“I heard them talking,” Ben said. “They were Russian. Can you think of any reason the Russians would want Obsidian?”

Sarah said, “Russians? Russians are mixed up in this?”

Ben nodded. “Sounds like the two of you treed a bad one.”

Alex said, “What do you mean?”

“I see two possibilities. One, they were FSB. That's the new KGB. Which would mean the people who want you dead are the Russian government.”

Sarah glanced back at him. “What's the other possibility?”

“They were Russian mafia.”

“Great,” Alex said, shaking his head but at least keeping his eyes on the road. “The people who want us dead are either the KGB or the Russian mob.”

“I doubt your problem would be with the Russian mob directly,” Ben said. “My guess is, someone gave them a contract. Could be the FSB. Could be someone else. So again, can you think of any reason the Russian government would want Obsidian?”

They were all quiet for a moment. Alex said, “None particular to Russia.”

“Well, keep the connection in mind as a new data point. I'm going to check with my people and see if I can't learn more about who they were working with. Or working for.”

19 RITUAL

They drove in silence through Menlo Park, onto Sand Hill Road, and then onto 280. Ben watched the rolling green hills pass, the sky above hard blue and studded with bright white clouds. It was surreal.

He rarely had to deal with the aftermath of a job. Ordinarily he just walked away, instantly severing the connection with what was left behind. But now he had… all of this. The crazy thing was, a part of him was enjoying it. Maybe it was the giddy aftereffects of what had just happened, but the whole situation was a hell of a challenge, and he'd managed it pretty well so far.

They passed Crystal Springs Reservoir, a stretch of sparkling blue. Ben had chosen 280 over 101 because its slightly more meandering route would give him more time to think on the way to the city. But he was glad now for the views, as well. He'd forgotten how beautiful a highway this was. Even when he had been a kid here, 101 had been an eyesore- an unending stretch of billboards and sound walls and industrial buildings backed up ass-forward to the very edge of the highway.

“Why the city?” Sarah asked. “Why not an airport hotel? That would be anonymous, right? And there are dozens up and down 101.”

“You just said why,” Ben told her.

“Because it's the first thing I thought of?”

“That's right. It's the first thing someone will key on if they start widening their search.”

There was a second, more important reason, but Ben didn't mention it. San Francisco would give him better opportunities to test the girl and surprise anyone who acted on the information he was going to feed her.

“I don't know about anyone else,” Alex said, “but I haven't had breakfast. Can we stop somewhere for a cup of coffee, maybe a muffin?”

“Whatever you want,” Ben said.

“I know a place,” Sarah said. “Ritual Coffee Roasters, on Valencia, in the Mission. Take the San Jose Avenue exit, then bear left on-”

“I know how to get to the Mission,” Alex said. “Just tell me the cross street.”

“Between Twenty-first and Twenty-second.”

Ben didn't like that Sarah had just selected the place they were going, but he couldn't find a tactical reason to object. She didn't have a cell phone. She couldn't warn anyone of anything. So unless Ritual Coffee Roasters was in fact a front for some diabolical organization of which Sarah was a secret member, they would probably be okay there.

Briefly.

Ben noticed the place first from the crowd in front of it-a line stretching twenty feet out of the store, mostly twentysomething hipsters with facial hair or piercings or both. Overhead was a red sign punctuated by the white outline of a coffee cup with a star above it that reminded Ben vaguely of the flag of communist China. It took them ten minutes to find a place to park because the street was jam-packed and Ben refused to let Alex park the car illegally, even if they were just running inside. He would rather eat a bullet than have the time and place of his vehicle logged by a bored city cop issuing a parking ticket.

Ben looked around while they stood in line. The neighborhood was funky: two- and three-story buildings in green and yellow and pink façades; stores with names like Lost Weekend Video and Aquarius Records and Beadissimo; ethnic restaurants and bodegas cheek by jowl with a foreign-car repair shop, a coin-operated laundry, an “environmentally friendly” dry cleaner, whatever that meant.

“They better serve some damn good coffee,” Ben said.

“It's worth it,” Sarah said. “You'll see.”

The line moved faster than he had expected. It was loud inside- music with a heavy beat throbbing through ceiling speakers; the hum of fifty conversations from scattered tables and couches and stools along the bar; the thump and steam of espresso being pulled by hand. Every third person was using a laptop, all of them Macs, and there were a lot of different hair colors, including fuchsia and magenta. Overall the place was a little hip for Ben's tastes, but he had to admit there was nothing self-conscious about it all and the smell of roasting coffee made up for any shortcomings he found in the ambience.

One of the baristas, a twentysomething white guy with a full beard and a Panama hat, smiled in their direction. “Hey, Sarah,” he said, and Ben thought, Goddamn it, she's known here?

“Hey, Gabe,” Sarah said. “The usual.”

“Two of these in one day? Someone's gonna have to talk you down.” Gabe glanced at Ben and Alex. “Your friends…?”

Alex ordered a latte and a muffin; Ben, suppressing his anger, got something called the Guatemalan Cup of Excellence. Alex pulled out his wallet and Ben made sure he paid cash.

They waited at the end of the bar. “What did I just tell you about going to places where you're known?” Ben said. “The manager of the Four Seasons, now this… you guys are unbelievable.”

Sarah raised a hand to her ear and then pointed to the ceiling, indicating the music. “Sorry?”

He put his mouth close to her ear and repeated himself.

“Oh, shit,” she said. “Sorry, you're right.”

Christ, he thought. How could people be so stupid?

They waited. The barista put the coffees on the counter. Ben went to reach past Sarah for his and she flinched. And then he realized.

She was afraid of him. She could pin him to what police would prosecute as a double homicide, and she was afraid of what he might do now. She took them here so she would have witnesses.

He was simultaneously impressed by her thinking and appalled at what lay behind it. When had he reached the point where a girl, someone who in all likelihood had done nothing wrong, looked at him and feared for her life?

A Delta guy he had known in Mogadishu once told him that you can tell the kind of warrior you are by the way the people you're sworn to protect react to you. Are they reassured by your presence, or are they afraid?

Jesus.

He took a sip of coffee and nodded appreciatively. “It's good.”

“Yeah.”

He waved a hand in no particular direction. “You, uh, you live around here?”

“This is my neighborhood place,” she said, stirring sugar into her coffee.

Right, got that the first time.

“You don't mind the commute?”

She looked at him, and he could feel her trying to make up her mind. “It's not so bad,” she said, after a moment. “A straight shot down 280. It's worth it, to live in San Francisco. Didn't you grow up here?”

“Not in the city,” he said, looking around. Very unlikely anyone would know about, or key on, the place she bought her coffee. But he wasn't going to rule it out, either. “The Peninsula. Portola Valley.”