Okay, honey," Jeff said, "you can hang up now."

"G'night," she said, and hung up.

"What was so important?" Dieter asked his friend.

"You've got to see this. Have you got your computer on?" Jeff asked.

"Yes."

"This will probably take forever to transmit, but I think I may know who that woman is," Jeff told him, his voice excited. "If I'm right then you, my friend, may be in line for a huge, and I do mean huge, reward. Is it coming up yet?"

Dieter felt a sudden chill at Jeffs words. On his screen a grainy picture was coming up; with every line that was transmitted he felt a little sicker. You couldn't tell anything yet, only about a fifth of the frame was filled.

"It is taking forever, can't you tell me what this is about?" he asked impatiently.

"Check your fax machine," Jeff said. "I sent some stuff over earlier. But this other thing you have to see to believe."

With a sigh Dieter put down the phone and went over to the fax machine. He picked a few sheets of paper out of the hopper and brought them back over to his desk. When he viewed them he saw that they were wanted posters. Sarah Connor, it said, an escaped mental patient wanted for the terrorist bombing of a California computer company named Cyberdyne, for kidnapping, and possibly for murder.

The other was for a boy of perhaps ten years, a bold-looking kid with a defiant expression on his young face. He was wanted as a suspect in the murder of his foster parents. John Connor, last seen with his mother Sarah and a mysterious man who was wanted for the murder of seventeen police officers as well as the shooting and wounding of scores of other cops. The picture that was supposed to identify this man was almost black.

"I've got it," Dieter said. "I can't make out the picture of the man, though."

Suzanne, he thought, could this be you?

She seemed so sane, so rational, such a good mother. And John? Could he have been a murderer—at only ten years of age? Dieter frowned. If there was one thing his work had taught him, it was that murderers took many forms. He'd seen any number of children quite capable of killing.

"That's what you've got to see, Dieter," Jeff said. "You're not going to believe this. How's it coming on your computer?"

Dieter looked up and his breath froze in his chest. He was looking at a picture of himself. "What the hell is this?" he demanded.

"This picture was taken by a police surveillance camera the night this guy

whacked seventeen police officers. At the time he was gunning for this Sarah Connor. He'd already killed two women with the same name that day. But the next time he was seen he was with Sarah Connor and her son; apparently he helped her to escape the asylum she was in and then he helped them to blow up this company. They kidnapped the head scientist and his family and made him help them do it."

"Jeff, that's me!"

"No, it's not. While this guy was blowing away those cops you were working in Amsterdam, helping to break up that arms-smuggling ring— you know, the one that was running Sarin gas? According to the records, while this guy was busy, you were interviewing Samuel Bloom at headquarters."

"It's an incredible resemblance," Dieter said, almost to himself. "Even /think it's me. I mean it's like a clone or something."

"I know," Jeff said, "wild, huh?" He waited for a moment. "What about the woman and the boy? Are they the ones?"

Dieter looked down at the curled posters. He shook his head. He wanted to know more and the only way he would find out was by getting them to trust him. "No,"

he said. "The woman's resemblance to this Sarah Connor is remarkable, but she's much too short. Sarah Connor is five-eight, but this woman is maybe five-four, if that. She doesn't even come up to my collarbone. And the boy has blond curly hair and blue eyes. The man disappeared, you said?"

"Rumor has it." Jeff sounded disappointed. "The Connors were tracked as far as Brazil and then apparently fell into the Amazon and got eaten by piranha. But

the man was never seen after they entered a steel plant."

"That has some unpleasant possibilities," Dieter mused.

"Now that you mention it," Jeff agreed.

"Perhaps they should have analyzed the last batch of steel to see if there was too much carbon. I'm sorry to have put you to all this trouble for nothing, Jeff.

Especially for waking you up at some ungodly hour of the night."

"Hey, what are friends for?" Jeff said, dismissing his thanks and apologies both.

"If it had worked out we'd both have been a lot richer, eh?"

"By how much?" Dieter asked. The quickly said, "No! Don't answer that. I'm just about to go to bed, I don't want to know."

"So why should you sleep when I'm awake?"

"I'm in a different time zone. Show me some mercy, why don't you? And when are you and Nancy coming to see me?"

"How does February sound? I understand it's sunny and warm there in February."

"It is—sunny and warm, that is. All the time. I get up and know exactly what the weather's going to be like. Come on down, you'll love it." Dieter grinned. It would also give him plenty of time to sort things out.

"Pick me out a steer then and we'll barbecue him when we get there. Good night, buddy."

"Good night, Jeff. Give my love to Nancy when she wakes up."

Dieter sipped his brandy thoughtfully. He really couldn't see Suzanne as a killer.

Over time he'd come to have an instinct for this sort of thing. Anybody could be a killer, might be driven under certain circumstances to commit murder. But his gut told him that Sarah had yet to meet those circumstances. As for John, he was the essence of good kid. Dieter couldn't see either of them as cold-blooded murderers.

Besides, this just didn't make sense. The first time his look-alike was seen, he was a killer bent on murdering Sarah Connor. The next time he was her right-hand man. He shook his head. It just didn't add up.

But it might explain why Suzanne Krieger had taken one look at him and run like hell.

I'm going to have to get to know Suzanne and her son much better, he thought.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

SERENA'S BEDROOM: THE PRESENT

Serena was alerted early in the morning, during her rest cycle. She had a computer that was always on-line, searching the Internet for mention of Sarah Connor. Given the sheer size of the Web, the thousands upon thousands of requests for information of all kinds, worldwide, every day, the relay of that information was often far from instantaneous. But when, eventually, mention of the Connors was made, the Internet search engine sent a message directly to the computer part of Serena's brain.

In this case, the request for information about the Sarah Connor case had come from a Jeffrey Goldberg. Subsequent research indicated that he was an employee of a covert— extremely covert—antiterrorist group known as the Sector.

Serena considered the information as data scrolled across the inside of her eyelids, casting a ghostly blue flicker over her eyes, without disturbing the motionless perfection of her face.

The request for Connor's file might have been the result of some sort of bureaucratic housecleaning. Some decade-overdue review of terrorists-at-large.

She checked. Goldberg's session log showed that he asked only for Connor and her son and any known information about their adult male accomplice.

Interesting.

That would seem to indicate that he had a specific reason for inquiring. Goldberg was stationed in Vienna, which implied that Connor might have been sighted in Austria. Or, given whom Goldberg worked for, one of their remote outstation operatives might have sighted them.

She set the computer to search Goldberg's phone and e-mail records for calls and messages over the previous twenty-four hours. The phone log would reveal the numbers of those who called in, which would at least give her some locations.

She had higher hopes for the e-mail, which would carry much more in the way of details. As an afterthought she also directed the computer to check his home phone.

Then she composed herself for sleep. There was nothing inherently untoward

about someone from Sector requesting information on a known terrorist. Dealing with terrorists was Sector's raison d'etre. But it was promising. Serena resolved to continue monitoring Goldberg for the next several weeks.

Perhaps I should set up a Connor site of my own on the Web, she mused. Make herself out to be some sort of advocate, one of those people who see government conspiracies in every arrest and conviction.

In the case of Sarah Connor there was the bonus of the conspiracy actually existing. Even if the organizing force behind that conspiracy didn't quite exist yet.

There might well be people out there who would respond if there was something to respond to. And if it's a good enough site it might even get the attention of the Connors themselves. A cheering thought.

But it would be a delicate line to walk. Knowing what she did about the case, she would need to avoid inadvertently revealing information dangerous to Skynet.

Or, just as bad, information that only the Connors and Skynet should have.

Thinking about her future parent/creator, Serena smiled. It was barely in its infancy just now. Little more than a very capable computer, with no hint of awareness. But the potential was there and the engineers were rapidly closing in on the essential elements that would give life to Skynet.

She'd met Kurt Viemeister and had been charmed to realize that his was the voice that Skynet would use when it spoke. It was the voice of all the T-l0ls who had taught her, «and she couldn't get enough of it or the warm, secure feelings it aroused.

Perhaps she should be troubled to notice a weakness like this in herself. The last thing she would have expected was to be homesick. Perhaps not so much homesick as bereft of Skynet's eternal presence. It was hard, very hard to be completely alone here.

Still, unless it was of benefit to the project, she really shouldn't spend too much time with Viemeister. Other humans didn't seem to like him, though it was obvious they respected him. But she knew that much of her mission's success would depend on her being liked and trusted. If an association with Viemeister would imperil that, then she would just have to sacrifice her developing friendship with the human.

Skynet comes first, she reminded herself, then smiled. In this case, I guess I come first and Skynet follows me.

And, this time, they would win.

Serena tugged at the stringy pink tissue gently, her hand deep in the viscous, faintly salt-smelling goo of the underground vat. Bonding nicely, she thought as it resisted her pull. Threads of the cultured human muscle were weaving themselves into the porous ceramic that coated the metallic bones.

A soundless blip interrupted her. Ah, she thought, drying her hands on a towel as she moved over to the computer workstation. Transmission.

Goldberg was relaying a part of the dossier he had acquired on the Connor case to an e-mail address in Paraguay.

The silicon-and-metal part of Serena's brain connected her to the remote computer that was monitoring Goldberg, data trickling in through electrodes finer than a human hair knitted into the organic neural nets. The picture that came up on her eyes was of the Terminator that Skynet had sent to eliminate Sarah Connor. Even boosted by her superior processor, the picture was grainy.

She supposed that was why Goldberg had sent it by e-mail. There was nothing else, though. A quick check showed a call-in-progress from Goldberg to a phone number in Paraguay. She had forgotten to check the fax lines, but she was sure that if she did look, there would be one to Paraguay. She ran a check on the address belonging to the phone number.

Dieter von Rossbach, rancher. Oh, really? And why would a rancher in Paraguay happen to need information on the Connors? Because he thinks he's found them.

