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  The girl in the chair ignited, springing up to face him.

  "I didn't bungle! The electrocution went perfectly."

  "Except that she isn't dead." Ballieu let his sarcasm lash her.

  "Then I'll kill her some other way!"

  "And start an investigation?"

  It was his turn to sneer as he pointed out her inexperience. Her eyes narrowed into slits.

  "Are you afraid, Ballieu? I'm willing to die for our cause! And perhaps you should tell me what we are here for -- what we're to accomplish. If you make another error in judgment and are taken prisoner, I will have responsibility to finish here!"

  Ballieu's open hand flew out, the force of his slap knocking her to the floor. She fell against the bed. She would learn her place if nothing else, he thought with satisfaction.

  "The most important assignment we've had in ten years, and they send me a hothead with more rhetoric than common sense!" he said bitterly. "You have no need to know anything. You are an errand girl. You were sent to deliver the money sewn in your coat -- and whatever else I choose to tell you. Learn to keep your mouth shut."

  She pulled herself to her knees, one finger going to her bleeding mouth, then stoically moving away. Her eyes, thought Ballieu, suddenly noticing them for the first time. Where had he seen eyes like hers?

  "I was sent because some people think the great Henri Ballieu is getting too old for jobs like this!" She spit the words at him. "That you've grown more interested in your own glory than in democratic liberation." In spite of the blood, her lip gave a curl of defiance. "Some think your judgment's not as good as it used to be."

  Ballieu felt himself go motionless. Nothing could make him fail in this mission -- not her, not her barbs. He would not let vanity goad him into making a misstep.

  Glancing at his watch, he began to shrug casually into his jacket.

  "Too much has gone wrong," he said, abandoning the argument he knew she would like to pursue. "We have to speed things up. Give me twelve minutes. Then meet me at the magazine stand."

  With his eyes daring her to move, he unwrapped a peppermint candy and dropped the cellophane onto the floor. The peppermint would soothe the pain in his stomach.

  "Be stuffing your blouse in as you leave here," he added. "Someone may be watching me. Nothing will be made of our contact if they think you were whoring."

  He turned his back, confident her eyes were burning with hate. At the door he paused to look indifferently over his shoulder.

  "We're here to pick up a piece of film designed to make U.S. passports. Your group has been promised first use. You'll be a heroine, Khadija -- if you learn to take orders."

  This was the way to train the young and too impulsive, he thought, closing the door behind him. Alternate parts of fear and reward. It kept them loyal.

  This time the elevator took him down to lobby level. As he stepped out Ballieu made note of the time again, surveyed his surroundings for any faces that might be following him, and moved toward a row of pay phones. The booth he chose had been predetermined. He had allowed himself a cushion of nearly ninety seconds. Pretending to peruse the booth's directory, he waited, picking up the phone beside him on its first ring.

  "Do you want to buy oranges?" inquired a muffled voice at the other end.

  "A boxcar," Ballieu answered. "I have cash."

  Now that contact was established, he found himself relaxing slightly. Things were starting to go according to plan. His eyes raked the lobby again. Then he spoke quickly.

  "I want the transaction today -- this afternoon."

  The man at the other end must know by now that Yussuf was dead.

  "Impossible," said the voice on the phone. "We have a problem. The magician put the goods in a safe. There's a timing device on the lock. If we try to open it before the scheduled time, the thing will blow."

  Ballieu willed himself not to tense. Tension dulled his reflexes. He'd been careful to learn all the whens and wheres of this contact and had strung the magician along even when he knew he was going to kill him. Now, suddenly, there were complications.

  "And those men in the alley?" he asked calmly.

  "State Department. They've got two here watching you. Don't worry. That part's under control."

  Could he chance it, or were the odds growing too high against him? Ballieu found himself weighing decisions. He had nothing to lose; the gain to his organization would be invaluable. The knowledge of increasing risk and the challenge posed to his skills warmed his blood like whiskey, making him forget the pain in his belly. No one, not even the seller, knew he was not here alone, so he had an edge in the female helping him. He'd never seen the seller, wouldn't know him by sight, but arrangements for visual contact, just like for this verbal one, had been worked out.

