Without Remorse

CHAPTER 31

Home is the Hunter

The flight wasn't as restful for the others. Greer had managed to get a couple of messages taken care of before the takeoff, but he and Ritter were the busiest. Their aircraft - the Air Force had lent it to them for the mission, no questions asked - was a semi-VIP bird belonging to Andrews Air Force Base, and was often used for Congressional junkets. That meant an ample supply of liquor, and while they drank straight coffee, their Russian guest's cups were laced with brandy, a little at first, then in increasing doses that his decaffeinated brew didn't begin to attenuate.

Ritter handled most of the interrogation. His first task was to explain to Grishanov that they had no plans to kill him. Yes, they were CIA. Yes, Ritter was a field officer - a spy, if you like - with ample experience behind the Iron Curtain - excuse me, working as a slinking spy in the peace-loving Socialist East Bloc - but that was his job, as Kolya - do you mind if I call you Kolya? - had his job. Now, please, Colonel, can you give us the names of our men? (That was already listed in Grishanov's voluminous notes.) Your friends, you say? Yes, we are very grateful indeed for your efforts to keep them alive. They all have families, you know, just like you do. More coffee, Colonel? Yes, it is good coffee, isn't it? Of course you'll go home to your family. What do you think we are, barbarians? Grishanov had the good manners not to answer that one.

Damn, Greer thought, but Bob is good at this sort of thing. It wasn't about courage or patriotism. It was about humanity. Grishanov was a tough hombre, probably a hell of a good airplane-driver - what a shame they couldn't let Maxwell or especially Podulski in on this! - but he was at bottom a man, and the quality of his character worked against him. He didn't want the American prisoners to die. That plus the stress of capture, plus the whiplash surprise of the cordial treatment, plus a lot of good brandy, all conspired to loosen his tongue. It helped a lot more that Ritter didn't even approach matters of grave concern to the Soviet state. Hell, Colonel, I know you're not going to give up any secrets - so why ask?

'Your man killed Vinh, did he?' the Russian asked halfway across the Pacific.

'Yes, he did. It was an accident and -' The Russian cut Ritter off with a wave.

'Good. He was nekulturny, a vicious little fascist bastard. He wants to kill those men, murder them,' Kolya added with the aid of six brandies.

'Well, Colonel, we're hoping to find a way to prevent that.'

'Neurosurgery West,' the nurse said.

'Trying to get Sandra O'Toole.'

'Hold on, please. Sandy?' The nurse on desk duty held the phone up. The nursing-team leader took it.

'This is O'Toole.'

'Miss O'Toole, this is Barbara - we spoke earlier. Admiral Greer's office?'

'Yes!'

'Admiral Greer told me to let you know - John is okay and he's now on his way home.'

Sandy's head spun around, to look in a direction where there were no eyes to see the sudden tears of relief. A mixed blessing perhaps, but a blessing still. 'Can you tell me when?'

'Sometime tomorrow, that's all I know.'

'Thank you.'

'Surely.' The line went immediately dead.

Well, that's something - maybe a lot. She wondered what would happen when he got here, but at least he was coming back alive. More than Tim had managed to do.

The hard landing at Hickam - the pilot was tired - startled Kelly into wakefulness. An Air Force sergeant gave him a friendly shake to make sure as the aircraft taxied to a remote part of the base for refueling and servicing. Kelly took the time to get out and walk around. The climate was warm here, but not the oppressive heat of Vietnam. It was American soil, and things were different here...

Surethey are.

Just once, just one time... he remembered saying. Yes, I'm going to get those other girls out just like I got Doris out. It shouldn't be all that hard. I'll get Burt next and we'll talk. I'll even let the bastard go when?? done, probably. I can't save the whole world, but... by Jesus, I'll save some of it!

He found a phone in the Distinguished Visitors lounge and placed a call.

'Hello?' the groggy voice said, five thousand miles away.

'Hi, Sandy. It's John!' he said with a smile. Even if those aviators weren't coming home just yet - well, he was, and he was grateful for that.

'John! Where are you?'

'Would you believe Hawaii?'

'You're okay?'

'A little tired, but, yes. No holes or anything,' he reported with a smile. Just the sound of her voice had brightened his day. But not for long.

