“The writing on the wall there. Did you translate?”

“The computer recognizes it as Ukrainian for ‘traitor’ and ‘whore.’ Neither EWN nor any other official file on the matter claims credit or responsibility for the killings.”

“They were on her list. On Buckley’s list of hits in HSO’s data banks.” She called for the computer to run the list on another screen to verify. “They’re there, on her list, but no employer assigned. Nobody’s taken credit.”

“If there’s data on that, it’s in another area. If there’s any more data on this hit, it’s been wiped or boxed. Even I can’t get at it from here, or certainly not quickly. You’d have to be inside to get at it.”

“He’s inside; he found it.” There was motive, Eve thought. There was the personal. “Why the hell didn’t they destroy the file if they continued to use her, and had him on the payroll?”

“Somebody fucked up, I’d say, but at the core HSO is a bureaucracy, and bureaucracies love their paperwork.”

“Does he have a fixed address?”

“Right here in New York.”

She looked back over her shoulder at him. “That’s too fucking easy.”

“ Upper East Side, in a town house he owns under the name of Frank Plutz.”

“Plutz? Seriously?”

“Frank J. Plutz, employed by HSO, who lists him as Supervisor, Tech R and D, U.S. Division, in their official file. Which of course is bollocks. He’s a hell of a lot more.”

Now Eve studied the ID shot of a middle-aged man with a thinning crop of gray hair, a round face, a bit heavy in the chin, and mild blue eyes who smiled soberly from the wall screen.

“God. He looks harmless.”

“He survived the Urban Wars in the underground, has worked for at least two intelligence organizations, neither of which worries overmuch about spilled blood. I’d say appearances are deceiving.”

“I need to put a team together and go visit the deceptively harmless Mr. Plutz.”

“I want to play. And I very much want to meet this man.”

“I guess you’ve earned it.”

His eyes gleamed. “If you don’t put him in a cage, I wonder what I can offer him to switch to the private sector.”

Eight

As taking down a spy wasn’t her usual job, Eve opted for a small, tight team. She had two officers in soft clothes stationed at the rear of the trim Upper East Side town house, McNab handling the com along with Roarke in the unmarked van. She, along with Peabody, would take the front.

It struck her as a bit of overkill for one man, but she had to factor in that one man had over forty years of espionage experience, and had managed to slip off a ferry of more than three thousand people with a dead body.

In the van, she cued up the security tape from the transpo station. “There he is, looking harmless. Computer, enhance segment six, thirty percent.”

The man currently known as Frank J. Plutz enlarged onscreen as he shuffled his way through the ticker. “Anonymous businessman, complete with what looks like a battered briefcase and a small overnight bag. Slightly overweight, slightly balding, a little saggy in the jowls.”

“And this is the guy who sliced up the high-l evel assassin, then poofed with her.” McNab, his sunny hair slicked back in a sleek tail, his earlobes weighted with a half dozen colorful studs each, shook his head. “He looks a little like my uncle Jacko. He’s famed in our family for growing enormous turnips.”

“He does!” Peabody gave the love of her life a slap on the shoulder. “I met him last Thanksgiving when we went to Scotland. He’s adorable.”

“Yeah, I’m sure this one’s just as adorable as Uncle Jacko. In a ‘leaving a big, messy pool of blood behind’ sort of way. He got a weapon-we assume-through the scanners without a hitch. Which, unfortunately, isn’t as tough as it should be. More important, from my source, he’s headed or been involved in the invention and development of all manner of high-tech gadgetry, weaponry and communications in particular.”

“Love to meet him,” McNab said and got a quick grin from Roarke.

“Right with you.”

“Hopefully you geeks can have a real nice chat soon.” Eve shifted her gaze to the other monitor. “I’m not seeing any heat source in there.”

“That would be because there isn’t.” Roarke continued the scan of the house. “I’ve done three scans each on heat, on movement. There’s no one in there.”

“Takes the fun out of it. Well, we’ve got the warrant. Let’s go, Peabody. McNab, keep your eye on the street. If he comes home, I want to know about it.”

“Mind your back, Lieutenant,” Roarke said as she climbed out. “They’re called spooks for a reason.”

“I don’t believe in spooks.”

“I bet they believe in you.” Peabody jumped down beside her.

Scanning the building, Eve pulled out her master as they approached the door. “We go in the way we would if we had a suspect inside. And we clear the area, room by room.”

Peabody nodded. “A guy who can disappear could probably beat a heat-and-m otion sensor.”

Eve only shook her head, then pounded a fist on the door. “This is the police.” She used her master to unlock the door, noted the standard security went from locked red to open green. “He’s got cams out here. I can’t see them, but he’s got them. Still, no backups set on the locks, and the palm plate’s not activated.”

“It’s like an invitation.”

“We’re accepting. We’re going in,” Eve said to alert the rest of the team.

She pulled her weapon, nodded once to Peabody. They hit the door, Peabody high, Eve low. Swept the short foyer with its iron umbrella stand and coat tree, and the narrow hallway with its frayed blue runner. At Eve’s gesture they peeled off, clearing the first floor, moving to the second, then the third.

“We’re clear.” Eve studied the data and communication equipment, the surveillance and security equipment ranged around the modest third-floor room. “Blue team, take the first floor. Roarke, McNab, we can use you on the third floor.”

“Do you think he’s coming back?” Peabody wondered.

“It’s a lot to leave behind. I guarantee all this is unregistered, calibrated to duck under CompuGuard radar. But no, he’s done here. He’s finished.”

“His wife and kid?” Peabody gestured to the framed photo on the console.

“Yeah.” Eve moved over, opened a mini fridge. “Water and power drinks.” She hit menu on the AutoChef. “Quick, easy meals.” The sort, she thought, she’d have had in her own mini fridge-when she remembered to stock it-before she’d married Roarke. “Sofa, with a pillow, a blanket, wall screen, adjoining john. He spent most of his time up here. The rest of the house, it’s just space.”

“It all looks so tidy, kind of homey and neat.”

Eve made a sound of agreement as she turned into the next room. “VirtualFit. It’s a nice unit. He wanted to keep in shape. A weight machine, muscle balls, sparring droid. Female, and at a guess, just about the height and weight of Buckley.”

Eve studied the attractive blonde droid currently disengaged and propped in a corner. “He practiced here.” She moved across the room, opened the doors on a built-i n cabinet. “Wow, toy chest.”

“Holy shit.” Peabody gaped at the display of weapons. “Not so much like Uncle Jacko after all.”

Knives, bats, stunners, blasters, clubs, short swords, guns, throwing discs all gleamed in tidy formation.

“A couple missing,” Eve noted, tapping empty holders. “From the shape, he took a couple of knives and a stunner. In one of his carry-ons, on his person.”

“This is a lot to leave behind, too,” Peabody commented.

“He did what he set out to do. He doesn’t need them anymore.” She turned as Roarke came in with McNab, and caught the gleam in Roarke’s eyes as he crossed toward the weapons chest. “Don’t touch.”

The faintest line of irritation marred his brow, but he slipped his hands into his pockets. “A nice little collection.”