  "Where is the safe?" he asked.

  He made notes quickly, then tucked them inside a travel brochure as he hung up. His hand was reaching to open the door when he saw the Stuart woman and a boy who seemed to be with her get off the elevator.

  He studied her from his glass sanctuary. Poised. Not arrogant like the little bitch he was stuck with but with a way of holding herself that made him almost hungry. His eyes roved over her body again. Poise in a woman with nerve enough to dabble in danger was far more potent than perfume or low-cut dresses. This one was dabbling, or she wouldn't be here. He wondered when she would make her move, and how he would kill her.

  Khadija was strolling toward the magazine stand. At least she was punctual. Ballieu went out to meet her, He bowed extravagantly as he handed her the travel brochure. If anyone was watching, they would not attach any significance to so obvious a gesture.

  "There's a timing device to dismantle," he murmured. "Prove you're as competent as your group claims."

  As she walked away, Ballieu felt instinct biting at him. For a final time he wondered if he was making the right decision. The man who was selling the film, who had been on the other end of the phone just a minute ago, was an amateur.

  And the danger with amateurs was that they could panic.

  Eight

  Channing leaned against a palm tree watching workmen install a new porch light at the bungalow where, except for a fluke, she would have died last night. If ever she'd had any second thoughts about the commitment that had brought her to Palacio Sol, the death of the maintenance man had removed them, she thought. He'd been a victim, like so many others. Ballieu and his kind didn't care who they killed to accomplish their ends. Maybe she'd needed to be reminded. She shifted, trying to loosen the anger from her body.

  The day was barely beginning, and already the sleeves of her white voile shirt felt warm. But she'd be wearing sleeves her whole time here. For what she'd been asked to do she couldn't count on a schedule, nor could she work bare-armed.

  "You ever see anybody die before?"

  Serafin was at her elbow before she even heard him. She tried to pull herself free of the thoughts that were holding her.

  "Yes."

  She didn't want to explain about Tony, or the little girl who had died in her arms in that blood-drenched restaurant. The dimming images had grown fresh in her mind again, pushing her toward unfinished business.

  Rousing herself, she looked at him with forced cheerfulness.

  "Don't tell me you've finished that math already."

  He was wearing swim trunks they'd bought in one of the lodge shops last night. He studied her for a moment. His bottomless eyes took on a glimmer of smugness he couldn't quite hide as he passed her a paper.

  "All correct, huh?"

  She'd thought the work would stump him, or at least make him vow never to run away again. Now she realized she'd met her match in Serafin. It tickled her, the first thing all morning to seem remotely funny. She raised her eyes and saw his twinkling, too, and fought a grin.

  "I can see it was too easy," she observed, returning the sheet of resort stationery.

  She'd given him two of them, one filled with mixed fractions, decimals, and l
ong division, the other with an essay question. They'd give some idea where he belonged in school when they got back to L.A. Besides, she wasn't quite sure what to do with a child twenty-four hours a day.

  After last night she was more than a little concerned for his safety too. Yet sending him home would be harder today than it would have been yesterday. He'd been on his own. He was street-smart. When he'd tried on the swim trunks, she'd noticed a scar on his thin ribs, and he'd told her he'd gotten shot "just a little bit" crossing the border. She'd have to trust that her decision to let him stay with her had been right. Emotional wounds could be more fatal than physical ones.

  "All right. Do the writing assignment, and then you can swim," she said.

  Then what would she do with him?

  He skewed his face into a look that was supposed to be reassuring.

  "You're worried about me, huh, Channing? But I've figured it all out. I'll hang around with Wilbur -- that bald guy who works here? -- whenever you want me to. I'll tell him I'm interested in learning hotel management."

  Channing choked. "He'd never believe it."

  "Sure he will. He believed it when I said I was a midget. There's Ellery. I'll split."