'John, there's a problem.'

The sergeant at the reception desk saw the DV's face change. Then he turned back into the phone booth and became less interesting.

'Okay. It must be Doris,' Kelly said. 'I mean, only you and the docs know about me, and -'

'It wasn't us,' Sandy assured him.

'Okay. Please call Doris and... be careful, but -'

'Warn her off?'

'Can you do that?'

'Yes!'

Kelly tried to relax a little, almost succeeding. 'I'll be back in about... oh, nine or ten hours. Will you be at work?'

'I have the day off.'

'Okay, Sandy. See you soon. 'Bye.'

'John!' she called urgently..

'What?'

'I want... I mean...' her voice stopped.

Kelly smiled again. 'We can talk about that when I get there, honey.' Maybe he wasn't just going home. Maybe he was going home to something. Kelly made a quick inventory of everything he'd done. He still had his converted pistol and other weapons on the boat, but everything he'd worn on every job: shoes, socks, outer clothing, even underwear, were now in whatever trash dump. He'd left behind no evidence that he knew of. The police might be interested in talking to him, fine. He did not have to talk to them. That was one of the nice things about the Constitution, Kelly thought as he walked back to the aircraft and trotted up the stairs.

One flight crew found the beds just aft of the flight deck while the relief crew started engines. Kelly sat with the CIA officers. The Russian, he saw, was snoring loudly and blissfully.

Ritter chuckled. 'He's going to have one hell of a hangover.'

'What'd you get into him?'

'Started off with good brandy. Ended up with California stuff. Brandy really messes me up the next day,' Ritter said tiredly as the??-135 started rolling. He was drinking a martini now that his prisoner was no longer able to answer questions.

'So what's the story?' Kelly asked.

Ritter explained what he knew. The camp had indeed been established as a bargaining chip for use with the Russians, but it seemed that the Vietnamese had used that particular chip in a rather inefficient way and were now thinking about eliminating it along with the prisoners.

'You mean because of the raid?' Oh, God!

'Correct. But settle down, Clark. We got us a Russian, and that's a bargaining chip too. Mr Clark,' Ritter said with a tight smile, 'I like your style.'

'What do you mean?'

'Bringing that Russian in, you showed commendable initiative. And the way you blew the mission off, that showed good judgment.'

'Look, I didn't -I mean, I couldn't -'

'You didn't screw up. Somebody else might have. You made a quick decision, and it was the right decision. Interested in serving your country?' Ritter asked with an alcohol-aided smile of his own.

Sandy awoke at six-thirty, which was late for her. She got her morning paper, started the coffee, and decided to stick to toast for breakfast, watching the kitchen-wall clock and wondering how early she might call Pittsburgh.

The lead story on the front page was the drug shooting. A police officer had gotten himself in a gunfight with a drug dealer. Well, good, she thought. Six kilograms of 'pure' heroin, the news piece said - that was a lot. She wondered if this was the same bunch that... no, the leader of that group was black, at least Doris had said so. Anyway, another druggie had left the face of the planet. Another look at the clock. Still too early for a civilized call. She went into the living room to switch on the TV. It was already a hot, lazy day. She'd been up late the night before and had difficulty getting back to sleep after John's call. She tried to watch the 'Today Show' and didn't quite notice that her eyes were growing heavy...

It was after ten when her eyes opened back up. Angry with herself, she shook her head clear and went back to the kitchen. Doris's number was pinned next to the phone. She called, and heard the phone ring... four - six - ten times, without an answer. Damn. Out shopping? Off to see Dr Bryant? She'd try again in an hour. In the meantime she'd try to figure out exactly what she would say. Might this be a crime? Was she obstructing justice? How deeply was she involved in this business? The thought came as an unpleasant surprise. But she was involved. She'd helped rescue this girl from a dangerous life, and she couldn't stop now. She'd just tell Doris not to hurt the people who had helped her, to be very, very careful. Please.

