Unacceptable Risk

Chapter 15

They had it planned so there was plenty of time to stop at the hospital and see Anna before arriving at the publishing house. Michael stood back by the door when Grady went to Anna's side and when she talked with Anna's mother. With out fail, there were tears in her eyes when she left, and Michael would let time pass before saying anything. He hoped she would be okay with the publisher meeting, but he noticed that as soon as they got out into the open air, she seemed to transform herself and to put the sadness in a corner of her mind.

The publishing house was somewhat overpowering, even in the lobby. It was brass and glass and wasn't like anything Michael could recall except on occasional trips to Rio. There was art on the walls that looked like splashy paint accidents. His father had told him about such art but had been astounded that the buying public opened their wallets and received it into their workplaces and even their homes. Childhood mem ories were of museums filled with paintings of comprehensible images.

There was a tentative aspect to his gait because of his injuries. On the phone he had warned his editor of his physical condition, claiming that there had been an unfortunate run-in with unsavory characters in the jungle. To a publisher, he knew, such a story had substantial juice and there would be an attentive audience for the lunchtime tale. He would explain Grady as a member of a scientific expedition that happened by to rescue him, and her enthusiasm as a reader. That along with the simple observation of her person and her wit would complete the explanation. All of the bodyguards save Yodo would remain downstairs and he would explain Yodo as his newfound jungle companion and assistant. He was comforted by the fact that, try as they might, they wouldn't get more than one or two sentences out of Yodo.

He produced his passport for the guard at the desk, and the man leaned back as if it required concentration to compare the photograph with the face. Michael decided to smile just to see if that would confuse him. The man nodded and called Rebecca on the telephone. Grady and Yodo received only a perfunctory glance with respect to identification, although the man's eyes lingered on Grady for other reasons.

Soon Rebecca Toussant was standing in front of him. She was a well-dressed, handsome woman, tall, with a charming smile and a firm handshake. Rebecca had a knack for being warm, disarming, and dignified all at the same time. Even on the phone he had liked her, and now he liked her even better. He wondered if it would be that way with the others. Right away she asked about his injuries, how he was feeling and the like. Of course he proclaimed that all was well and ignored the deep aching in his body. It was all he could do not to mention the letter from Georges Raval.

They made their way into the elevator, conversing as they went. Grady listened without speaking and Yodo towered in the corner. When they arrived at her office, Rebecca pointed up and down the hall explaining the layout of the publishing house, mentioning various individuals that Michael had heard about over the years. Yodo found a chair large enough to be comfortable in the small waiting area outside Rebecca's office and planted one hand inside his coat. Michael knew that it was wrapped around the butt of his gun and that he would remain perpetually ready to kill someone. As they followed Rebecca into her office, and despite himself, Michael couldn't help chuckling. Grady got the joke-the absurdity of it- and patted her purse where he knew she kept a handgun. She grinned. When Rebecca turned at her sofa, she probably just figured that she had an especially happy group.

Michael and Grady saw his books, along with hundreds of others, on her shelf. There was beige carpet, a couch, and a large wood table that caught his interest. The wood of the desk had a deep reddish hue and didn't quite look like ma hogany.

On her table lay a picture book of the coastal California mountains and the redwoods, and when he laid eyes on it, he finalized his plan in an instant. He would return to the terrain of his childhood, the forests of northern California, and spend a year writing about them just as he had done the Amazon. He knew that no sane man would make such a snap judgment, but it didn't matter. He already had.

"It is so exciting to meet you," Rebecca said with utter sincerity.

She wanted him to talk, to paint word pictures of the Amazon, its people, his house, and all the little things about life in the jungle. She wanted that, even though she had read thousands of pages. He supposed there was some magic in the flesh-and-blood presence of an explorer, so he went with it and spoke without reservation or self-conscious inhibition. All the while the Raval letter was on his mind, but he knew to bide his time and to avoid seeming anxious. And he wasn't sure yet whether he wanted to share its contents.

After almost an hour of talking and questions, Grady and Rebecca excused themselves to the restrooms. On her way out Rebecca handed him a stack of fan mail. There were about fifty letters. On top was the missive from Georges Raval.

There is a great secret in the science of genetics that is in two parts. I know the one part and you know the other. There are many who want this secret and they will do anything to get it. Together we can revolu tionize medicine, unlock the keys to genetic science, replace body parts with near frivolous abandon, and probably cure the ravages of many immune response diseases forever. There are evil forces at work. Once they learn your part of the secret, they will kill you and the same for me. Be careful. We need to meet. Contact me at macaquemania@hotmail. com. Destroy this. Stay safe. Georges Raval

Methodically he tore the message into small pieces. Next he wrote a message for Rebecca to send.

This forwarded from Dr. Bowden: Received your message. Anxious to discuss your most recent re search. Contact me through our mutual colleague, Dr. Richard Lyman, Biological Sciences, Cornell Univer sity. We could meet in Ithaca or elsewhere at your con venience. Looking forward to speaking.