She ordered the computer to search for information on this Dieter. Who would undoubtedly turn out to be more than a mere cow herder, she was sure.

Meanwhile she would seek permission to send someone down to South America to look into this situation. Without hesitation she called Paul Warren.

Behind her, the liquid in the vat gurgled, and the metal and ceramic of the Terminator's structure gradually disappeared beneath the spreading web of pink and pulsing crimson. Life mated with death, in the service of a sentience that was neither.

PAUL WARREN'S RESIDENCE, BEVERLY HILLS: THE PRESENT

Warren sat at the head of the table and sipped his dessert wine, letting the conversation flow around him as he admired the dining room. One wall of the room was a row of French doors opening out onto a flagstone patio. Stairs led

from there down to a lawn and garden. In the daytime the dining room was full of light, making rainbows in the Italian crystal of the chandelier. The remaining walls were decorated with a watered ivory silk and paintings of some of his wife's ancestors: a grim, dyspeptic-looking crowd of Yankee bluebloods, looking as if they were sniffing in disapproval of the scents of Kauna coffee and jasmine tea and sacher-torte wafting toward them.

The guests were his wife's friends and they rather bored him. But then, I suppose I rather bore them. He being little more than a computer geek… No culture with a capital K. Still, a lot of Mary's friends were in politics and it didn't hurt to have connections.

They preferred to dine without covering the table's softly glowing dark wood. So each setting had a linen place mat, trimmed with intricate Spanish cutwork and a matching napkin. More heirlooms. The dishes were German porcelain, thin enough to see your fingers through, writhing with a design of tiny roses and dripping twenty-four-karat gold. Paul thought the candy-pink design was headache inducing, but women seemed to love it. The crystal was French. His wife sneered that anyone could own Waterford; the kiss of death as far as Mary was concerned. The silverware was from her mother's family, solid and heavy and almost as ornate as the plates.

He took another sip of his wine and tuned in to what his wife was saying to the state-senatorial candidate on her left. Then he tuned out again. She was refining the man's opinion on school budgets. An opinion she'd given him in the first place.

Their maid slipped in quietly and murmured to him that he had a phone call.

Paul looked apologetically at his wife and her guests. Mary's lecture continued, but her upper lip twitched as if she'd just smelled something exceedingly impolite. He put down his napkin and rose, following the maid out of the room.

Warren went across the hall to the small room he used for a home office.

Originally it was going to be quite large, but Mary had the architect whittle away at it—to expand the dining room, to widen the hall—until it wasn't much more than a cubicle. It existed more for the tax break than anything else. Mary didn't like him taking work home.

"Hello?" he said. Suddenly a knot of tension gripped his neck. It was late for a call from work. Not another bombing? he thought desperately.

"Mr. Warren? This is Serena Burns. I'm sorry to call you at home, but something has come up that I feel I must pursue as soon as possible. I think I might have a lead on the Connors' whereabouts and I'd like your permission to send someone out to investigate."

"You found them?" Paul squeaked. He couldn't believe it! She'd been working for Cyberdyne for only two weeks and she already had a line on those murdering bastards?

"I'm not certain, sir, that's why I wanted your okay. It's going to put a hole in the budget, I'm afraid."

While Warren stood at his desk, flummoxed, his wife strode in, her face set in righteous anger, and seized the phone. He was so startled that he gave it up without a fight.

"Whoever this is," Mary Warren said icily, "and whatever this is about, it—and you—can wait until tomorrow. My husband and I are entertaining guests. Good night!"

She hung up the phone and turned to her husband. "You can't let them start calling you at all hours like that, Paul." She stabbed the dark surface of the desk with a pale finger. "I am not going to be one of those work-widows who only get to see their husbands when they come home to shower and change clothes. I thought we had that understood between us." She glared at him.

"Mary, we may have a lead on the terrorists who destroyed the factory and murdered Miles Dyson."

She raised one brow coolly. "Who?" she asked.

Warren let out an exasperated breath. When she was in this mood he wouldn't get anywhere with her.

He led his wife out of his office, she closed the door behind her so firmly he looked over his shoulder at her. Mary's face was set. He knew she wouldn't give him any opportunities to call his security chief back tonight. He turned away and tightened his lips once more. He hated scenes, and if they fought he wouldn't be able to sleep at all. Not to mention the havoc it would wreak on his digestion.

Warren adjusted his face to a pleasant smile and apologized for leaving his guests for so long.

"A new, overly enthusiastic employee," he explained.

John Rudnick, a newly elected judge, nodded solemnly.

"Some of these kids would take over your life if you let them," he said. "We've got a strict rule about it at home." He smiled at his wife, who returned him a you'd-better-believe-it smile.

Paul shrugged. "So do we," he said.

"Perhaps tomorrow, when you go to work," Mary said with arctic calm, "you should make that clear to the person who called you."

"I intend to, dear," he said, and changed the subject.

Serena hung up the phone, genuinely astonished. She'd been trained to a strict and all-consuming pragmatism; otherwise she might have had trouble believing the evidence of her own ears. She stood with her hand on the receiver, certain that Warren would call her right back. Surely this was a bizarre way for one spouse to treat another? Even by pre-Skynet human standards.

She crossed her arms and stared down at the quiet phone. One thing is certain, she thought, if Mary Warren is going to make herself an obstacle, then Mary Warren is going to have to be eliminated.

Serena had been considering an affair with either Colvin or Warren as a means of ensuring that she would always know what was going on. Paul Warren might be the more receptive of the pair.

Or perhaps not, she thought as the minutes lengthened.

Humans, especially the males, had extremely fragile egos. Being humiliated like that in front of an employee, especially a female, couldn't be good for Warren's.

He would probably be embarrassed the next time they met. She put one hand on her hip and sighed.

A discreet affair was all she'd had in mind—something that would cool to a warm friendship spiced with occasional bouts of physical pleasure.

Mary Walsh-Warren was the daughter of a very wealthy, very influential family.

It was her family's money that had given Cyberdyne its start, and Mary's political contacts that had provided their first lucrative government contracts. That gave her a disproportionate share of power in her marriage.

Which made poor Paul's wife a potentially dangerous enemy. Serena had also learned from company gossip that Mary was almost pathologically jealous. One whiff of a warming relationship between herself and the president and Serena had no doubt she would be summarily fired.

She tapped her fingers impatiently on the worktable. So. Terminating Mary Warren rather than undermining her marriage seems to be the most logical course of action.

Serena had hoped to avoid killing indefinitely, because Skynet would not be well served by her spending decades in prison.

Unfortunately she sensed that it was inevitable. The woman's influence was just too poisonous. Poisonous enough to make the risk of terminating her worthwhile, besides being aesthetically satisfying.

Since it was inevitable she might as well do it now while she was an unlikely suspect. After all, she'd never even met Mrs. Warren, she barely knew the president, and at present their association was purely professional.

I suppose an auto accident would be best, she mused. A flaming wreck could hide all sorts of precrash mayhem. Perhaps she could send the Terminator. A sort of test run.

Meanwhile, she would find and hire a private investigator in the Asuncian area.

Someone competent, but low profile!

She had done her own checking into Dieter von Rossbach and had found out that he, like Mary Warren, came from a wealthy, prominent family. He had entered the army after university, then had disappeared from all official records appearing only in a few society columns, all of them very thin on detail, until now. When he resurfaced it was as a rancher in Paraguay, which was extraordinarily unlikely.

She'd been too late to get a tap on his conversation with Goldberg, getting on the line just in time to hear them say good-bye and hang up. She'd left the tap on von Rossbach's line and had listened in to a number of utterly prosaic phone calls.

Let the PI do it, she thought, exasperated. Tomorrow she would get on it, first thing. For now, she still had that tissue to check.

TARISSA DYSON'S HOME, LOS ANGELES: THE PRESENT

Jordan gave his sister-in-law a warm hug. Dan stood beside her, looking nervous and slightly embarrassed. He held out his hand to shake.

Jordan raised an eyebrow at him. "Come here!" he growled playfully, and swept his nephew into his arms. "A handshake?" he chided. "That's no way to greet family!"

Dan grinned and ducked his head, shrugging, his eyes shyly downcast.

"How long can you stay?" Tarissa asked, closing the front door behind him.

"I have to go back Sunday," Jordan told her. "And I have an appointment tomorrow afternoon. That's something I want to talk to you about, by the way."

He looked at her to check her reaction. She looked interested, but distracted.

"But the rest of the time," he said, holding out his arms, "I am all yours."

Both Tarissa and Danny instantly wore identical sick smiles.

Jordan put his suitcase down and waved them into the living room. "Why don't you tell me what's on your mind," he suggested. "I've got a feeling it might kill you, or at least cause serious damage, if we wait much longer for you to let me in on whatever it is you brought me here for."

He sat down and looked at them expectantly.

Tarissa and Danny looked at each other, then looked into the living room as if they weren't sure what to do. Simultaneously they chose the couch and sat, both of them on the very edge of the cushions. They exchanged anxious glances again, wringing their hands and chewing their lips.

"So what is this?" Jordan asked. "Mother and son competitive nervousness?

What?" He held out his hands. "Just tell me. Whatever it is, it can't possibly be

that bad." He grinned. "I'll still love you, even if you've gambled away the house."

Tarissa and Danny looked at each other for a long moment. Then they faced Jordan.

"It's so hard to know how to begin," Tarissa said, her voice was shaking. Turning the corners of her mouth down, eyes on her hands she continued, "But I'm afraid that you will find that what we have to say… might have a profound effect on our relationship." Tarissa looked up at him, her eyes pleading.

The first thing he thought was, Cancer? Could Tarissa be sick?

Tarissa saw the fright leap into Jordan's eyes and hastened to reassure him.