Reverend Meyer came late. He'd been held up by a phone call at the parsonage and was in a profession where one couldn't say that he had to leave for an appointment. As he parked, he noticed a flower delivery truck heading up the hill. It turned right, disappearing from view as he took the parking place it had occupied a few doors up from the Brown house. He was a little worried as he locked his car. He had to persuade Doris to speak with his son. Peter had assured him that they'd be extremely careful. Yes, Pop, we can protect her. Now all he had to do was to get that message across to a frightened young woman and a father whose love had survived the most rigorous of tests. Well, he'd handled more delicate problems than this, the minister told himself. Like short-stopping a few divorces. Negotiating treaties between nations could not be harder than saving a rocky marriage.

Even so, the way up to the front porch seemed awfully steep, Meyer thought, holding the rail as he climbed up the chipped and worn concrete steps. There were a few buckets of paint on the porch. Perhaps Raymond was going to do his house now that it contained a family again. A good sign. Pastor Meyer thought as he pushed the button. He could hear the doorbell's two-tone chime. Raymond's white Ford was parked right here. He knew they were home... but no one came to the door. Well, maybe someone was dressing or in the bathroom, as often happened to everyone's embarrassment. He waited another minute or so, frowning as he pushed the button again. He was slow to note that the door wasn't quite closed all the way. Youare a minister, he told himself, not a burglar. With a small degree of uneasiness, he pushed it open and stuck his head inside.

'Hello? Raymond?... Doris?' he called, loudly enough to be heard anywhere in the house. The TV was on, some mindless game show playing on the living-room set. 'Hellooooo!'

This was odd. He stepped inside, somewhat embarrassed with himself for doing so, wondering what the problem was. There was a cigarette burning in an ashtray here, almost down to the filter, and the vertical trail of smoke was a clear warning that something was amiss. An ordinary citizen possessed of his intelligence would have withdrawn then, but Reverend Meyer was not ordinary. He saw a box of flowers on the rug, opened, long-stem roses inside. Roses were not made to lie on the floor. He remembered his military service just then, how unpleasant it had been, but how uplifting to attend the needs of men in the face of death - he wondered why that thought had sprung so clearly into his mind; its sudden relevance started his heart racing. Meyer walked through the living room, quiet now, listening. He found the kitchen empty too, a pot of water coming to boil on the stove, cups and tea bags on the kitchen table. The basement door was open as well, the light on. He couldn't stop now. He opened the door all the way and started down. He was halfway to the bottom when he saw their legs.

Father and daughter were facedown on the bare concrete floor, and the blood from their head wounds had pooled together on the uneven surface. The horror was immediate and overwhelming. His mouth dropped open with a sudden intake of breath as he looked down at two parishioners whose funeral he would officiate in two days' time. They were holding hands, he saw, father and daughter. They'd died together, but the consolation that this tragically afflicted family was now united with their God could not stop a scream of fury at those who had been in this home only ten minutes earlier. Meyer recovered after a few seconds, continued down the stairs and knelt, reaching down to touch the intertwined hands and entreating God to have mercy on their souls. Of that he had confidence. Perhaps she'd lost her life, but not her soul, Meyer would say over the bodies, and her father had reclaimed his daughter's love. He'd let his parishioners know that both had been saved, Meyer promised himself. Then it was time to call his son.

The stolen flower truck was left in a supermarket parking lot. Two men got out and walked into the store, just to be careful, and out the back door, where their car was parked. They drove southeast onto the Pennsylvania Turnpike for the three-hour trip back to Philadelphia. Maybe longer, the driver thought. They didn't want a state cop to stop them. Both men were ten thousand dollars richer. They didn't know the story. They had no need to know.

'Hello?'

'Mr Brown?'

'No. Who's this?'

'This is Sandy. Is Mr Brown there?'

'How do you know the Brown family?'

'Who is this?' Sandy asked, looking out her kitchen window with alarm.

'This is Sergeant Peter Meyer, Pittsburgh Police Department. Now, who are you?'

'I'm the one who drove Doris back - what's the matter?'

'Your name, please.'

'Are they okay?'

'They appear to have been murdered,' Meyer replied in a harshly patient way. 'Now, I need to know your name and -'

Sandy brought her finger down on the switch, cutting the circuit before she could hear more. To hear more might force her to answer questions. Her legs were shaking, but there was a chair close by. Her eyes were wide. It wasn't possible, she told herself. How could anyone know where she was? Surely she hadn't called the people who - no, not possible, the nurse thought.