They had lunch at a restaurant, where they sat around a large rectangular table with Grady and Michael in the middle. Michael was listening to Rebecca's boss, Henry, explain about his yacht, and at the same time he looked around the restaurant at the strange new world in which he found himself. In Iquitos and Leticia or Tabatinga everything seemed to exist in a constant state of deterioration. The instant a new coat of paint was applied, the Amazon sun and the humidity began their attack. This natural force that wanted to work against man and all his endeavors seemed more than the sum of its parts. In New York City it wasn't like that. Things that were old often seemed exquisite and, like wine, they seemed to get better with age. On the other hand, natural beauty was extinguished. There were no sweeping forests to frame the sky, no sense of myriad living things fitting together in a multitude of fascinations that could even entice the mind of God, the Creator.

They might build a pond and put a fish in it, but it was a fish without a world-save the thin veneer created by the cement makers who built the pond. There were pigeons in the park, but they were not part of anything but the pastime of the very old and the very young, both of whom seemed to like to feed them. People lived by their clocks and everything was thus regulated. Therefore, very few things happened that weren't foreordained. Each day was not an experiment but a manufactured event.

There were, however, those unanticipated eventualities.

After the boss was finished about the yacht, the conversation continued in brief flurries about the Amazon and various questions, Michael having taken a breather from the lecture format. Around the table most everyone was watching him and they seemed to be wondering how he liked his food. He tried to look pleased. It seemed to be very refined grease. It had been a mistake not to order a simple piece of fish and some vegetables. Maybe a little rice. It was billed as a seafood restaurant with something of an eclectic menu, but somehow he had ended up in the pasta section, so he had ordered what passed for food in Italy, according to its descrip tion. It was flooded with a fatty sauce that he was sure would wreak havoc with his innards. Perhaps he could order something more straightforward without embarrassing his hosts.

At what seemed a reasonable breaking point, he rose from the table and determined that he would retire to the rest- room and then stop by the kitchen.

Located just off the entry lobby, the restroom facilities were at the other end of the establishment. With Yodo following, he walked past all the chefs behind the cooking bar and saw a number of dishes that looked palatable. As he rounded a corner, a man stepped out of the shadows. Yodo immediately stepped between him and the man. With a wry smile Michael peered around his large bodyguard.

"You are Michael Bowden." The stranger was just under six feet with close-cropped brown hair, a mustache, gold wire-rimmed spectacles, slightly uneven teeth, and a narrow face. Although not much to look at, there was confidence in his bearing and an intensity about him that caused Michael to take him seriously.

"Yes, I am. Who are you?"

"I am John Stephan and my firm represents a pharmaceu tical interest that would like to speak with you confidentially. But it must be in confidence. I am a lawyer." He handed him a card with a phone number and Michael put it in his pocket. "Could we talk without the man-mountain?" he said nod ding at Yodo.

Michael hesitated. "I have nothing to hide. What do you mean by 'in confidence'?"

"We need confidence," he said again referring to Yodo.

"Yodo maybe you could wait by the bar over there." Yodo moved about thirty feet away looking very concerned.

"We would like to speak with you privately at our law offices. We are a large Wall Street firm. Binkley, Hart, and Rove. The managing partner for this matter is Arthur Stewart. If you have an attorney, he may call Mr. Stewart. We like to think we have the highest standards and we plan on documenting everything we tell you. Everything." Then the man turned away from Yodo and whispered. "Specifically, we are concerned about the man you call Sam. We believe he may be using you for purposes you're not aware of. That is not to say that he wants to harm you, it's just to say that he has his own agenda." The man leaned even closer. "He is known to be engaged in a private war with a man who calls himself Gaudet, among other names, and that is not a concern of ours, and as far as we can tell, it should not be a concern of yours except that you have knowledge that he wants and that we want."

Michael did not reply.

"Put simply, you are being used as bait, Mr. Bowden. And in addition everyone wants what you have and this Sam is not above taking it. You notice how he keeps talking about your journals, wanting to get at them? What's his motive? Is it to protect you? Think about it. He doesn't need those journals to protect you. If they had been in your house on the Galvez River when he arrived, you never would have seen him or heard from him. He'd have what he wants."

"Explain that."

"First the bait part. Sam is hired by the U.S. government to help them find Gaudet. Gaudet needs some information. Sam has let it be known to Gaudet that you have what he needs. So Gaudet went to your house and raided it sometime ago, only he went much sooner than Sam expected and Sam failed to get there first to lay a trap and to beat him to the journals-which people erroneously thought would be in the house. As a result your wife was killed. If Gaudet believes he needs you, he will come, and that is what Sam is counting on. You're Sam's trap for Gaudet. Do you understand?"

"How would you know this unless you were being used by Gaudet?"

"I and my colleagues will explain that after reaching some preliminary understandings. We can give you refer ences that we believe you will find impeccable. But I haven't explained the second part. There is a secret about the human immune system and how to neutralize it with respect to chosen proteins. I'm sure you understand."

"I've heard."

"And it is thought that part of that secret came from you."

"What kind of business do you have with me?"

"A straightforward pharmaceutical deal to replace or supplement the deal you had with Northern Lights."