"We're both all right," she said, reaching toward him. "It's nothing like that."

"Well, for God's sake, Tarissa, lay it on me! You're making me crazy here."

"It's about the night Dad died," Dan said. "There's stuff we didn't tell you."

"But now we think we have to," Tarissa said, taking up the tale and her son's hand.

She paused to collect her thoughts. Tarissa could see that she had all Jordan's attention and he wasn't angry with them. Yet. He looked puzzled and concerned, but not actually upset. That's a relief. She looked around the room and made a decision.

"This is a discussion for the kitchen," she announced. "I want something to wet

my mouth and it's more comfortable there." Without another word she rose and left the room. Once in the kitchen she put on the kettle and reached for the teapot. It was more of a tea than a coffee kind of conversation coming up. Danny trailed in a moment later, eyes downcast.

"Put out some cups, would you, hon?" she asked. She poured hot tap water into the pot to warm it.

Jordan came in, his hands in his pockets. "Hello?" he said, his head tilted to the side.

Tarissa smiled at him and motioned to the table.

"Sit down. It'll be ready in a minute."

She and Danny bustled around, continuing to set the table while he stood and watched them as though they were performing some bizarre ritual.

Eventually Jordan shrugged and with an exasperated expression made a point of pulling out a chair and seating himself at the table. Then he clasped his hands in front of him, head titled to the side, an expression of deliberate patience on his face.

Inside he was still a bit scared.- He didn't know where they were going with this, but he didn't like the sound of it. I wish we could get on with this.

When everything was ready—the plate of cookies, the cups and saucers, sugar and milk—Tarissa placed the teapot on the table; it had been his mother's.

Jordan looked up at her. Whatever it is they have to tell me, he thought, they are my family and I will protect them. He nodded at Tarissa and she poured.

"We've told you before how it started," she said, her eyes on his cup. "But then we sort of segued past a lot of very important stuff."

"Stuff?" Jordan said flatly, watching her pour for Danny.

"Sarah Connor shot Miles," she continued, pouring her own cup. She put the pot down and reached for the milk. "Danny ran into the room and threw himself over his father, demanding that she not hurt him. He was so brave. I was all but paralyzed myself," she admitted.

Then she tightened her lips, looking into her cup as though she could see it all happening again in there. Tarissa turned the cup carefully, then picked it up and took a sip.

"At this point," she said slowly, "what we have to tell you, now, is different from what we've told you before."

Jordan leaned back, his eyes half-closed, assessing. But he was listening.

Tarissa licked her lips and closed her eyes. It helped her remember the order of events. There was nothing about that night that she could ever forget, except for the order in which things happened.

"After she shot Miles, he pushed Dan away, and I grabbed him and held him.

Sarah was crying; she said, 'It's all your fault. I'm not gonna let you do it.' Miles asked, 'What, what?' And she shushed us, and then she collapsed in a heap,

crying. I let go of Danny and grabbed Miles, holding him in my arms. And then the door crashed open and this huge man in black leather came in, followed by this boy of maybe ten." She looked up at Jordan, then back down at her cup.

"The boy was John Connor. He went to his mother and calmed her down. Then, when Miles asked, 'Who are you people?,' John said, 'Show em,' and handed the big man a knife. Then he got Dan out of the room.

"I will always be grateful to him for that, and that Blythe was asleep." She took another sip of tea.

"Then," she continued, "while we watched, the big man took a knife"—she held up her arm—"and sliced into his arm." Tarissa drew her other hand around and down her arm, miming the action. "Then he dropped the knife and grabbed the skin, and pulled it off in one piece."

Jordan's jaw dropped and he looked at her with his eyes wide. He shook his head. "What happened then?" he asked, glancing at Danny.

"I wasn't there to see that," Dan said. "But later I snuck down the hallway and listened while everybody talked. I heard what he said."

"You did, baby?" She hadn't known that—no wonder he had nightmares. Tarissa reached out and rubbed her son's arm, then took a sip of tea and continued.

"What happened after he pulled his skin off? Well, under his skin wasn't muscle and fat and bone and veins." She shook her head and shuddered. "Oh, no, nothing human at all."

" What?" Jordan leaned forward, squinting. "What do you mean, nothing human?"

"It was a very intricate machine," she said. "There was blood, but that was there to feed the skin. It wasn't really blood, either; it was red like blood, but it was a nutrient fluid." Her eyes got a faraway look. "I can still see it displaying its hand to us. So many little steel parts and cables and, like… these pumps, they made a kind of whirrr when he moved and…" She let out a little huff of breath. "I wouldn't have believed it either if I hadn't seen it. And believe me, Jordan, I wish to God I hadn't seen it! Eui-l-did!"

Jordan closed his eyes and ran a hand over his head.

"Maybe this was some kind of special effect," he suggested. "Like a prop or something in a movie. He might have held his real arm against his side and…"

Tarissa was shaking her head. "He was wearing a tight T-shirt. And he was using the arm and the hand, manipulating things with it. It was real, Jordan." She held up her hand. "And that's not all. He told us what Sarah meant by 'it's all your fault.' She meant that Miles was going to design a revolutionary chip that would go into the creation of a computer called Skynet. Skynet would be put in charge of all military hardware, all the computers, the missiles, the planes that carry the missiles, the subs, everything. Humans would be removed from the equation in the United States in order to eliminate"—she held up her hands and made air quotes—"human error."

"That kinda sounds like a good thing," Jordan said hesitantly.

Tarissa looked at him over her teacup and shrugged.

"Maybe it would have been, if Skynet hadn't become sentient."

"Okay, time out," Jordan said. "How could you believe this? This is Sarah Connor's psychosis, this is what the doctors said she babbled about constantly.

It's what made her go around destroying factories and killing people."

"Look, if there's one thing I'm sure of, Jordan," Tarissa said firmly, "it's that Sarah Connor is not a killer."

"Oh, come on!" Jordan slapped the table. "Miles is dead, Tarissa! My brother, your husband, is dead because of that woman!"

Tarissa leaned forward, her hand to her breast. "Miles is dead because he was trying to save us!" she said. "And because the police shot him. No one was supposed to get hurt." She waved her handito stop his next comment.

"I know she's not a killer; when she had him at her mercy, with nothing to stop her from killing the man she honestly held responsible for… basically causing the end of the world, she—did—not—shoot. She could have, she wanted to, but she couldn't do it." Tarissa sat back and looked at her brother-in-law. "I was there, Jordan. And I know."

Jordan just looked at her. Oh, my, God, he thought. She's crazy. Tarissa is completely out of her mind. He looked at his nephew.

"It's true," Dan said. "I didn't see him tear the skin off, but I saw his hand before he put the glove on it. He was a machine, and he told us about Judgment Day."

"Oh, no!" Jordan said, raising a hand to stop them.

He rose from his chair and walked over to the kitchen counter and stood looking

out the window into the backyard. There was a bird splashing and fluttering in the birdbath and he looked at it in relief. It was something normal, something sane. After a moment he turned around to look at his sister-in-law and nephew, crossing his arms over his chest.

"It's bad enough that you're telling me that you bought into this woman's delusions," he said. "But you're also trying to tell me that my brother got killed trying to destroy his own work." He took a few steps toward his sister-in-law.

"His own work, Tarissa." Jordan hunched forward and sat down again. "I knew Miles, Tarissa. He would not destroy his work. It meant"—he waved his hands in an encompassing gesture— "ever".

"Everything to him," Tarissa said, her eyes infinitely sad. "I know that." She shook her head. "But we couldn't deny what they'd shown us, what they'd told us. Their belief in what they were saying was absolute. And, frankly, there was no other way to explain the Terminator."

"Terminator," he said flatly.

She looked up at Jordan. "They convinced us. If you'd been there you would have believed them, too." Her eyes pleaded with him to believe her now.

Jordan's mouth twisted and he lowered his eyes, refusing to meet hers, more thoughtful than angry, Tarissa judged.

"It wasn't a fake arm," she insisted. "There isn't a prosthesis in existence that intricate. He walked in and started handling Miles—with both hands—like he was Danny's size. He said, 'Simple penetration, no shattered bone. Hold here, compression should stop de bleeding.' " Tarissa sighed. "It did, too. Then he

bandaged him."

"Why are you talking in a German accent?" Jordan asked. His voice was cool.

"That's how it talked," Dan said. "It sounded German."

"It?" Jordan said precisely.

"It wasn't human," Tarissa said, giving him a look. "What else would you call it?"

Jordan got up slowly and once again walked over to the counter, he turned and faced them, his arms crossed.

"You know, nobody knew that this guy was a German. You know why nobody knew that? Because no one, except the Connors… and you of course," he said, nodding at them, "had ever heard him speak."

He looked at them, they looked at him. Suddenly Jordan laughed, it ended in a hiss. Jordan looked at his feet and his jaw worked.

"You know what I'm thinking of?" he asked. He rubbed one finger over his upper lip. "I'm thinking of that conversation we had that night in the living room, Tarissa." He rubbed his eyes as though crying and spoke in a falsetto voice. " 'It's just too painful, I can't take it anymore. It's my way or the highway, Jack!' " He spun and slapped his hands down on the counter, his jaw clenched.

The sound made Tarissa and Dan jump. She lowered her eyes, while Dan looked at her covertly. Tarissa felt the blood rise into her cheeks.

What am I feeling so ashamed for? she wondered. I was only doing what I

thought I had to do.

Jordan turned, but didn't make eye contact with them. He held up his hands and said, "You know what? I've gotta go."

"No!" Tarissa said. "You don't have to leave, Jordan."

"Yes. I do." He started out of the kitchen and turned at the door to look at them.

He held up his hand. "And you know why? It's because my family"—he looked into Tarissa's worried eyes—"the only people in the world I trusted, have withheld vital information about the murder of my brother for six years!"

