| there was still the sensation of being back in a fog bank. Everything in his immediate vicinity was clear and straightforward, but there was also a wall beyond which he couldnÕt see, and a feeling of things hidden. What had Director Klein told him? Assume there are other agendas in play. Watch for them. He would have to stay braced for whatever might come looming out of the mist. At least heÕd have good people backing him. Valentina Metrace was… interesting. They certainly hadnÕt made professors like that back when he was going to college. There was a story to be learned about her. And as one of KleinÕs mobile ciphers, she had to be exceptionally good at whatever it was she did. And heÕd have Randi again. Fierce, valiant, and self-contained, there could be no doubting her. Past all personal pain or anger she would not fail him. She would do whatever she might be tasked with, or die trying. And that was the problem within himself. Smith had seen so much of Randi RussellÕs life and world die, he sometimes had the feeling he was destined to oversee her death as well. Or be responsible for it. It was a personal nightmare that had grown every time they had been thrown together on an operation. Angrily he shook his head. He must not take the counsel of that particular fear. If it was to be, then it would be. In the meantime they had a job to do |
northeastward across the bay, its twin bladelike bows slicing cleanly through the low swells. Beyond the ferryÕs windows, shore lights glittered on as the misty dusk settled. This was the eight oÕclock run, the last of the day, and the ferryÕs commodious passenger bay with its multiple rows of seating was three-quarters empty. The woman whom he had honored with his attention sat in the front row to port. Contentedly munching a crisp apple purchased from the ferryÕs snack bar, her attention was lost in the book resting on her crossed knee. She was beautiful, as were all his ladiesÑthe rapist was, after all, a connoisseur. A tall brunette, she was slender but full-breasted, her long midnight black hair worn up in a neatly pinned chignon. She was somewhere in her thirties, with flawless, creamy skin, lightly tanned and glowing with health. Her eyes were gray, and they had glinted with good humor as she had bantered with the snack bar attendant. She was a regular. Every Tuesday and Thursday she crossed on the ten oÕclock morning run from Vallejo and returned on this, the last evening boat. What she did in the city, he wasnÕt quite sure. But she was clearly a woman of fashion and means; her clothes were always of superb taste and quality. This night she wore a trim gray cord pantsuit that matched her eyes and stiletto-heeled black boots. He might allow her to keep those boots after he destroyed the rest of her clothing |