At that moment Michael saw Yodo slowly moving closer and waved him off.

"How do you know the deal with Northern Lights?"

"We don't, completely, but we'll answer all your questions at our offices. There will be a company representative present who will have full authority to negotiate. Naturally, we don't expect you to agree to anything until you have consulted with your own attorneys."

"I need to think this over."

"No problem. But please give me a commitment that you will meet at our offices soon and that you will not bring this fellow Sam."

"I said I would think about it. Making commitments is not thinking about it."

"You will keep our discussions to yourself?"

"I will tell whomever I please."

"We respect fully your right to make your own choices, but may I suggest that you cannot choose intelligently with out the facts. You are being used, Mr. Bowden, and it is dan gerous for all of us. Dangerous for the security of the whole world, if you will."

"I don't like your pressure or your insinuations that now suddenly I am the threat. I threaten nothing. I am a man of peace. I will call you when I am ready to talk and not before. Now please excuse me."

Sam was methodically clenching his abdominal muscles; he had learned to work them while sitting at a table. Regular exercise was more a matter of adjusting to tedious consistency than it was dressing for exercise and hanging around the health club ab machines. He wore a hat of Scotch-plaid wool out of the 1950s and sported a carefully trimmed blond beard and sat in a corner with a glass of red wine, an old vines Napa Valley Zinfindel, and a copy of the Wall Street Journal. With Brie cheese and smoked-salmon salad-the salmon was very moist and lightly smoked to perfection-it was hard to beat, and as the glorious flavors mingled on his palate, he was alert to every nuance of his environment.

About one hundred feet away sat Michael and Grady and the entire entourage with bodyguards spread about. None of them would have a clue that he was anywhere near, though his dark complexion in contrast to his beard color might cause an observer to wonder just how tan an Anglo could get. His shoes were ungodly-looking saddle backs, his trousers nondescript dark wool without pleats, and he had a visible paunch with rolls like footballs. He wore a gold watch that was a cheap knockoff of a gawdy Rolex, and he looked the part of a fat, self-indulgent businessman taking it easy while his minions worked their asses off to give him the good life.

He noticed when Michael rose from the table and watched him coming toward the foyer and the restrooms at the far end. There was a long line of chefs and gorgeous foodstuffs on display and a short section that was an oyster bar for those inclined. Sam was inclined, but oysters weren't his concern of the moment: Michael Bowden was.

As he watched the man talking to Michael, Sam slipped the 10mm Glock from his shoulder holster and placed it under a newspaper in his lap. The move wasn't quite slick enough because a young woman seated nearby had eyes grown wide with fear. Quickly Sam flopped open a gold shield that he carried for just such occasions and she seemed to calm slightly. Sam memorized the stranger's appearance, the brown close-cropped hair, the mustache, the thin lips, and the lack of animation in the face. The man was probably a very linear no-nonsense type. He had a wedding ring, an expensive three-button suit, good shoes. It was no ordinary encounter, but neither did it seem like a setup for a grab.

Yodo stepped away obviously at Michael's insistence. Both men appeared intense, concentrating on their conversation. They had been talking for at least a couple of minutes.

It was out of the corner of his eye that Sam caught the most interesting action. An old man in the waiting area folded his newspaper and rose. By the way he folded the paper, two ends to the middle and then again, and placed it under his arm, and the way he rose and his bearing as he stood, Sam knew him by heart. There was a great tendency for spooks to do as Sam had done and to go the Santa Claus route. Add fat, age, hair, and a hat. Voila.

By the time Michael returned to the table, they were ready for more Amazon stories.

"Let me get you something else," Rebecca said. "How about some salmon?"

"Sounds delicious, but I have ordered up some catfish filets."

"All this rich food must seem strange if you're used to manioc, jungle fruit, rice, beans, and fish."

"I see the things in magazines and I remember what I ate as a child. You know like pizza, spaghetti, giant hamburgers. Western food is in the large cities but I often pass on that. We have beef now and then from ranches on the Maranon and once I made a pizza for my friends on the river. Everyone loved it. They ate too much and got sick. So that was the last pizza. If I am not too busy working, I mix many fruits and make a compote and use a little pepper or curry and put it on the fish. When I get to California, I will try all sorts of what you call international cuisine for a little while. But I think I will always like fruit, fish, and vegetables. Actually, my favorite thing about the United States is its veg etables."

They talked on about life in the rain forest and what it was like to paddle around water-filled villages built on stilts. Everyone listened and asked questions until the middle of the afternoon and then the group broke up. Michael and Grady would return to the publishing house in their own cab, but for the moment they were taking a breather and standing in the corner looking at the wine. Although Michael did not know a great deal about wine, he knew he liked drinking it.

"I'm thinking I would like to go be bait in California and start my work. I thought maybe you could come with me."

Grady paused and he could tell she was thinking.

She put her hand on his arm and squeezed it. "You are one hot guy. The kind of guy girls wrap themselves around in their sleep. Right now I have some thinking to do in my life. I need to get back to California and see my boyfriend. I haven't really resolved my situation there. I think I need to be in LA to think things over and I know you want to go up north to the forests." She paused. "I know you'll return to the depths of the Amazon before too long and I haven't figured that out. Maybe while I'm in LA, you could find a place to live in California. Then maybe, who knows?"