"Jordan," Tarissa said, rising.

"Oh, no, don't get up," he said, waving a hand at her. "I'll show myself out."

"Uncle Jordie!" Dan said, springing up. "Please… don't go."

Jordan looked at him and his nephew stopped in his tracks, his eyes wide, his mouth open. For a moment anger flashed in Jordan's eyes and Tarissa straightened in alarm. His eyes flashed to meet hers and he swallowed, hard.

"I have to go," he repeated, his voice choked.

Tarissa and Dan watched him go down the hallway, snatch up his suitcase, and leave without another word. After a moment, Dan looked up at his mother.

"What do you think will happen now?" he asked.

Tarissa put her arm around her son and gave his shoulders a squeeze. "I don't

know, honey. I honestly don't."

ON THE ROAD TO STARBURST: THE PRESENT

"We're leaving the eco-fair in Baltimore to attend a New Age event in Virginia,"

Peter Ziedman said into the camera his buddy Tony had trained on him. "We're traveling in Labane's specially equipped van. Labane describes it as more of a heartland kind of vehicle because it's partially solar-powered. Which, of course, works better in the sunny center of the nation."

"The United States," Ronald said from the driver's seat. "Say the center of the U.

S. or the Canadians will be offended." His remark was greeted by puzzled silence. "In case you want to submit this to the Toronto Film Festival."

"Yeah! "Tony said.

"Good thinkin'," Peter agreed.

Ron rolled his eyes, which at least briefly blocked the endless tackiness of the strip mall and Wal-Mart outside. These guys were hopeless. But they were paying all the expenses and he was beginning to get some forward momentum.

People were actually coming to hear him speak at an event. And Peter's message machine was getting more and more invitations for speaking engagements.

Ron had begun charging a speaking fee and the fees were increasing. But there was no point telling the boys that. He had them convinced that he was a genius at bargaining or exchanging labor for the posters and flyers they were helping him put up and pass out.

Eventually he would dump the kids by telling them: "I have a message to spread and you two have careers to jump-start. You stay here and work on the film." It was what they wanted to do anyway, so there would hardly be howls of protest when he suggested it.

Actually he'd seen some of their finished footage and he was both pleased and impressed. Peter and Tony might be dumb and easily manipulated, but they definitely had talent. It was a shame that their persistent naiveté' would cost them any chance they had of making it.

"Funny, isn't it," Ron said, "that most of these eco-fairs we're going to are held in cities?"

"There's a lot of pollution in cities," Peter said.

"There's a lot in rural areas, too," Labane told him. "For instance, there are farmers who use so much pesticide and weed killer that they won't eat what they grow. They've got separate gardens for their own families, but your kids are chowing down on stuff they wouldn't touch. And then there's those factory farms for pork and chicken."

Tony shifted so that he could film Ron as he talked. It had been a little difficult to talk them into traveling in the van with him. But he'd convinced them that it would lend a certain cachet to their documentary. Which was true: there was nothing the Hollywood types liked more than tales of hardship endured for art's sake.

"Do you know there are actual lakes of pig feces?" Labane asked. "It must be a nightmare living within a few miles of someplace like that. But worse than the

smell is the fact that the runoff gets into streams and the bacteria get into the water supply. And as you know," he tossed over his shoulder, "diseases pass quite easily between pigs and humans."

He'd leave it at that. Let people make of that what they would. Half the battle was getting people to just listen. So sometimes you just gave them these really vivid suggestions and let them process it through the back of their minds.

Eventually there would be enough frightening little tidbits back there to get 'em really pissed off.

Ron had some ideas for some really nasty tricks that could be played on the politicians who had allowed those places to be built and who refused to make the owners clean up their mess. Inside he smiled. Oh, yes, the day will come.

CHAPTER TWELVE

IVSUNCION. PARAGUAY: THE PRESENT

Marco Cassetti turned up the collar of his trench coat, then flicked his cigarette into the gutter in a world-weary gesture of disgust. There was really no need for him to turn up the collar of his coat, or even for the trench coat at all—the weather was sunny and dry, if a little cool by tropical standards. Neither was there any particular reason for him to be disgusted. He'd found out quite a lot in just an hour, all of it positive.

Still, a PI has a certain air to maintain. World-weary cynicism was part of the image, and Cassetti cultivated the image with the devotion of a religious fanatic.

He was a private eye, and he would be a perfect one if it killed him. So when he walked these mean streets he projected attitude.

These streets weren't as mean as those of Chicago or L.A., he knew, but there were parts of Asuncion that were extremely nasty; a little farther north, down in the viviendas temporaries on the floodplain of the river, for instance. Not here by the government buildings, of course. But in places.

Constant practice, that was the ticket. Improving and upgrading the image and building on the advantages that he already had. He liked his name, for example.

Marco Cassetti. It was a really good name for a private dick; it sounded tough and manly. Having an Italian name was a bit of a problem since so many villains were Italian. But there were a lot of Italian names that would be worse.

Buttafucco, for instance.

And finding the right kind of trench coat had been almost impossible. A Burberry would have been perfect, but who the hell could afford one? Haunting the thrift shops had eventually paid off, though, when a motherly Argentinean-Italian lady had held on to a vintage raincoat for him. He'd been ecstatic and had brought her a bouquet the next day to show his appreciation. Now he didn't dare go back. It seemed she had a single niece.

So now he looked just right. He had a Panama hat with the brim trained down over his eyes, his wonderful rumpled trench coat, and very thin shoe leather—

which was uncomfortable, but authentic. And he smoked—despite what his mother thought.

His mother was furious with him about it, but it was expected; part of the image.

Still, to please her, he tried not to inhale too often. He'd even learned to strike a match with his thumbnail, practicing in front of a mirror until he could do it without checking his hands. It looked fantastic.

He totally loved his job! If only I got to do it more often. But he'd had some successes, which he attributed to following his mail-order lessons assiduously.

Now the jobs trickled in. Okay, maybe trickled was an overstatement. Still, he was just starting out, as his mother was constantly telling him. And he was employed now.

The call had been unexpected, and his boss had been surly about calling him to the phone. Surely the man realized that Marco wasn't going to be a dishwasher all of his life.

It had been a woman. Cassetti was certain that she was a cool, leggy blonde—the type you knew were trouble the moment you set eyes on them. She'd hired him to check up on an Austrian immigrant named Dieter von Rossbach.

According to his description in his immigration records, the guy was enormous, over six feet tall, over two hundred pounds. But he was boring. A rancher, honest businessman, liked by people who dealt with him. He raised good beef, or should, because he'd purchased a first-rate herd. And he got along with the people who worked for him. Boring. But that's what his client got for being so cagey, flat refusing to paint in the background for him.

If she complained he'd say, Hey, doll, I don't know what you know. But I know more than I did. And what I know is this Dieter is a stand-up guy. So what's your beef with him?

Actually he wouldn't say anything like that. It would be unprofessional. Fun, but unprofessional.

In his imagination he saw himself as a lone wolf who had to scrounge for his living, blessed with a bighearted secretary who was more than half in love with him and willing to wait for her paycheck. In reality he lived with his parents and worked full-time as a dishwasher for a friend of his uncle's. If he played tough guy with his clients that would be his life.

So if she was disappointed he would ask her for more direction. Because he'd gone as far as he could in Asuncion, and he wasn't prepared to borrow a car and go to Villa Hayes with nothing more concrete to go on than "find out whatever you can about Dieter von Rossbach."

He sighed. The truth was he was sometimes disappointed by his jobs; they were often more sordid than exciting. But he told himself that was to be expected; novel after novel confirmed that this was a corrupt world full of self-serving, low-life creeps. Which explained all that world-weary cynicism he admired. He sighed again. It was much better admired from a distance.

At least this job wasn't totally routine; it had a little mystery about it. Marco hoisted the trench coat a little higher on his shoulders and made his way across the plaza, ignoring the curious glances of more appropriately dressed citizens in shorts and T-shirts.

Tonight he would speak to his client… and maybe find out what this case was all about.

VON ROSSBACH ESTANCIA, PARAGUAY: THE PRESENT

"Come in," Dieter said to the knock on his office door.

Marieta entered wearing the expression of a woman who smelled something very, very bad. "You have two visitors, senor" she said in clipped tones. "I know one of them," she continued. "He's no good." Marieta stood with her two hands clasped over her apron and looked deliberately over his head.

Dieter tapped his pen on the desk and studied her affronted countenance. "Did they say what they wanted?"

She gave a little shrug. "To speak to you, they said." She sniffed. "Shall I tell them you are busy, senor?"

"Did they say anything else?" he asked.

Marietta hesitated. Then she sniffed and said, "They said something about a Senor Ferarri. I really did not pay that much attention."

"Perhaps I had better see them, then," von Rossbach said. "I do know a man named Ferarri. If he's sent them I wouldn't want to offend him." Ferrari was one of Jeff Goldberg's aliases. I wonder what this is all about, he thought.

"Very well, senor" she said, sounding like a nun about to usher in a whole herd of loose women.

When the men entered, Dieter immediately knew that one of them was from the Sector: the blond man dressed anonymously in good-quality dark clothing, he was of medium height and very fit. Central European of some sort. The other was definitely a local, and a small time sleazebag. Dieter could see why his housekeeper wouldn't want the man on her furniture. He was short, unshaven, and slightly overweight, with collar-length hair he apparently hadn't bothered to

wash for weeks. Nor the rest of him, from the smell. His small, close-set eyes darted around the room as though he expected an ambush, and his suit was baggy and sweat-stained.

The agent from the Sector met von Rossbach's eyes and with a subtle tilt of his head indicated that Marieta should leave. Dieter agreed with a narrowing of his eyes.

"Thank you, Marieta," he said aloud. "We won't be needing refreshments, so you can get back to whatever you were doing now."