'Why?' she whispered the question aloud. 'Why, why, why?' She couldn't hurt anyone - yes. she could... but how did they find out?

They have the police infiltrated. She remembered the words from John's mouth. He was right, wasn't he?

But that was a side issue.

'Damn it, we saved her!' Sandy told the kitchen. Sandy could remember every minute of that nearly sleepless first week, and then the progress, the elation, the purest and best kind of professional satisfaction for a job well done, the joy of seeing the look in her dad's face. Gone. A waste of her time.

No.

Not a waste of time. That was her task in life, to make sick people well. She'd done that. She was proud of that. It was not wasted time. It was stolen time. Stolen time, two stolen lives. She started crying and had to go to the downstairs bathroom, grabbing tissue to wipe her eyes. Then she looked in the mirror, seeing eyes that she'd never beheld before. And seeing that, she truly understood.

Disease was a dragon that she fought forty hours or more per week. A skilled nurse and teacher who worked well with the surgeons on her unit, Sandra O'Toole fought those dragons in her way, with professionalism and kindness and intelligence, more often winning than losing. And every year things got better. Progress was never fast enough, but it was real and could be measured, and perhaps she'd live long enough to see the last dragon on her unit die once and for all.

But there was more than one kind of dragon, wasn't there? Some couldn't be killed with kindness and medications and skilled nursing care. She'd defeated one, but another had killed Doris anyway. That dragon needed the sword, in the hands of a warrior. The sword was a tool, wasn't it? A necessary tool, if you wanted to slay that particular dragon. Perhaps it was one she could never use herself, but necessary nonetheless. Someone had to hold that sword. John wasn't a bad man at all, just realistic.

She fought her dragons. He fought his. It was the same fight. She'd been wrong to judge him. Now she understood, seeing in her eyes the same emotion that she'd beheld months earlier in his, as her rage passed, but not very far, and the determination set in.

'Well, everybody lucked out,' Hicks said, handing over a beer.

'How so, Wally?' Peter Henderson asked.

'The mission was a washout. It aborted just in time. Didn't even get anyone hurt in the process, thank God. Everyone's flying home right now.'

'Good news, Wally!' Henderson said, meaning it. He didn't want to kill anybody either. He just wanted the damned war to end, the same as Wally did. It was a shame about the men in that camp, but some things couldn't be helped. 'What happened exactly?'

'Nobody knows yet. You want me to find out?'

Peter nodded. 'Carefully. It's something the Intelligence Committee ought to know about, when the Agency fucks up like that. I can get the information to them. But you have to be careful.'

'No problem. I'm learning how to stroke Roger,' Hicks lit up his first joint of the evening, annoying his guest.

'You could lose your clearance that way, you know?'

'Well, gee, then I'll have to join Dad and make a few mill' on The Street, eh?'

'Wally, do you want to change the system or do you want to let other people keep it the same?'

Hicks nodded. 'Yeah, I suppose.'

The following winds had allowed the??-135 to make the hop in from Hawaii without a refueling stop, and the landing was a gentle one. Remarkably, Kelly's sleep cycle was about right now. It was five in the afternoon, and in another six or seven hours he'd be ready for more sleep.

'Can I get a day or two off?'

'We'll want you back to Quantico for an extended debrief,' Ritter told him, stiff and sore from the extended flight.

'Fine, just so I'm not in custody or anything. I could use a lift up to Baltimore.'

'I'll see what I can do,' Greer said as the plane came to a halt.

Two security officers from the Agency were the first up the mobile stairs, even before the oversized cargo hatch swung up. Ritter woke the Russian up.

'Welcome to Washington.'

'Take me to my embassy?' he asked hopefully. Ritter almost laughed.

'Not quite yet. We'll find you a nice, comfortable place, though.'

Grishanov was too groggy to object, rubbing his head and needing something for the pain. He went with the security officers, down the steps to their waiting car. It left at once for a safe house near Winchester, Virginia.

'Thanks for the try, John,' Admiral Maxwell said, taking the younger man's hand.

'I'm sorry for what I said before,' Cas said, doing the same. 'You were right.' They, too, had a car waiting. Kelly watched them enter it from the hatch.