"I see," Michael said, determined to look cheery. "Well, maybe Gaudet will come and find me and we can end all this one way or the other."

"Don't say that. It needs to end our way."

Once back in his room, Michael found a slow depression settling over him. Perhaps the man in the restaurant was telling the truth. Perhaps Grady was part of an elaborate trap. After a few minutes of mulling it over, he conceded that he couldn't know for certain about Sam, but Grady he was sure of. It wasn't hard to imagine Sam having more on his agenda than he was letting on to Grady.

All this suspicion was troubling; Michael was not used to it Perhaps he was influenced by Grady's rebuff more than he ought to be. Not knowing what else to do, he called Rebecca, who was in his view a wise woman.

"You know the young woman Grady."

"Yes?"

"She is leaving for LA soon. I will be going to northern California, to the wilderness."

"You sound a little forlorn."

"I guess I was enjoying her company."

"She was certainly enjoying yours."

"Really?"

"Take it from me."

"You know some things are not meant to be. She is maybe for me a Chullachaqui."

"Which is?"

"The natives believe that sometimes you run into a person in the rain forest that is really a spirit. To figure it out, you look at their right foot. If it isn't a hoof then they are flesh and blood. Maybe she is a product of my imagination created from a life-and-death situation." He smiled into the handset. "I know of course that she is as real as you and I, but maybe I have made of her something in my mind that she is not."

"Maybe she has done the same. Maybe she's afraid."

"Of what?"

"I don't know. Maybe you should try to find out," Rebecca suggested.

"I'll think about that. You're a good friend. I have something else I needed to speak with you about. Do you know a law firm called

… let me find it… Binkley, Hart, and Rove?"

"Of course. They're huge."

"And reputable?"

"As reputable as a big New York law firm can be. You'll have to pardon my cynicism. They are very reputable."

Michael received the call shortly after speaking with Rebecca.

"Have you thought over our offer to meet? We would like to meet the day after tomorrow at six in the evening."

"I said I would call. Have I called?"

"We would like some assurance that you will be there."

"Or what?"

"We will need to do business with someone else. You will miss out. We'll wait for you at six." The man hung up.

Michael was weary of people telling him what to do, of being followed, of having bodyguards, of being the bait It did not feel as if he were a free man. It was troubling that these unknown, undefined people knew his comings and goings even down to the restaurant selected by the publishing house. Notwithstanding the fancy law firm, he was suspi cious of their intent, and their identity. Greed was a powerful force, and he wasn't sure he trusted people motivated by greed more than those, like Sam, motivated by emotion or revenge.

Michael didn't want to be part of any plot but one of his own making. It was as simple as that.

He thought about the proposed meeting time: 6:00 p.m. It seemed a little late in the day. Or was it? He considered call ing Grady. He was less inclined to call Sam because he wanted to keep his options open. Although he had resolved himself to helping catch Gaudet, he wasn't sure he wanted to do everything else on Sam's agenda. This was not the Amazon and the rules were different. Still, he didn't want to change to fit somebody else's rules. For years he had made it in the jungle by himself and he had decided he would con tinue to live his life pretty much in that fashion. Talking with Grady, on the other hand… After a few thoughtful mo ments he decided the situation made a perfect excuse to see her.

At that moment his phone rang. When he answered, it was Richard Lyman.

"A Dr. Raval called. He was very secretive and mysteri ous. He asked if I thought you could meet him in Manhattan. I didn't know what to say, but I said I thought you could. Of course I didn't tell him that you are already there. He says he could meet you on any of the next three evenings at five at the Christopher Street subway station for the one or nine train. It's the side of the station that serves trains coming from lower Manhattan-from the area of the financial district. If you want to meet him there, he says he will explain through Rebecca. He says send a message through Rebecca or otherwise to confirm. I didn't understand the 'or otherwise,' but he said you would."

After reassuring his friend that everything was okay, Michael hung up. He noticed that his heart was pounding.

Michael called Rebecca.

"I need a confidential favor. Very confidential."

"Of course you have it. There is more intrigue in your lit tle finger than in my whole life. Please don't think me gauche if I tell you it's really fun."

"I need you to write another e-mail."

"Okay. Shoot."

"Send an e-mail to macaquemania at hotmail. com."

Will meet tomorrow as per your last. I will be with a blond young woman. She is a safe friend. There will also be bodyguards. But we will talk in private, and when I approach, I will leave all others behind. Perhaps you have ideas on how and where to meet. Anyplace in Manhattan is good for me.

Rebecca sent the e-mail and within ten minutes was back on the phone with a response.