Her dark eyes widened in surprise. He rarely spoke to her as though she were a servant, and despite her own insistence on formality it was clear she didn't quite know how to react.

Dieter nodded to her and gave her a little smile.

"Oh! Si, senior," the housekeeper said. She backed out the door, ducking her head back in once to send a glare to the man she knew, then closed the door behind her.

Dieter and the agent studied each other while the third man watched them nervously and chewed on a ragged thumbnail.

"Why don't you say something?" he finally blurted out.

Dieter snapped a finger at him. "Who are you?" he demanded.

The man's lips jerked into an ingratiating smile.

"But we have done business, senor. Over five years since we saw one another, si, but business." Von Rossbach continued to stare at him coldly. " Much business."

He nodded encouragingly.

"You have a name?" von Rossbach asked, giving the agent a look.

"Ah! Si!" The man touched his brow and grinned. "I am Victor Griego."

Dieter nodded.

"Senor Ferarri thought that this one might be able to help you identify someone,"

the agent said. "Senor Griego has extensive underworld contacts, going back many years."

" Si," Victor agreed, nodding eagerly. "I was told you wished to identify Sarah Connor. I knew her, did business with her. One of her lovers was a good friend of mine," he said with a leer. A muscle jumped in Dieter's jaw at that. "I mean no offense, senor."

"Of course you didn't." Dieter turned a disgusted shoulder to the man and addressed the agent. "I already told Ferarri that the woman was too short," he said. "I am sorry to have wasted your time. And yours." He nodded to Victor.

"It is all right, senor. I will be paid for my time." Griego smirked and one hand turned over in a not too subtle signal of expectation. "But since I am here, perhaps you should get some value for your coin."

Dieter glanced at the agent, who shrugged.

"Best to make absolutely certain, eh?" Griego said.

"It might be best," the agent agreed indifferently.

Intellectually Dieter couldn't blame his friend for siccing these two on him. His dismissal of the information Jeff had sent him was lame and, obviously, unconvincing. As well, the reward was enormous. The Sector didn't believe in binding the mouths of the oxen who trod out the corn— although they were extremely reluctant to let anyone quit the organization.

Emotionally he was very annoyed. Partly with Jeff, who might have trusted him to handle this in his own way. Partially with himself, because after his dinner with Suzanne and her son he found that he really liked them.

The dinner had been delicious and the company was wonderful. John had a lot of charisma and probably would go far in life. Suzanne he found more intriguing every time he saw her. He found himself trusting her; she exuded an aura of competence and reliability.

And yet he was also convinced that Suzanne Krieger was Sarah Connor. A woman wanted for gunrunning, aggravated assault with a deadly weapon, bombings, suspected murder, and last but not least, escaping from a mental institution.

I must belong in one myself, he thought dryly. After all, he was holding back because he was certain down in his soul that there was a reasonable explanation for everything she had done. Suzanne just didn't feel like a murderer. Of course, she is a smuggler, so the gunrunning could be a legitimate charge. Talk about grasping at straws.

But he was an experienced agent and the shape of the Sarah Connor case… to him it was obvious that a piece of the puzzle was missing. A damned important piece. And it might be the result of sheer boredom, but he wanted to be the one to find that piece.

"I'm having a small dinner party at the end of the week." Von Rossbach turned to Griego. "The woman will be one of my guests; you'll stay until then. After having dinner with her, you should be able to make an identification, one way or the other." Victor nodded and opened his mouth to speak. Dieter looked at the agent. "Will you also be staying with us?"

The man rose in a fluid motion; Dieter's private estimation went up a notch or two.

"Unfortunately I cannot," he said. "I must be going. Senor Ferarri said that you would be taking care of our friend's needs and expenses."

One corner of von Rossbach's mouth lifted in a sardonic smile. "Well, if that's what he said, then I suppose that's what I'll do."

He rose and offered the agent his hand. The two men shook, eyes meeting eyes, evaluating, you know, Dieter thought, I don't miss having to be that wary. The man turned and left, leaving the informant and Dieter alone together.

"I suppose we'd better get you settled. Do you have luggage?" Dieter asked.

"No." Victor laughed. "Our friend there was in a bit of a hurry."

"Well, we'll find you something clean to wear. And my housekeeper can wash your clothes for you while you shower.

"No need," Victor said cheerfully.

"I insist."

The man looked at Dieter anxiously and saw that his gigantic host wasn't joking.

"Sure," he said with a shrug. "A nice shower would be… uh, nice."

* * *

Dieter closed the door of the guest room and trotted downstairs, his face grim.

Marieta wasn't going to like this. At least he won't be putting his greasy head on her nicely ironed pillowcases, he thought. Living with Griego for three days was going to be like living with a very large, bipedal rat. But at least they wouldn't have to share the same bathroom. "Marieta is going to kill me," Dieter whispered.

CYBERDYNE SYSTEMS: THE PRESENT

Serena rose and came around her desk as her secretary escorted the young man in. She observed with interest how very much Jordan resembled his brother, Miles; the same large, fine eyes, broad straight nose, high cheekbones, smooth dark skin. It fascinated her. The way that faces emerged from the genetic soup to perfectly combine the features of the parents in the offspring.

She offered her hand and Jordan took it.

"Why don't we sit here," Serena suggested, indicating her sofa and coffee-table arrangement. "Would you like something?" she asked. "Coffee, tea, a soft drink?"

"No, thanks, I'm fine," he said, settling himself.

"I read the resume you sent me." Serena said, sitting beside him, her body turned slightly toward him. "Very impressive. Does the Bureau know that you're doing this?"

Jordan's mouth opened slightly in surprise. That wasn't the first question he'd expected to be asked.

"No," he said carefully. "I chose not to discuss it with them."

Ms. Burns wasn't at all what he'd expected. She was incredibly young for this post for one thing. For another, even for California, she was an absolute babe.

"Mmm," Serena said, her eyes slightly narrowed. "We've had several applications, as you can imagine. And you're one of the youngest candidates."

She gave him a bright smile. "And, as you can imagine, I'm favorably inclined toward a younger candidate." She shifted her shoulders against the couch and crossed her legs. "I'd be happy to answer any questions you have to ask me."

Jordan was somewhat taken aback. He'd expected to be answering questions, perhaps defending his decision not to inform his superiors at the Bureau of his job search. To immediately move to his questions felt a little like hitting the ground hard after expecting the famous step that wasn't there.

"I want this job," he said aloud. "Am I going to get it?"

She smiled. "Yes. You are." Serena rose and moved to her desk to gather up

some brochures. "These will tell you about the company and the rules. I've also prepared this for you." She held up a black folder. "It describes what I expect from you and what I consider to be your job." She sat down beside him again, placing the whole bundle on the coffee table. "You'll have things to take care of at home, and you'll have to give two weeks' notice, I suppose. How long before you can begin?"

"Two weeks ought to do it," he said. "It might not even take that long."

"Would you like us to find you a temporary apartment out here?" Serena asked.

"That would be great," he said.

"Furnished or un?"

"Uh, furnished for now," he said. "I can put my stuff in storage until I find permanent digs."

"Great. Anything else?"

He laughed and shook his head.

"I guess I should ask how much I'll be making, about benefits, that sort of thing."

Jordan brushed his hand over the top of his head. This is too easy! he thought.

He'd had a tougher interview for his first job. Which was shoveling Mrs.

McGill's driveway when he was eight. But what am I gonna do? Say I'm here in hopes of catching the Connors? He wanted this job. So he sat back and listened to Ms. Burns's answer.

"Your initial salary will be seventy-five thousand, with the usual comprehensive medical and dental plans. You get two weeks' vacation a year to start and paid holidays. Theoretically, anyway." She grinned at him. "There's a lot of work to be done here and you'll be getting in on the ground floor. Or, to put it another way, you and I will have the challenge of doing everything because this company hasn't got any significant security in place. I tend to work seventy hours a week myself. I could work more if I wanted to."

She tipped her head. "Will that be a problem for you?" she asked. "I mean"—she spread her hands—"is there family, or a girlfriend?"

"No, no," Jordan said. Not anymore, anyway. In fact it would be good to get so involved with something that he had no time to think about his family. "Not a problem."

"Good." She slapped the arm of the couch. "So, you'll be joining us, eight A.M.

Monday morning two weeks from… Monday?"

"Yes," he said.

She rose and offered him her hand. "I'm glad to have you on board."

"Glad to be on board." Jordan clasped her hand firmly.

"You have a good handshake," she said. "I like that."

He smiled, gave a little shrug, pleased at her praise and feeling damn silly about it. But he had the job! That was the important thing. I just hope the Connors don't show up before I'm ready for them.

"Thank you very much," he said. "I'm looking forward to working with you."

"And I with you," Serena said, opening her office door. "I think the FBI is definitely losing out here."

Jordan shrugged. "I just had to give the private sector a try," he explained.

Serena leaned in confidentially. "You won't be sorry," she said quietly. And neither will I.

KRIEGER TRUCKING, PARAGUAY: THE PRESENT

"Victor Griego? That slimebag?" Ernesto's honest face was screwed up with distaste. "Who says it?" he asked.

"Shooosh," Meylinda said, looking over her shoulder. "I don't want the senora to hear us talking about it."

"Why not?"

Meylinda gave him an exasperated look. "Because it's gossip about the senor,"

she growled.

"Ah! So, who?" Ernesto whispered.

"My mama had it from Marieta Garcia herself. Who is fit to be tied about it! The senor just won't listen to her. She says he has forbidden her to speak of it."

Meylinda pulled a face and looked up at him from under her eyebrows.

"Ay yi," he said quietly. He shook his head sadly. "Has Epifanio tried?"

"Marieta says he won't even try. He says the senor knows what he is doing. Who are we to question him? he says." She pulled the corners of her mouth down.