  She turned and watched as the boy bolted up the steps toward the dining terrace. How had he known Ellery's name? She hadn't mentioned a thing about the business she was involved in. Ellery stopped, thunderstruck, as Serafin rushed by. As quickly as they'd spotted the boy, his eyes swung back to her, driving in like nails.

  There was going to be a storm now, and Channing moved toward it with relish. She knew Bill Ellery was in charge. She knew he was going to blow sky-high over Serafin's presence. But she also knew she wouldn't back down.

  Ellery saw, from the glint in her eyes as she came toward him, that there'd be no budging her.

  He tried, anyway.

  "What the hell is that kid doing here?" he asked as they met at the edge of the terrace.

  She moved past him without breaking her stride.

  "He's my assistant."

  She brushed between white wrought-iron tables that were shaded by green-and-white umbrellas and pulled out a chair before he even thought about doing it for her.

  "He stowed away," she said, tossing her hair back. "And he stays. I'm not about to throw him out right after I've taken him in."

  Ellery sat down slowly. He couldn't decide what to make of her. She seemed too intelligent to have any illusion that the job they were here to do was some sort of game. She sounded too definite. She knew the risk she was taking -- with herself and with the boy.

  It wasn't a risk to the job she'd been sent to perform, he decided. It wasn't his business.

  "Sleep okay?" he asked.

  He'd already seen the answer in the fine lines under her eyes. She looked up, surprised at his show of concern.

  "I slept," she said, hedging, and unfolded her napkin as a waiter poured coffee.

  Ellery decided not to back off. He wanted to know how her mind worked. How she thought. That was half the secret to being a team.

  He frowned, disturbed again by the knowledge that he was responsible for her safety.

  "Why are you so determined to do this?" he asked. Her commitment to the things she undertook could be a handicap. It could make her blind. Yet it was a part of her nature that attracted him. "Because of the doctor or because of what Yussuf did?" he pressed.

  She seemed to hesitate.

  "Both. Neither, maybe." She shook her hair back again. "Maybe I'm just trying to prove to myself I'm a Stuart."

  Her words were brisk, but she helped herself to a croissant, avoiding his eyes. Ellery was quiet, putting the pieces together.

  "Your grandfather say you weren't? When you picked geology over magic?"

  She flicked a look at him. It showed surprise, then reluctant honesty.

  "Yes. What about you? Why'd you choose this kind of work?"

  The swiftness of her counter-interrogation left him with a wooden tongue. He wasn't used to having the spotlight turned on him, or that tone suggesting that what he did was special.

  "Someone needs to," he said. "Better someone like me than someone with a family like Sam."

  Her clear gaze made him shift in his chair. He could see she'd picked up on how close he'd felt to Sammy.

  "Your partner?" Her voice had a softness he hadn't noticed before. But another voice cut across hers, jerking him to his senses.

  "Well, well, well! If it isn't the superstar!"

  Ellery looked up, pleased as he recognized the cheerful needling, and felt a sudden surge of optimism. This assignment might go better than he'd thought. Max Hopkins was one of the most alert and quick-witted agents Ellery had ever worked with. He was also the worst clotheshorse. Ellery observed him with dry amusement. Max's lanky form was all in white. His curly black hair was carefully styled. He wore a bracelet and the same scent that good old Reid the Senator wore -- fifteen hundred dollars a bottle. Max spun a chair around and straddled it, tweaking Ellery's collar.

  "When you going to buy a shirt with some life to it, Billy?"'

  "Channing Stuart, Max Hopkins," said Ellery.

  If there was going to be anything enjoyable in this assignment, it would be watching Max and Channing square off for a few rounds. Max liked the ladies and was already giving Channing a covert once-over. Ellery could see him revving up the charm.

  "Max and I work for the same firm," Ellery added.

  Channing got the message and smiled. Max seemed to have no inkling of her role. Ellery filed the fact away. Maybe Max and his partner, Walker, hadn't been told. He'd play it that way until he checked with Oliver.

  "Saw you arriving yesterday," Max said, extending his hand to Channing and displaying dazzling teeth that Ellery knew damned well had been capped. "You and a kid."