I will be at the Christopher Street subway station by the newsstand near the entrance at 5:00 P.M. wear ing a long coat with a white carnation. You watch from Starbucks. When you see me, come to the doorway of Starbucks and pause just outside. Put on your gloves. If I remove the carnation from my lapel, then follow me. I will go to the doorway of a large apartment building. You follow. Leave all other persons at least one hundred feet distant. You and I will go inside the building for privacy. Once we are inside, your body guards may wait anywhere outside the building. If you see anyone suspicious or strange who looks like they might have an interest in our business, walk back to the Lutheran church. Go inside and sit in a pew. If you don't hear from me in twenty minutes leave and I will contact you again. Stay safe. I believe we are both in the gravest danger.

"I think you should call the police," Rebecca remarked.

"No. He's only a scientist. I already have people who can call the police."

"He doesn't sound like a scientist. And he says you are in the gravest danger."

"He's right, Rebecca. You've done enough for me now. Thank you for your help. Really."

"Of course. But-"

"Rebecca, where could I go that would allow me to return to the Christopher Street station that he describes?"

"You're not going to listen to me, are you?"

"I have bodyguards. I have people who know the police. It's all taken care of."

"Well, if you're sure." She sighed, obviously thinking it over. "You're staying in Greenwich Village, I take it."

"Yes."

"You could go down to Wall Street, lower Manhattan."

"Why would I go there?"

"Oh, an excuse. I get it. Uhm, well, you're an explorer, a National Geographic-type guy. Abercrombie and Fitch has a store down there at the South Street Seaport shopping mall."

"Has everybody heard of Abercrombie and Fitch?"

"Most people."

"What do they sell?"

"They used to sell things for jungle expeditions. You could be excused for thinking they still do."

"You are a smart woman, Rebecca. Thanks again. I really appreciate it."

"Don't thank me. Just try to stay alive."

Grady met Michael knowing she looked a little the worse for wear. For a split second she wondered if she regretted her decision to go home and figure out her life. Unfortunately, Michael Bowden would believe that she was going her sepa rate way and the situation would feel like rejection. Men were that way.

"You look good in that." He smiled and gave a bit of a lopsided grin.

She wore a fancy pair of blue jeans, a braided belt, and a dark floral-print blouse.

"Then again," he said, "I don't recall ever seeing you in anything that looked bad."

In the foyer she put on her flak jacket under a heavy parka.

They took a cab to Pete's Tavern, and although she wanted to take his arm or give him some other physical signal of reassurance, she forbade herself.

"You don't look so happy," he said.

"I'm going to miss you," she answered.

They sat in a rickety bench seat with an old varnished table. The bar was crowded. It seemed the place was full of people who knew each other, people who shared little pieces of their lives in this neighborhood. Even though there were millions of people in Manhattan, somehow the people in this spot managed to have a sense of community.

"There is something I need to tell you," Michael said.

He told her the story of the encounter with the lawyer in the restaurant.

When he finished, she tapped the table. She knew the veins at the base of her neck would be standing out as her face reddened.

"I can't believe you didn't tell me this."

"Well, don't get mad. I'm telling you now."

"You could get killed or kidnapped. You're practically a national treasure and I like you."

"Okay, well, I'm still here."

"Good. Let's keep it that way."

"But I've got to do my business." He tilted his head and smiled a little.

"You accepted protection from Sam and the governments who hire him. You're supposed to let us keep you alive. Don't forget that. And besides, is it all right if I care what happens to you?"

"You have a boyfriend. Responsibilities. I look out for myself. Always have."

"We have to call Sam. Do you object to my calling Sam?"

"Wouldn't matter if I did."

"You got that right."

It took a while to get Sam. They patched her through to his cell phone and it rang forever. Quickly she explained Michael's encounter with the lawyer in the restaurant and just as quickly Sam explained what he wanted.

"Sam's coming from LA to New York. He's going to that meeting."

"What?" Michael's brain was moving but not fast enough. "He can't."

Grady just smiled.

"Okay. How?"

"To get in the door," she said, and winked, "he'll pretend to be you."

Michael wasn't at all certain he would allow Sam to at tend the meeting in his stead. But at the moment he was more concerned about meeting Georges Raval.

"I'd like to go to Abercrombie and Fitch." He tried to sound nonchalant, but he wasn't sure he had succeeded.

"Huh?"

"Abercrombie and Fitch. Haven't you heard of them?"

"Of course, they're a dude store."

"You said I was a dude. So can't I go?"

"You're not that kind of dude." She wrinkled her nose. "All right. I'll get us some cabs."

"I want to take the subway."

"The subway?"

She called Yodo over from his corner and they huddled with one of the other guards. No doubt there would be a lot of talk about "security" and the subway. They walked Irving Street to the 1 and 9 at Fourteenth Street and went down Manhattan to Wall Street. From there they walked the few blocks to the Seaport shopping area, where they found Abercrombie amp; Fitch. Michael did his best to peruse the merchandise, but he was much more interested in hearing Grady's stories about growing up in LA.

At 4:25 p.m. he glanced at his watch.

"I've seen enough," he said. "Let's go."

"Let's take a cab."

"I like the subway. We take the 1 and 9 to Christopher, and it's only a short cab ride or a good walk."

"Since when did you become an expert on the subway?"

"Since I got a map. There is a saying, 'Em Roma, se romano.' "

"What's that mean?"