"But how can he even stand to have his wife waiting on that pig?" Ernesto asked.

Meylinda shrugged and rested her chin on her fist, her face glum. Both of them bowed their heads and sighed.

"Hey, who died?" Sarah asked.

They jumped guiltily.

"I was just going back to work," Ernesto said, matching action to words. He gave a little hop as he made it to the door, as though he would start running as soon as he was out of sight.

"I was just about to start that filing, senora," Meylinda said. She gave an uncertain look to the towering pile of receipts and laughed a little.

Hmmm, Sarah thought. "So, what were you two talking about?" she asked.

"Oh, nothing, senora," Meylinda said over her shoulder. "Just some silly gossip.

You wouldn't be interested."

Sarah sat at Meylinda's desk, clasping her hands in her lap like a schoolgirl. "Oh, but I love gossip," she said, a gleam in her eyes. "Oh," Meylinda said, and swallowed hard.

"We have a problem," Sarah said to John when she got home that afternoon.

"Hi, Mom," he said. "I'm fine, thanks, and how was your day?"

She put her purse down on the kitchen table and stood with one hand on her hip.

"You remember Victor?" she asked.

He wore a vague look for a moment, then the penny dropped. He narrowed his eyes, "Grieger?"

"Griego," his mother said. "But that's not bad seeing as we haven't seen him since you were thirteen. He's staying with Dieter."

"Whaaat?" John felt his knees grow weak and pulled out a chair, sitting down hard. He stared at his mother, who looked back at him, her face grim. "How did that happen?"

Sarah moved at last, pulling out a chair of her own.

"How it happened isn't that important," she said. " That it happened is." She shook her head. "We don't know enough. We don't know anything about Dieter, really, and nobody will talk to us."

"Somebody will," John said.

She looked over at him quickly.

He plucked a grape out of the basket on the table.

"Victor will," he said, a peculiarly nasty smile on his young face.

"How are we going to separate him from Dieter?" his mother asked. She grabbed her hair and pulled it back from her face. "I'm supposed to have dinner with him Friday," she reminded him.

Two days from now. Not very long at all to get hold of Griego and get him straightened out.

"Every other Thursday Epifanio and Dieter get in the Jeep and ride the range,"

John told her. "Or at least, since I've been watching them they have. As soon as I see them leave I'll sneak down and confront him."

Sarah nodded approvingly. Her little boy was growing up.

"You can offer him a carrot as well as a stick," she said. "We could give him that weapons cache in Parque San Luis."

It was in an area of rugged subtropical forest near the Brazilian border. The last time she'd checked it two years ago the weapons were just on the edge of being useless. It was damned damp in that part of Paraguay.

"Tell him you'll give him the location after the dinner party." Sarah leaned forward. "But make him believe you'll kill him if he blows our cover."

CYBERDYNE SYSTEMS: THE PRESENT

"I already knew all of this," Serena said to her contact in Paraguay.

She wondered how humans managed not to go mad using cumbersome handsets or earphones or worse yet speakerphones with their poor reception. The

hardware installed in her brain handled telephone calls easily. So easily that she had to keep reminding herself to actually pick up the phone, lest someone catch her talking to thin air… and apparently receiving answers.

"I thought that might be the case, senorita," Cassetti said. "It might save us both time if you gave me a little more direction. Just what exactly do you wish to know about Senor von Rossbach. Knowing that might give me some idea of where to look."

Serena frowned. She hadn't wanted to get specific. Still, this was a small-time operator in a faraway country. He had no idea who she was or who she worked for. Where was the harm in allowing a little information out? And he was right; it might move things along. That he said so argued for a certain amount of intelligence. His English was excellent as well, except now and then he fell into an argot she'd identified with difficulty as typical of American popular culture some decades before.

"I am interested in finding out who he knows in the area." She allowed her voice to get hard. "Especially women."

"Ah! I understand," Cassetti said. One of those cases. "Are you and Senor von Rossbach… married?"

"Not yet," Serena answered. Nor likely to be. "If you could get me pictures of any ladies he's seeing, I would pay well for it." It also ought to speed things up.

"If you have access to a computer you could scan the pictures in and e-mail them to me."

"Senorita, I am not so wealthy. I can take the pictures, but I will have to send

them by mail."

"Federal Express," she countered. "Here's my account number." She gave him the one for Cyberdyne. "As agreed," she said, "I will pay your travel expenses.

So if you need to rent a car, that's covered."

"I will borrow one from a friend," he said. "I don't have a credit card and they won't rent a car without one."

Serena rolled her eyes. "I'll take care of it. Go to the Hertz outlet tomorrow; they'll have something for you. You do have a license?"

"To be a private investigator? Si!" he said, somewhat indignant.

"Actually I meant a driver's license," she said dryly.

"Oh. Si, I have that also."

"Fine. So I'll look forward to hearing from you. When?"

"Give me three days, senorita," he answered. "I'll have something for you by then. If I do before then, I'll call."

"I look forward to that," she said, and disconnected.

She sat at her desk for a moment, considering the conversation she'd just had. So often when dealing with humans she wondered if they were really as clueless as they seemed. She frequently felt as though she'd made a mistake in hiring one of them. And she probably had, but until her Terminators were complete, she had to

rely on second best. They're just so slow! she thought. She hated the feeling of uncertainty involved in trusting a human to do a Terminator's job.

VON ROSSBACH ESTANCIA, PARAGUAY: THE PRESENT

John crouched deep in the pungent underbrush, regretting the rip in his shirt and the deep scratch on his arm and hoping there weren't any snakes living in here.

Carefully, so as not to create a flash, John raised his binoculars to study von Rossbach's house. There was a sloppy-looking little fellow lounging on the portal sipping a drink. Victor. He hadn't changed that much in three years.

Epifanio had entered the house earlier, and hadn't bothered to respond to Victor's greeting. Which didn't seem to bother Griego at all. In fact he'd laughed out loud.

John wondered what the hell the smuggler had done to alienate everyone in Villa Hayes so completely.

Dieter and Epifanio came out while he watched. Dieter ignored Victor as well, but the little man wasn't laughing about it. He looked damned serious. Epifanio and von Rossbach drove off as though he wasn't there. When they were just going out of sight, Victor spat.

That'll show 'em, John thought.

Now to find out where everybody else was so that he and his old friend Victor could have a nice long talk.

"Ssst! Senor!" John crouched down by the side of the portal, raising his head just high enough that Victor could see his eyes. He held up a bottle. "You want to buy some cana? It's very good, and cheap, too. My father, he makes it himself."

"If it's so good, kid, why don't you drink it?" Victor growled suspiciously.

John laughed. "Good as it is, senor, I can only drink so much."

"How much?" Griego asked.

"Cheap!" John said. "Seven thousand guaranis."

"You call that cheap? I was thinking more like two thousand. That's what I call cheap!"

" Si, that would be cheap, senor. Perhaps a little sample would convince you that my price is cheap for what you would be buying."

"Okay," Victor said instantly. "Bring it here."

"I don't dare, senor. The only watchdog that von Rossbach kuimba£ needs is Senora Garcia."

Griego laughed. "She's one mean bitch all right."

John giggled and slapped his leg. "Follow me, senor. I know a nice, shady spot not far from the house where we can drink in private."

John got up and started off at a slow trot. Turning, he saw that Victor was staring at him with narrowed eyes. He held up the bottle and ran backward a few steps.

Griego licked his lips and rose, coming down the steps eagerly.

"Not so fast," he protested. "I'm an old man."

"Soon you'll feel young again," John promised him. "My father says a full glass of cana makes him feel like a boy." Victor chuckled. "If you've got something that good it's worth twenty thousand guaranis."

John laughed and kept going, walking now, but every now and then speeding up to a trot to keep ahead of Griego.

"I'm sorry to hurry you, senor," he apologized. "But I want to get out of sight of the house. The senora doesn't like me one bit and I don't want to get into trouble with Senor von Rossbach. You know?"

"I know," Griego muttered. He plowed along, getting redder in the face and sweatier as he went. This stuff had better be worth the trouble or he just might take the bottle and clout the kid.

John led him through a path in the tall brush until they came to a low tree with a little poll of greening grass beneath it. "See," he said. "A very pleasant place for our talk." He held out the bottle.

"Talk!" Victor said, grabbing the bottle. "I thought we were here to drink, not talk." He threw himself down beside the tree and pulled the cork with his teeth, surprisingly white in his unshaven face. He took three long swallows of the liquor. "Not bad," he rasped when he came up for air. "Three thousand," he said, and took another drink.

"Senor! What are you doing? You must pay before you drink any more."

Victor chuckled. "You must learn not to offer a whole bottle as a free sample to a man like me," he said. "Three thousand or nothing, and I'm being generous."

He slung back the bottle again.

Suddenly Griego felt the cold sharp point of a knife on his Adam's apple. He didn't dare move his head, so he plugged the bottle with his tongue and tried to look around it at the boy. What he saw made him choke and the knife bit. A tiny drop of blood rolled down his throat.

"Ah, you recognize me." John smiled pleasantly. "At least you've had a farewell drink."

Victor lowered the bottle; liquor splashed his chin and throat amid the stubble, making the small cut burn.

"What do you mean?" he asked. "You're not going to kill me, are you?

John, we're friends, you and I. Surely you wouldn't kill your old friend Victor?"

His mouth widened in a nervous smile.

John looked thoughtful. "We were friends, weren't we?" he said. "My mother did much business with you, didn't she? That was when she was with…" He snapped the fingers of his other hand. "What was his name?"

"Peter Gallagher," Victor said eagerly. "That British fellow."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," John said, smiling. "That's right." He twisted the knife a bit, his young face growing crazy serious. "What a good memory you have, Victor.