'So what happens to them?' he asked Greer.

James shrugged, leading Kelly out and down the stairs. Noise from other aircraft made his voice hard to hear. 'Dutch was in line for a fleet, and maybe the CNO's job. I don't suppose that'll happen now. The operation - well, it was his baby, and it didn't get born. That'll finish him.'

'That's not fair,' Kelly said loudly. Greer turned.

'No, it isn't, but that's the way things are.' Greer, too, had a ride waiting. He directed his driver to head to the wing-headquarters building, where he arranged a car to take Kelly to Baltimore. 'Get some rest and call me when you're ready. Bob was serious about what he said. Think it over.'

'Yes, sir,' Kelly replied, heading to the blue Air Force sedan.

It was amazing, Kelly thought, the way life was. Within five minutes the sergeant drove onto an interstate highway. Scarcely twenty-four hours earlier he'd been on a ship approaching Subic Bay. Thirty-six hours prior to that he'd been on the soil of an enemy country - and now here he was in the backseat of a government Chevy, and the only dangers to which he was exposed came from other drivers. At least for a little while. All the familiar things, the highway exit signs painted that pleasant shade of green, traveling in the last half of the local rush hour. Everything about him proclaimed the normality of life, when three days earlier everything had been alien and hostile. Most amazing of all, he'd adjusted to it.

The driver didn't speak a word except to inquire about directions, though he must have wondered who the man was that had arrived on a special flight. Perhaps he had many such jobs, Kelly mused as the car pulled off Loch Raven Boulevard, enough that he'd stopped wondering about things he'd never be told.

'Thanks for the lift,' Kelly told him.

'Yes, sir, you're welcome.' The car pulled away and Kelly walked to his apartment, amused that he'd taken his keys all the way to Vietnam and back. Did the keys know how far they had come? Five minutes later he was in the shower, the quintessentially American experience, changing from one reality into another. Another five and he was dressed in slacks and a short-sleeve shirt and headed out the door to his Scout, parked a block away. Another ten and he'd parked the car within sight of Sandy's bungalow. The walk from his Scout to her door was yet another transition. He'd come home to something, Kelly told himself. For the first time.

'John!' He hadn't expected the hug. Even less so the tears in her eyes.

'It's okay, Sandy. I'm fine. No holes or scratches or anything.' He was slow to grasp the desperation of her hold on him, pleasant as it was. But then the face against his chest started sobbing, and he knew that this event was not for him at all. 'What's wrong?'

'They killed Doris.'

Time stopped again. It seemed to split into many pieces. Kelly closed his eyes, in pain at first, and in that instant he was back on his hilltop overlooking sender green, watching the NVA troops arrive; he was in his hospital bed looking at a photograph; he was outside some nameless village listening to the screams of children. He'd come home, all right, but to the same thing he'd left. No, he realized, to the thing that he had never left, which followed him everywhere he went. He'd never get away from it because he'd never really finished it, not even once. Noteven once.

And yet there was a new element as well, this woman holding him and feeling the same blazing pain that sliced through his chest.

'What happened, Sandy?'

'We got her well, John. We took her home, and then I called today like you told me to, and a policeman answered. Doris and her father, too, both murdered.'

'Okay.' He moved her to the sofa. He wanted at first to let her calm down, not to hold her too close, but that didn't work. She clung to him, letting out the feelings that she'd closeted off, along with worry for his safety, and he held Sandy's head to his shoulder for several minutes. 'Sam and Sarah?'

'I haven't told them yet.' Her face came up, and she looked across the room, her gaze unfocused. Then the nurse in her came out, as it had to. 'How are you?'

'A little frazzled from all the traveling,' he said, just to put words after her question. Then he had to tell the truth. 'It was a washout. The mission didn't work. They're still there.'

'I don't understand.'

'We were trying to get some people out of North Vietnam, prisoners - but something went wrong. Failed again,' he added quietly.

'Was it dangerous?'

Kelly managed a grunt. 'Yeah, Sandy, you might say that, but I came out okay.'

Sandy set that one aside. 'Doris said there were others, other girls, they still have 'em.'