" 'When in Rome I am Roman.' "

"Michael, you are up to something here and you're terrible at hiding it."

"Huh?" It was another pitiful attempt to cover up.

"You've been, like, glancing at your watch every five minutes."

"I'll explain in a few minutes."

"Why a few minutes?"

"You'll have to wait for an explanation. You can come or stay."

"Unless this is a birthday surprise-and it's not my birthday-you're out of your depth with this shit. You gonna tell me?"

Michael just kept walking, setting his mouth in a grim line.

And, damn it, she followed.

They boarded the subway for the ride back up the West side of Manhattan. Once again he got her talking about her life in LA, until they exited at the Christopher Street station. It was 4:45 P.M., too early for Georges Raval. Michael couldn't help looking around the entrance to the south bound anyway.

"Now what?" she asked.

"We go into Starbucks for coffee."

"Who are you looking for? Your eyeballs might as well be on gimbals."

They walked past the newsstand, crossed the street from the little concrete island that was the entrance to the Christopher Street station, and walked into Starbucks.

"I'll clear all this up shortly."

"Now would be a good time," Grady said.

"What's a macchiato?"

"Italian for stained as with caramel in the coffee. You're not going to distract me."

Two of the bodyguards remained outside. Yodo and two others spread out around the place and each took a turn going to the counter and ordering. Grady and Michael were first in line and each ordered a soy latte with almond syrup.

They sat at a small table which was a little low for his height.

She unzipped her coat and got comfortable, but he kept his eyes on the subway staircase and the newsstand not one hundred feet away where he expected to see a man in a coat with a carnation.

"In a few minutes I'm going to meet a man. We will fol low him; then I will go alone into an apartment building. If it doesn't look good, we go to the Lutheran church."

"You know this man?"

"Not exactly."

"No way can you go by yourself into a building."

"Get used to it."

"No. I won't get used to it. How about a compromise? How about we stand back so you can talk in private."

"We need real privacy. You must wait outside the build ing"

"It's too risky."

At that moment Michael saw a man in a dark coat crossing the street to the Christopher Street station. In the press of bodies he couldn't see the lapel. Slowly he rose, intent on the man and his coat. Then he saw the white carnation. The man was blond with longish hair and a beard. He walked easily- younger than he expected. And big. Could it be the right man? Then the man stopped right beside the newsstand near the subway stairs, just as he had said. It had to be him. Michael rose, went to the door of Starbucks, brushed his fin gers through his hair, and put on his gloves. With a quick swipe of the hand, the carnation was gone.

Quickly the man began walking down Christopher. Michael followed and immediately Grady was on his arm, the whole entourage following.

As they walked down the darkened sidewalk amongst New Yorkers and tourists, the cabs were jamming the streets and crowds were going home. The air was cold and the psychic intensity of rush hour was running high.

"Can you see him?" she said to Michael.

"Sometimes."

They were passing the Lutheran church.

"You'll need to stop in a minute while I keep going a little way ahead of you. I need some space."

"No way."

The tension in him began to mount. For reasons he couldn't fathom he felt danger.

"What's happening, Michael?"

"Ahead. The man in the dark coat will soon cross the street and go into an apartment building. I will need to go alone inside."

"You're out of your mind."

"Then let me be out of my mind. This is important."

"Let's talk about it first," she said, stalling for time.

They were walking slowly now past a commercial build ing. She thought she saw someone step out from between two buildings ahead and then step back. Quickly she looked behind to Yodo and the other two guards and then to the one in front. Immediately behind them and in front of Yodo walked two men in heavy overcoats that seemed more grim than the weather. Not feeling right, she nodded to Yodo, suggesting that they cross the street. Yodo turned and looked be hind and her eyes followed his and she focused on two more men coming up through the crowd. And then two more to the side.

"I need to go alone."

She barely heard Michael. A man had something in Yodo's side. She suspected a gun or a knife, although there were suddenly more people swarming and she couldn't be sure. Sam had been teaching her to listen to her instincts.

"You really need to stop here," Michael was saying. "Is someone following us?" he changed his thought in mid-sen tence.

"Definitely!"

Yodo nodded to cross the street before whirling and strik ing one of the men.

"Come on," she said, grabbing Michael's arm. Michael hesitated. She yanked and screamed, "Go." They ran across the street through a meager break in the traffic. A couple of irate cabbies slammed on their brakes, probably needlessly. Others didn't and they blocked their pursuers.

To the far side of the street, there was a building of perhaps twelve stories and a smaller one beside made of a cut stone that was an elegant off-white. There was a service en trance and a space between the buildings. Along the side walk were awnings and near the small building wrought iron fences, stoops, and steps, a confusing array of obstacles and hiding places depending on the motivations of the observer. Right now she wanted to escape and her eyes were scouring, looking for someplace to go. There were enough men that they could be drugged and "helped" into a car or van before the police or anyone else could do anything.

They ran down the street, dodging startled people, some of whom shouted obscenities. She headed for a side street. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw all five of their bodyguards, including Yodo, in some kind of street fight. One of the men broke free to follow across the street and was imme diately tackled. A man was running down the sidewalk, pushing through the crowd toward Yodo, shouting, "Police." She wondered for a second whether he was really the police.