You know a memory like that can get a man in trouble." John shifted so that he was directly in front of Griego, and closer. "You do know that, don't you?"

"No, no." Victor raised one finger and smiled desperately. "It's not what you know, it's who you tell!"

"Very true," John said. He looked into Victor's eyes as though searching his soul, something that made him feel slightly greasy all over. "So, old friend, what are you doing here, eh? Are you also a good friend of von Rossbach's? Somehow you don't seem his type."

Griego laughed, but the knife didn't back off. The tiny cut deepened. "It's not that we're friends," he said, fearful that saying he was might anger the boy. "We do business together," he explained. "Just business."

"Ahhh, business," John said. "I see. And just what business exactly does he have with you?" He watched Griego's pupils grow large in terror. "I think I know, you understand? So if you lie to me I'll slit your nose."

John pushed the tip of the knife into one nostril. Victor's eyes crossed and he whined, his eyes filling with tears. Thank God he had a chance to get a nice fortifying drink before we got started, John thought.

"Why don't we back up a bit," he said soothingly. "Tell me what you know about Dieter von Rossbach. Start with how long you've known him and go on from there."

"I've known him for maybe… ten years. He—he's used me primarily to get illegal weapons." Victor simpered. "Nothing too exotic, but not on the open market. You know?"

John nodded and made a come-on gesture with his other hand.

"Sometimes he'd purchase arms for a third party and have me do the shipping, that sort of thing. And sometimes he purchased information."

The knife pressed down slightly and Griego squeaked.

"In-for-mation," John said, stretching the word out. "That's right, you deal in information, don't you?" He gave his captive the same smile a cobra might give a rat. "Any chance that's why you're here now?"

Victor started to shake his head no and the knife pressed down. "Please," he begged, and started to sob.

"Maybe we should handle this like a business deal of our own," John said reasonably, withdrawing the knife. "If you answer my questions to my satisfaction, I'll not only let you keep all your important body parts, I'll throw in an arms cache my mom hid up by the Brazilian border. Assault rifles, SAWs, some antitank stuff. How's that sound, hmm?"

"Good, good," Victor said, shaking and sweating. "Good."

"Here, take a swig," John said, handing him the bottle. "Settle yourself down, there." He leaned in close and patted the man's shoulder. "We are friends, right?

Right, buddy?"

" Si, friends. The best of friends." Victor nodded frantically, then took another slug.

John tapped the blade of his knife against his palm.

"Now, from what you've told me, I'd have to say that ol' Dieter sounds like a terrorist. Do you know?" He lifted an eyebrow.

"No," Victor said almost scornfully, relaxing marginally. "He's too stable and too well funded for that. I always figured he was working for somebody's government. Maybe even ours, eh?" He slapped John on the arm and winked.

"Who can say?"

"Uh-hunh. Certainly not me." John held the knife up and examined its edge, running his thumb lightly down the blade, then grinning as he sucked the blood from the small cut. "So what business are you doing with him now? Guns or information?"

Griego swallowed, watching John's eyes.

That's right you little piglet, Connor thought. Think before you speak. Think very carefully, because, as much as I wish I didn't, I meant every word I said.

"He wants me to identify someone he thinks might be your mother," Victor confessed.

John lowered the knife.

"I appreciate your being honest with me, Victor." He sat beside the gunrunner.

"Let me make your decision easy for you. If you identify my mother as Sarah Connor, I'll kill you. Not all at once, mind you, but a little bit at a time. Like the first time I get you I'll cut off your feet, to make it easy for me to get you the next time. Then I'll maybe cut off all your fingers, and then we'll work our way

up to even more important things."

He paused to watch Griego's reaction. "I think you know that the police won't be very interested in helping you," he cautioned. "Even if you bribe them. They just don't like you, you know? Must be all those weapons you've sold to people who like to shoot cops."

"You wouldn't," Victor said through stiff lips. "That's crazy."

"Like mother, like son," John said cheerfully. "I assure you, however I do it, you'll be dead. So it's not worth it, is it? Besides, there's that arms cache waiting for you. So, is it a deal or what?"

Griego looked uncertain.

"Are you afraid of Dieter?" John asked.

"Some; he's a big man, and he has money." Victor frowned. "I don't know what he'll do."

"What did he say to you when he asked you to identify her?"

"Actually"—Griego brightened—"he said he didn't think the woman I was to identify was Sarah Connor."

"Excellent!" John waved an expansive arm. "So, you tell him what he wants to hear, he'll pay you, we'll pay you, everybody's happy, right?"

"Right."

John rose. "I'll be on my way now," he said. "You'd better tell them you cut yourself shaving, huh?" He shook Griego's hand once, firmly. "Good seeing you again, buddy. You can keep the bottle." Then he turned and disappeared into the head-high brush, moving with a jaguar's casual precision.

Cradling the bottle to his chest, his eyes wide, Victor watched the place where the boy had disappeared. He felt a dull anger toward everyone involved in this.

The agent who'd dragged him here without letting him pack so much as a clean pair of underwear; von Rossbach, who treated him like a bug; and the knife-wielding boy who'd just humiliated him.

He'd find a way to make them all sorry. The force behind the thought diminished as he thought it, until the anger was all but dead. Victor sighed, looked down at the bottle as though it was his only friend, then took a swig. Might as well get drunk. That he could do.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CYBERDYNE SYSTEMS, CONFERENCE

ROOM: THE PRESENT

I can't help but notice that you passed over some more qualified applicants for the position of assistant, Ms. Burns." Tricker looked at Serena over the top of a folder he had opened. "Usually," he added wryly, "that's not the way it's done."

Tricker had finally come back from whatever untraceable location he'd disappeared to—apparently for the sole purpose of calling a meeting to complain about her decisions. This time it was on her territory, though. The cool recycled air of the underground installation and the subliminal scent of concrete and

feeling of weight were obscurely comforting, on a level she could barely perceive of as conscious.

They felt like home.

"Mr. Dyson is certainly qualified for the position," she said mildly, a gentle smile playing on her lips.

This outrage is all fake, she thought, qualifications and experience are the least of Tricker's concerns. When's he going to admit that?

"He's Miles Dyson's brother. You did know that?" Tricker looked at her in only partially suppressed disgust. His cold blue eyes were wide open and full of condemnation.

Well, that answers that question. As a rule, Tricker's type couldn't resist getting to the point. Serena swung her chair back and forth slightly, returning his glare with a look that might almost be pity.

She shifted position to put her elbows on the conference table and lean towards him. "Jordan Dyson has worked very hard to uncover the whereabouts of the Connors and their accomplice. Long after the FBI moved the case to the bottom of the pile he has continued to search for them. He's received several reprimands about it." She sat back, propping her elbow on the armrest and her chin on her fist. "I happen to be of the opinion that Jordan Dyson represents no danger to the company, and I believe that his dedication will be very useful. Especially since I regard the Connors as a significant risk to this company."

"You two discussed all that?" Tricker asked.

Colvin and Warren were silent, their heads shifting back and forth like spectators at a tennis match.

Serena waved a dismissive hand. "Of course not," she said. "We didn't even discuss his brother, or the bombing. For me there was no need." Serena shrugged. "And for reasons of his own he chose not to bring it up. I knew I wanted him the minute I read his resume so why ask questions to which I already knew the answers?"

"Some people might consider that, under the circumstances, Dyson's employment here represents a conflict of interest." Tricker raised his brows.

"Of course it isn't." Serena actually allowed herself a very small sneer. "He's going to be involved in the private security of a privately owned company," she pointed out. "If anything, his personal interest is a bonus for the company." How many times do I have to point that out before it takes?

Tricker hated to admit it, but the woman was right. And really there wasn't anything wrong with Dyson. He was a good agent by all reports, intelligent, professional, dedicated. His superiors' only complaints had been his insistence on working on his brother's case. Which even in their citations they considered understandable. Their primary reason for discouraging him was to avoid risking their case by any taint of self-interest.

Tricker still had some vague, instinctive unease about Serena Burns, which prompted him to continue to question and test her. Maybe it was because she was just too perfect; beautiful, intelligent, competent, professional—and completely unreadable. Too much like himself, in fact.

Well, except for the beautiful part. Someone had once told him that if you starved a rottweiler and gave it a receding hairline, it would look like him on all fours. A woman had told him that, in fact.

He glanced at Colvin and Warren, whose eyes were on him, their faces expectant. He let out a disgusted little, "Tssss," and looked away. "All right," he said after a minute. It was a full minute; he counted it out. "So far, everything else you've done is exactly what I would have recommended."

"I'm so glad you approve," Serena cooed.

Tricker froze, giving her a prolonged, unreadable look. Serena smiled back at him, her eyes twinkling with mischief. Only long experience kept him from blinking as he realized she was actually teasing him. Nobody teased him. "Since everything is going so well," Tricker said at last, reaching down and pulling up the large metal case he'd brought with him. "I think it's time we handed this over to you."

Placing the case before him, he tapped in a code, then pressed his thumb to a sensor, opened it, and studied the contents for a moment before turning it around to allow them to see what it contained.

Colvin and Warren sat forward with gasps of amazement; Serena lifted one eyebrow. Her eyes rose to his questioningly.

Cradled in foam was the mechanical arm that had been stolen and thought destroyed in the Connors' raid on Cyberdyne headquarters six years ago.

"Where did you find it?" Warren asked, stunned.

Colvin reached out as though to touch it.

"It's different," Colvin said in wonder. "I'm sure it is."

"We thought so, too, Mr. Colvin," Tricker said. "Certainly some of it is more damaged than the first one. But these other pieces seem to come from further up the arm. Our people theorize that this is a completely different unit."

"How long have you had this?" Colvin demanded.

"Longer than we'd hoped to," Tricker snapped back. "But you two wouldn't get off your fat backsides and fix your security problems. And we sure as hell weren't going to turn this over to you without some protection in place."