'Yeah. Billy said the same thing. I'm going to try and get them out.' Kelly noticed she didn't react to his mention of Billy's name.

'It won't matter - getting them out, unless...'

'I know.' The thing that kept following him around, Kelly thought. There was only one way to make it stop. Running couldn't distance him from it. He had to turn and face it.

'Well, Henry, that little job was taken care of this morning,' Piaggi told him. 'Nice and clean.'

'They didn't leave -'

'Henry, they were two pros, okay? They did the job and now they're back home, couple hundred miles away. They didn't leave anything behind except for the two bodies.' The phone report had been very clear on that. It had been an easy job, since neither target had expected anything.

'Then that's that,' Tucker observed with satisfaction. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a fat envelope. He handed it to Piaggi, who had fronted the money himself, good partner that he was.

'With Eddie out of the way, and with that leak plugged, things ought to go back to normal.' Best twenty grand I ever spent, Henry thought.

'Henry, the other girls?' Piaggi pointed out. 'You've got a real business now. People inside like them are dangerous. Take care of it, okay?' He pocketed the envelope and left the table.

'Twenty- two's, back of the head, both of 'em,' the Pittsburgh detective reported over the phone. 'We've dusted the whole house -nothing. The flower box - nothing. The truck - nothing. The truck was stolen sometime last night - this morning, whatever. The florist has eight of them. Hell, we recovered it before the all-points was on the air. It was wise guys, had to be. Too smooth, too clean for local talent. No word on the street. They're probably out of town already. Two people saw the truck. One woman saw two guys walking to the door. She figured it was a flower delivery, and besides she was across the street half a block away. No description, nothing. She doesn't even remember what color they were.'

Ryan and Douglas were listening on the same line, and their eyes met every few seconds. They knew it all from the tone of the man's voice. The sort of case that policemen hate and fear. No immediately apparent motive, no witnesses, no usable evidence. Nowhere to start and nowhere to go. The routine was as predictable as it was futile. They'd pump the neighbors for information, but it was a working-class neighborhood, and few had been at home at the time. People noticed mainly the unusual, and a flower truck wasn't unusual enough to attract the inquiring look that developed into a physical description. Committing the perfect murder wasn't really all that demanding, a secret known within the fraternity of detectives and belied by a whole body of literature that made them into superhuman beings they never claimed to be, even among themselves in a cop bar. Someday the case might be broken. One of the killers might be caught for something else and cop to this one in order to get a deal. Less likely, someone would talk about it, bragging in front of an informant who'd pass it along to someone else, but in either case it would take time and the trail, cold as it already was, would grow colder still. It was the most frustrating part of the business of police work. Truly innocent people had died, and there was no one to speak for them, to avenge their deaths, and other cases would come up, and the cops would set this one aside for something fresher, and from time to time someone would reopen the file and look things over, then put it back in the Unsolved drawer, where it would grow thicker only because of the forms that announced that there was still nothing new on the case.

It was even worse for Ryan and Douglas. Yet again there had been a possible link that might open up two of their Unsolved files. Everyone would care about Raymond and Doris Brown. They'd had friends and neighbors, evidently a good minister. They'd be missed, and people would think what a shame it was... But the files on Ryan's desk were for people about whom no one but police officers cared, and somehow that only made it worse because someone should mourn for the dead, not just cops who were paid to do so. Worse still, it was yet another?? in a string of homicides that were somehow linked, but not in a way that made any sense. This was not their Invisible Man. Yes, the weapon had been a.22, but he'd had a chance to kill the innocent twice. He'd spared Virginia Charles, and he had somehow gone dangerously far out of his way to spare Doris Brown. He had saved her from Farmer and Grayson, probably, and someone else -...

'Detective,' Ryan asked, 'what was the condition of Doris's body?'

'What do you mean?'

It seemed an absurd question even as his mind formed it, but the man on the other end of the line would understand. 'What was her physical condition?'

'The autopsy is tomorrow, Lieutenant. She was neatly dressed, all cleaned up, hair was nice, she looked pretty decent.' Except for the two holes in the back of her head, the man didn't have to add.

Douglas read his lieutenant's mind and nodded. Somebody took the time to get her well. That was a starting place.