When she and Michael rounded the corner of the side street, Michael grabbed her arm and pointed to a heavy six-inch black pipe that went up the side of the cut stone building. It was an inch from the building held by brackets bolted into the mortar, and no doubt into the wood superstructure beneath. There was just enough room between the pipe and the building to allow space for fingers. Looking more monkey than man, Michael climbed up rapidly, hand over hand, with his feet walking up the building in an amazing display of agility. His adrenaline had to be through the roof-he showed almost no sign of the wounded thigh that had nearly killed him. His climb attracted several onlookers. Then she saw what he was doing. One story up was a fire escape lad der that he grabbed and extended downward so that she could easily climb. As she started to grab the rungs, two men came running around the corner. For a couple of seconds they slowed as if to talk and reassure her.

"Hold it, we don't want to hurt you; we just want to talk." The man had a French accent. As she climbed, they kept coming.

Banging her shins, she went rapidly and then they were at the base of the ladder climbing as well. As she reached the first landing, Michael's body hurtled past her, traveling feet- first into the lead man and knocking him into the next. Michael hit the ground on top of them and, as quick as a cat, was on them removing their guns. The two men struggled on the ground, trying to rise, obviously with broken bones. She hoped Michael hadn't crippled them. People were coming warily closer.

Michael jumped to the ladder and began to climb again.

"Wait," a man shouted. Grady looked down; the voice was familiar. There was a blond-bearded man with swarthy skin taking off an old-fashioned hat. In his long coat there was a carnation. He had just come around the corner. "There are men headed up the inside stairs of the building. You'll be trapped. Come on down." She realized it was Sam.

At that moment another two men came around the corner. Sam clipped one on the run with a straight punch to the jaw that made an audible crack and sent him to the ground on his back. With the second man Sam whirled and struck with an elbow that took the man down, but only for a few seconds; in one smooth move he was up. The man was slim and strong in the shoulders, but Sam was fast, placing straight punches to the head followed by a roundhouse kick to the jaw. Although the man rocked and teetered, virtually uncon scious, Sam pressed in with more powerful punches. The un relenting almost ballet like attack gave Grady the shivers. What moved her was that something so clean and fluid and even beautiful could be so destructive. It was the first time she had seen Sam in an all-out fight. Four men were on the ground, two completely unconscious, the other two barely moving. Sam was going through their clothes, removing guns and obviously looking for something, maybe ID. Gawkers were starting to protest at Sam's rifling through the men's cloth ing. Sam showed them something, she supposed his fake badge, and that seemed to calm the crowd.

Grady climbed quickly down and jumped to the ground. At the far end of the block a group of men turned the corner running at them. From across Christopher Street men had now broken free and were running toward them, but these were tackled by the bodyguards. Yodo was struggling with two men at once, blood pouring from his nose and cuts on his face. When Grady reached the bottom of the ladder, Sam yelled to run and they began running across the street at an angle, headed toward a large corner building that also faced Christopher Street. They ran to a door and, strangely, Sam had a key They all passed through, slamming it behind them. Inside there was another man with glasses, maybe five feet ten inches.

"No time for introductions. This is Georges Raval. He'll meet us later. Georges, follow the plan," Sam said. The slight man hesitated.

"They're all over the place," Sam said. "A virtual army." "You've got to get out of here," Raval said. "Just do the plan." Sam spoke with uncommon intensity and Raval ran for some stairs, took them two at a time, and disappeared.

Sam took the group down some stairs into a basement area with pipes and all manner of car-size blowers and ductwork. He led them to a boarded-up opening in the wall and began pulling off the boards to expose an old stairway. The sound of the subway was clearly audible.

"In the forties there was an entrance to the subway here. Now they're redoing PATH and the steam pipes and other underground conduits run all through here. Somewhere down here, Raval says, there is an old, abandoned subway station. Full of derelicts and the like, but it's a maze down there and I doubt these guys will ever find us." "Who are these guys?" Grady said. "French guys. Government, I think." "When will I talk with Raval?" Michael said. "After we save our asses, that's when. Next time, don't bring half the French Secret Service."

At that moment there was a crash and they knew the front door had been broken in.

Sam led them down a stairwell that was plugged with cement after no more than twenty feet or so. A small hole in the concrete plug had been created with jackhammers, no doubt by subway workers trying to find something in the under ground labyrinth that was Manhattan Island. It was solid bedrock. The tiny passage was uninviting in every sense- just big enough for a person to worm their way through. Sam beckoned them and dove in. Grady crawled more tentatively after him. Michael came behind her.,

They headed into the black of the New York underground and she wasn't sure which was worse-the men above or the hole. The concrete passage was black and strewn with the sort of gravel shed by unraveling concrete. It became very tight and she had to drop to her belly onto the sharp edges and slither. It had a vile smell, like rot and mold, dog faeces, and urine. They came to sheet metal of some sort that made crawling easier, but it was even tighter. When she raised her head, it hit solid concrete. There was maybe three or four inches on either side of her shoulders. She could tell Sam was struggling to continue. It got very steep and suddenly she realized there would be no backing up. Panic rose in the back of her throat and she wanted to scream. She stopped. She was shaking.