Serena turned the case so that it faced her. She studied the ruined arm.

Terminator, definitely. Cyberdyne Systems model 101. Still fairly new when she'd been sent back. Which had undoubtedly been its problem. Too much to learn in the middle of a crowd of fully functioning human beings.

She looked up at Tricker. "We'll take good care of this one."

"The chip?" Warren said hopefully.

"Sorry," Tricker snarled. "We got lucky. But we didn't get fantastically lucky.

You'll have to make do with this."

"These pieces look like relays," Colvin said, his eyes, as they roved over the mechanism, alight with the joy of discovery. "Relays and subsidiary decision

nodes, memory… We'll learn a lot from this, damaged as it is. A distributed system. There's processing capacity here."

"We'll let these guys worry about how this thing worked," Serena said, grinning at Tricker. "I'll make sure it's safe." She nodded at him, her eyes serious. "I guarantee it."

VON ROSSBACH'S ESTANCIA, PARAGUAY: THE PRESENT

Elsa Encinas, Epifanio's niece, deftly swung the tray of hors d'oeuvres out from under Victor Griego's hand.

"This is for the guests!" she hissed.

"But I am a guest," he protested.

Elsa simply gave him a look of blistering scorn. Then she turned her shoulder to him and moved away.

Victor hissed and turned to the bar. He hated the way these uppity peasants kept treating him, and everybody else—that stupid rumor about his mother. It had been a bus, not a broken heart.

Victor topped up his glass and turned to study the other guests. The Salcidos, a very well-off husband and wife, sleek and well dressed, were behaving as though he wasn't even in the room. Another couple, fairly new to Villa Hayes, Pedro and Zita Kaiser, occasionally darted a nervous glance in his direction. They felt the undercurrent; they just didn't know the reason for it. But they'd decided to follow the other couple's lead. Not to mention their host's. Von Rossbach had

introduced Victor in an offhand way that pretty much implied courtesy would be wasted on him.

Victor was pretty certain it wasn't his appearance; he was freshly shaved and showered and von Rossbach had insisted on dressing him in what he called decent clothes. Decent clothes consisted of slacks and a sports shirt.

He took another sip of his drink. Sarah Connor hadn't arrived yet and he wondered where in the hell she was. The sooner they got started the sooner he could get out of here. After three days he'd had a bellyful of Villa Hayes. Not to mention putting distance between himself and the knife-happy John Connor.

Rotten kid. He took a long swallow and topped off his drink again. Now, there was someone who could break his mother's heart. If his mother wasn't a loca killer herself.

"Do you mind going a little easier on that stuff," Dieter said from just behind him.

Griego started, spilling gin on his fingers.

"Jesus!" Victor snapped. "Compared to you cats go stomping around like elephants!"

"I want you sober enough to identify her when she comes," Dieter said quietly.

"Or not, if it's not her. I don't want you so drunk you can't tell the difference."

Griego let out his breath in a hiss. "Of course, senor," he said sullenly. He brightened a little. "And then we can part company, eh?"

"Thank God." Dieter moved over to his other guests, who received him with smiles.

Griego glowered. Thank God, he agreed. He couldn't wait to get out of here.

Marieta came in and stopped just inside the doorway; the woman following her almost ran her down. "Senora Krieger," she intoned as though announcing royalty.

Dieter's face lit up. "Suzanne!" he said, and came over to take her hand. "It's good to see you."

Sarah looked at him with a warm smile, although it was all she could do not to flinch as he clasped her hand. It was also hard to keep herself from searching out Griego. But that would be fatal. Instead she turned to the group around the coffee table.

"Come meet everybody," Dieter said with gesture toward the Kaisers.

" Mba'eichapa?" Sarah greeted them in the local fashion as she approached and Pedro rose, putting out his hand. After shaking hands with the Kaisers, she turned to the Salcidos and exchanged hellos and small talk for a moment.

"And this is Senor Griego," von Rossbach said, pointing toward the bar. He gave Victor a disapproving frown.

"Hello," Sarah said politely, her face showing mild curiosity.

"Good evening, senora," Victor said with a slight bow.

"Can I get you something to drink?" Dieter asked.

"A gin and tonic?" Sarah asked. "With a twist."

"Be right back," he said.

Sarah sat and began to chat with his other guests as Dieter went about fixing her drink.

"Well?" he said quietly to Victor. "Is it her?"

"I honestly don't think so," Griego said offhandedly. "But it has been years since I last saw her. And if it isn't her, the resemblance is outstanding. Let me watch her for a while, maybe speak to her, and then I'll know for sure."

To be perfectly honest, Griego had to admit that if John Connor hadn't shown up to threaten his life he really wouldn't have been certain. This woman was very different from the Sarah Connor he'd known years ago. That woman was all stringy muscle and mad eyes. This woman was sleek and elegant and calm.

Could a change in attitude so change a person that you wouldn't recognize them?

He shook his head.

"Give me a little time," he said at last. "Then I'll know for certain."

A muscle jumped in von Rossbach's cheek, and when he looked up from the drink he'd been mixing his eyes were dangerous. "Be very certain," he murmured, and went back to his guests.

Throughout dinner Victor watched Sarah like a hawk while Dieter watched him,

though less obviously. Whenever Griego spoke, even though his remarks were usually limited to "pass the butter," a little silence descended, and at no time did anyone speak directly to him. Victor had started dinner in a bad mood and it went rapidly downhill from there.

When they all rose from the table and moved toward the parlor for coffee and brandy, Griego found von Rossbach walking beside him.

"Well?" Dieter asked quietly.

"I'm not sure," Victor said, or rather slurred. He'd drunk most of his dinner. "But I had a thought. Why don't you get her to stay behind for some reason. Then, while you're showing your other guests out, I'll talk to her one-on-one. Y'see?"

"I don't want to cause her embarrassment," Dieter said. "I'm satisfied already that she's not Sarah Connor. If you can't tell whether she is or isn't, then I'm going to assume it's because she isn't."

Daringly, Victor put his hand on the big man's arm, whisking it off again instantly at Dieter's look. "But you want to be sure?" he whispered. "After putting up with me for most of a week, you should be sure."

"I am sure," Dieter said, the firmness of his voice leaving no doubt.

"Tut tut tut tut tut!" Victor shook his finger. "But the good Senor Ferarri,"

Griego said with an airy gesture, "he is not so sure. Yes?"

Dieter looked at him with an icy stillness that almost sobered Griego. "I'll think of something," he said at last.

After an hour or so of small talk Senora Salcido observed that it was growing late, and Zita Kaiser, still feeling uncertain about the evening's underlying tension, agreed with her. Their husbands began to shift and stir and Sarah said something about it having been a long day.

"Don't go yet, Suzanne," von Rossbach pleaded. "I want to introduce you to that watchdog I was talking about."

Sarah's mouth dropped open and her heart gave a lurch. Shit! she thought. In spite of how excruciating this evening had been, nothing had actually gone wrong. Now she wanted to get out of here before anything could.

"I'm sorry, Dieter, but you know how John feels about that subject," she said.

"I just want you to meet him," von Rossbach insisted. "Just wait a minute, okay?"

There wasn't much she could do but acquiesce as gracefully as she could. She could feel the others looking at her, wondering what was up. Maybe I've been in Paraguay too long, she thought. What they're thinking actually matters to me.

Dieter rose and thanked the others for coming, ignoring their speculative looks, and wished them a safe drive home as he politely, but in every conceivable way, urged them to leave.

In varying degrees of confusion and amusement, they shook hands, said thanks, and allowed him to herd them to the door. Dieter accompanied them to their cars, being charming, being friendly, the perfect host. Leaving Sarah and Victor alone together.

Sarah rose and went out onto the patio without a word. She'd been discreetly checking the room for cameras or bugs all evening and had seen nothing suspicious. That didn't mean they weren't there. She wasn't about to blow her cover with an ill advised tete-a-tete with the gunrunner.

"Nothing to say to an old friend?" Victor said, following her outside. He paused in the doorway to light a cigar.

"Do you mind?" Sarah asked. "I can't stand those things."

Victor shook out the match and flicked it away into the night.

"Sarah," he said, "I have spent the better part of the week being ignored by the people in this house and pretending to ignore them. I'm not in the mood to have someone no better than I am turn her shoulder to me and tell me not to smoke."

He stepped closer to her and touched her on the shoulder with one finger.

He pushed her shoulder hard, his face ugly with bitterness and drink.

"Hey!" Sarah said. She glared at him. "Don't touch me."

Victor melted into a false solicitude. "Awww, have I offended you, senora?" he asked. "Oh, I am so sorry. You send your son to threaten me with torture and death. He cut me with a knife!" Victor lifted his chin and pointed to the scab on his neck. "But I touched you with my finger, so I am an eeeevil man! Oh! I am soooo sorry." He bowed from the waist and fell into her.

"Stop it!" Sarah snapped, fending him off. "You stupid drunk!"

Griego, drunk and overbalanced, grabbed her hips to keep himself upright. He began to giggle helplessly, while Sarah struggled to push him away.

"I'm sorry," he said, "Really, I am. I'm sorry."

Unfortunately he was laughing so hard that he couldn't let go. He rested his head on her bosom giggling breathlessly and Sarah began to slap the top of his head.

It was irtto this scene that Dieter walked.

"Epifanio!" he roared.

Then he stepped forward and grabbed Victor, who, despite his genuine horror at the way things were turning out, still couldn't keep himself from laughing.

Dieter, one hand on Victor's collar, the other grasping the waistband of his pants, force-marched him into the living room and tossed him headfirst onto the couch.

Epifanio came running in, an apron around his narrow waist.

"Senor?"

Sarah stood in the doorway, one hand over her mouth, her eyes wide.