'I'd appreciate it if you could send me anything that might be useful. It'll work both ways,' Ryan assured him.

'Some guy went way out of his way to murder them. We don't see many like this. I don't like it very much.' the detective added. It was a puerile conclusion, but Ryan fully understood. How else did you say it, after all?

It was called a safe house, and it was indeed safe. Located on a hundred rolling acres in the Virginia hills, there was on the estate a stately house and a twelve-stall stable half-occupied with hunter-jumpers. The title for the house showed a name, but that person owned another place nearby and leased this one to the Central Intelligence Agency - actually to a shadow corporation that existed only as a piece of paper and a post-office box - because he'd served his time in OSS, and besides, the money was right. Nothing unusual from the outside, but a more careful inspection might show that the doors and doorframes were steel, the windows unusually thick and strong, and sealed. It was as secure from outside assault and from an internal attempt at escape as a maximum-security prison, just a lot more pleasant to behold.

Grishanov found clothing to wear, and shaving things that worked but with which he couldn't harm himself. The bathroom mirror was steel, and the cup in the holder was paper. The couple that managed the house spoke passable Russian and were just as pleasant as they could be, already briefed on the nature of their new guest - they were more accustomed to defectors, though all their visitors were 'protected' by a team of four security guards inside who came when they had 'company,' and two more who lived full-time in the caretaker's house close to the stables.

Not unusually, their guest was out of synch with local time, and his disorientation and unease made him talkative. They were surprised and their orders were to limit their conversations to the mundane. The lady of the house fixed breakfast, always the best meal for the jet-lagged, while her husband launched a discussion of Pushkin, delighted to find that, like many Russians, Grishanov was a serious devotee of poetry. The security guard leaned against the doorframe, just to keep an eye on things.

'The things I have to do, Sandy -'

'John, I understand,' she told him quietly. Both were surprised at how strong her voice was, how determined. 'I didn't before, but I do now.'

'When I was over there' - was it only three days before? -'I thought about you. I need to thank you,' he told her.

'What for?'

Kelly looked down at the kitchen table. 'Hard to explain. It's scary, the things I do. It helps when you have somebody to think about. Excuse me - I don't mean -' Kelly stopped. He did, actually, mean that. The mind wanders when alone, and his had wandered.

Sandy took his hand and smiled in a gentle way. 'I used to be afraid of you.'

'Why?' he asked with considerable surprise.

'Because of the things you do.'

'I'd never hurt you,' he said without looking up, yet more miserable now that she had felt the need to fear him.

'I know that now.'

Despite her words, Kelly felt a need to explain himself. He wanted her to understand, not realizing that she already did. How to do it? Yes, he killed people, but only for a reason. How had he come to be what he was? Training was part of it, the rigorous months spent at Coronado, the time and effort spent to inculcate automatic responses, more deadly still, to learn patience. Along with that had somehow come a new way of seeing things - and then, actually seeing them and seeing the reasons why killing sometimes had to be. Along with the reasons had come a code, a modification, really, of what he'd learned from his father. His actions had to have a purpose, usually assigned by others, but his mind was agile enough to make its own decisions, to fit his code into a different context, to apply it with care - but to apply it. A product of many things, he sometimes surprised himself with what he was. Someone had to try, and he most often was best suited to -

'You love too much, John,' she said. 'You're like me.'

Those words brought his head up.

'We lose patients on my floor, we lose them all the time - and I hate it! I hate being there when life goes away. I hate watching the family cry and knowing that we couldn't stop it from happening. We all do our best. Professor Rosen is a wonderful surgeon, but we don't always win, and I hate it when we lose. And with Doris - we won that one, John, and somebody took her away anyway. And that wasn't disease or some damned auto accident. Somebody meant to do it. She was one of mine, and somebody killed her and her father. So I do understand, okay? I really do.'

Jesus, she really does... better than me.

'Everybody connected with Pam and Doris, you're all in danger now.'

Sandy nodded. 'You're probably right. She told us things about Henry. I know what kind of person he is. I'll tell you everything she told us.'

'You do understand what I'm going to do with that information?'

'Yes, John, I do. Please be careful.' She paused and told him why he had to be. 'I want you back.'