"Keep coming." It was Sam.

As she slid forward, her chin hit something putrid. Human vomit, she guessed.

"Oh God." She groaned, but she kept sliding slowly after Sam.

She heard Sam say, "There's a huge drop." Then his feet were suddenly gone. "It's okay. I'll catch you," he called.

With that, she let herself slide down through the wet and muck.

Instantly she could feel Sam's hands on her shoulders and fell into his arms. It would have been fine with her if she just stayed there. They were in a more open area and could stand. Sam turned on a tiny light that enabled her to see three or four feet surrounding.

When Michael was down, Sam pulled up his shirt and Kevlar vest to reveal a waistline holding two pistols. He fired into the concrete back up in the tunnel. It would be a major discouragement to anyone thinking about coming down.

They were in a concrete passage strewn with old toilet paper and bottles. They proceeded down a very steep incline that turned and pitched up sharply, only to turn down once again. The passage was roughly an S laid on its back, but without vertical drops. They arrived at some kind of a wall and there was a dim light showing through a hole. As they came closer, she could see that it was heavy plywood with bracing and that someone had knocked a hole in the barrier. Sam turned off his light. From the chamber below came the acrid smell of smoke.

In the distance roared a subway train. Peering through the hole and into the haze, she saw small fires and shadows of people in a large space far ahead. Some were hunched, as if under a blanket, while others stood with their hands over small barrels bristling with orange flame. They would be entering a dark corner of a large underground chamber. It was impossible to guess the number of occupants, as there were deep shadows and little light and had to be all manner of hiding places.

"Was I communicating with Raval or you?" Michael asked suddenly.

"Raval. We just figured out what you two were doing and talked him into some precautions."

"So you weren't fooling me?"

"No. And for all I knew, it would work fine and you and Raval would have your private talk."

"Now I don't know when I'll talk with him."

"We'll find him. Or he'll find you."

"What about the French guys? Do you think they'll catch him?"

"Probably not. At this point the U.S. government is likely to step in. The mere fact that the French government seems to be going nuts should be enough to set our boys off."

"Well, neither government's taking me over. That much I can tell you."

"Let's fight one battle at a time," said Sam. "I think we're in an old air vent."

But Michael wasn't done. "How did you find out about Raval?"

"That is a secret of Grogg's and cannot be revealed."

"What is Grogg?"

"He's sort of like a shaman. He can look into your soul."

Michael looked to Grady, who shrugged as if to ask if she was to speak of company secrets.

"It's dark as hell down here," she said to Sam.

"To our advantage," said Sam. "Take my hand." Grady held it and then took Michael's in her other.

"The air's bad. Smells of poison."

"Yep. Tastes like it came straight out the ass end of a diesel bus." Sam was leading them forward slowly over uneven ground. In places the cement had buckled and deteriorated.

"Get out of here," said a gravelly male voice. A dog growled low in the throat. In an odd way the human and the dog had a similar snarl. A light came on, blinding them. Then the light went flying. By chance it landed at an angle to them, casting soft light over the scene.

"You bastard. I'm gonna…" Then Grady could see Sam grabbing somebody. There came the sound of a struggle and a series of gravelly curses.

"Let's relax," Sam said.

Grady could see that the man was huge, even all hunched over, and Sam was holding the fellow by nothing more than one hand.

"All right, all right," the big guy was saying. "Just don't h urt my dog."

"Make sure it stays put or it'll be having quite a headache."

A small light appeared in the gray and the smoke and she knew it was Sam's.

"Keep your hands where I can see them." Sam released the man and stepped back. Sam's small light shone on a scraggly, bearded man who looked like he was covered in Vaseline and lived in a dirt pit. The skin of his face shone through a sheen of petroleum and grime, maybe sweat. She wondered if he even felt the chill of this cold hell.

"We don't like your kind of strangers down here."

"We'll be passing through."

"You taking her through here?"

"With your help I'll bet anything is possible."

"Why would I help?"

"A hundred bucks."

"You're right. I'd help. You got iron?"

"Enough for an anchor factory."

"Don't be shootin' down here. Ricochets are deadly."

"We only shoot those who need to be shot."

"You got a lotta balls bringing her down here… these days."

The dog began barking again. "Some unfriendly city officials are coming. How do we exit?"

The man pulled out a bottle and held it in front of him. "Singe their ass with this. Molotov cocktail. Just run it up there and light."

"Got a match?"

The man produced a lighter.

"You guys should have come down on a sheet of plastic. More hepatitis up that hole than in a whore's ass," he said as he took his dog's leash. "Now I can light that rag, but you gotta run like hell with it to get it up near the old grate."

"Go ahead," Sam said.

The man lit the rag; Sam ran to the hole in the plywood and threw it.

"You should have gone all the way up near the old grate."

"I don't know the old grate. Besides, I want to entertain them, not kill them."