  "We're the magic act," Channing said.

  Max's pale blue eyes looked perfectly innocent, but Ellery knew him well enough to know that Max was figuring he could score.

  "Channing?" He kept his voice soft but firm. "Max and I have some business to talk over."

  Her lips pursed. Her eyes crackled once as they met his. She wanted to argue but didn't, keeping the promise she'd made about obeying.

  "Oh, you're about to lose a button," she said, bending toward him as she stood up. Before Ellery could blink, she reached out lightly with both hands and gave a tug at the front of his shirt. "There. Now you won't lose it."

  A breath of anger welled up from Ellery's throat. He saw the satisfaction in her look. What the hell was this? There hadn't been anything wrong with his buttons. She'd pulled one off deliberately. He'd have to go change.

  "Maybe I'd better sew it back on for you," she said, picking it out of his hand where she'd dropped it. She blew on the button, pressed it in place, and Ellery looked down to see the front of his shirt completely restored.

  Max was gaping. Channing Stuart turned without another word. Ellery just sat there, provoked and startled. His senses had somehow deceived him. He'd seen the button unattached. He'd felt it in his hand.

  "Ni-i-ice number," Max breathed as he watched Channing's backside move toward the lodge. "How'd she do that?"

  Ellery shrugged.

  Abruptly Max changed the subject, crossing his arms on the back of his chair and leaning against them.

  "Listen, Ellery. You got all the glory for that job in Atlanta. This one's mine."

  "Yeah?" said Ellery. Max was one of the few people he'd ever met who was so sure of himself, he didn't shrink from making demands like that. It allowed the two of them to rib each other without mercy. "Can I help it that you wrecked that flashy car you were driving and I had to bail you out?"

  He'd never decided if the rivalry between them was real or pretended.

  Max shook his head in pretended sorrow. "You don't spare the gonads, do you? I'd only had that car two weeks. Anyway, you owed me one for saving your ass in Prague."

  Max appropriated the half roll Channing had abandoned and c
hewed with enthusiasm. Ellery grimaced inwardly. When Max wasn't trying to dazzle someone, he had the manners of a chimpanzee.

  "Where's Walker?" Ellery asked.

  "Listening post. We're set up across from Ballieu's room. Guess he got here last night. I'm his bird dog this shift. He's over there behind that planter. Thoughtful of him to wear handmade shoes so I can make him by his feet."

  Ellery realized Max was far more alert than his casual appearance suggested. He had been watching all the time. Max brought his keen gaze back to Ellery.

  "Sorry to hear about Sam."

  Ellery nodded at the condolences.

  "Glad you're here," said Max. "Walker's not in peak form -- hasn't been for a couple of weeks. They sending you a new partner, or do you go this one alone?"

  "I'm waiting for word from Oliver."

  "Christ, how do you stand it, Billy? The man's a martinet."

  Max's kidding streak reappeared. His head nodded toward the door to the lodge, through which Channing had just disappeared.

  "On second thought, I'd rather know how a sorry s.o.b. like you met a broad like that."

  Ellery hesitated, then decided not to fight temptation.

  "She got lost between the elevator and the lobby," he said, keeping his face as straight as a poker. "A real airhead if you ask me. Just the kind you go for, as I recall."

  He stood up and slapped Max's shoulder. He owed Max this.

  "Yeah?" said Max with interest. "Holy shit, Ellery! What do you want in a woman? Einstein?"

  * * *

  Channing lifted the straw hat shading her face and wiped irritably at the band of moisture beneath it as she walked toward the archery range. The note the front desk had handed her had been marvelously to the point: "Archery lesson, 11:30. Ellery."

  Bill Ellery didn't waste words.

  She felt annoyed with herself for having pulled that trick with the button on him, but she'd resented his unvoiced message that he didn't consider her an equal in this operation. In retrospect she knew she wasn't. And it was that truth which she really resented. She was effective with magic, but how effective would she be going up against Henri Ballieu? She wasn't sure, and Ellery wasn't, either.