He was going to lose her if he didn't move.

But when he crossed behind her and got to the corner, she was still within the block. Stopping under the shelter of a building's overhang, she seemed to be checking her reflection in the bank's window, then brushing crumbs or the rain from her clothes. With another glance at the sky, she started up again, walking away from downtown.

They crossed what Glitsky recognized as Fifth Street and after that entered a residential neighborhood with small stand-alone houses on tiny lots. The foot traffic, here only three blocks from downtown, was nonexistent, which obliged him to extend the distance between them. He ran the slight risk of losing her, but he didn't think he would.

In any case, he had the feeling that this was her general neighborhood. She had come out for a snack or for lunch and now was walking home.

He could, of course, rush her now. With no other pedestrians about, he could put her on the ground if need be and place her under arrest. But he was most of a full block behind her, and there would be very little possibility of surprise. And if she did notice him coming up on her, and was in fact armed, it could become needlessly ugly very fast. Better, and it looked as if the opportunity would soon present itself, would be to remain unseen and unnoticed behind her and let her get home. Then he would have her address, after which he would immediately get to a phone and call for backup.

And the arrest would be done according to Hoyle.

She crossed another larger street-Eighth-then turned right and left and into the driveway of a parking lot in front of a two-story stucco apartment building. Jogging, Glitsky managed to reach the driveway in time to see her disappear into the next to last downstairs unit.

He checked his watch. Wessin would have finished his talk and would be waiting by his car, wondering where Glitsky was, but he could do nothing about that now. All he needed was the unit number, and he didn't even, strictly speaking, need that. He knew it was the second from the end unit on the ground floor. But he wanted to know for certain when he called it in. It would be bad luck to get it wrong and have a bunch of eager patrolmen, guns drawn, come crashing through the door of some piano teacher.

He stood now in a steady light rain at the outer entrance to the open asphalt parking lot. It was a small enough area, with hash lines marking spaces for each of the eight apartment units, and occupied at the moment by three well-used cars, none of them models from the current millennium.

In number three, where she'd gone, a light came on in the window. He took a few steps into the lot, getting some relief from the rain under a tree.

He still had the option to take her now, by himself. Under any pretense or none at all, he could simply knock at her door and wait until she opened it. Why would she suspect anything? She'd been living here, apparently unmolested, for ten months now, and her life must have settled into some kind of a routine.

But he would be wise not to take her too lightly. She'd had years of experience in the terrorist underground of Algeria, and in that time had learned who could say how many tricks to elude capture or incapacitate authorities when capture was a synonym for death. And truth be told, though it galled him, he was not sufficiently prepared for an arrest. Even if she had no weapon at her disposal, he had no handcuffs, and no way to restrain her except at the point of a gun, which might turn out to be a limited option if he wasn't prepared to shoot her out of hand.

He had to get to a phone. He thought it unlikely that having just returned home, she would leave again, especially in the rain. He wondered if one of the cars in the lot was hers. Maybe the apartment belonged to a friend and she was visiting, not living there.

He had to move. He could lose her if he waited until every possible contingency had been covered.

But she was right here! He stood under the tree, torn by indecision, mesmerized by the light in her window. Had a shadow just moved in the room? He moved a few steps to his left to get a better view. The rain fell in slow, steady vertical drops. A little harder now in front of him, suddenly audible above him in the leaves of his sheltering tree.

He had to move.

The familiar snick semiautomatic's round being chambered sounded very close to his ear. The woman's voice from behind him was quiet and assured, with no trace of panic or even unusual concern. "I have a gun pointed at the back of your head. Don't turn around. Don't make any sudden movements. Keep your hands out in front of you where I can see them. The only reason you're still alive is that I need to know who you're with." "San Francisco police."

"Walk toward the apartment house, second door from the left."

"Are you going to shoot me?" "If you don't walk, yes."

Glitsky moved forward, out into the rain. He heard her footsteps now behind him and marveled that she could have come up behind him so quickly without a sound or a warning.

"Stop," she said when he reached the door. "Turn the knob and kick the door all the way so it swings open." Following her instructions to the letter, Glitsky stood in the threshold. "Now walk into the middle of the room and link your hands on the top of your head."

He did as he was told, heard her come in behind him and close the door. "Now turn around." The orders continued, specific and organized. "Take your right hand only-slowly, very slowly-and unzip your jacket all the way. Thank you. Get it off, easy, slowly, and drop it to the floor behind you. Step away from it. Now!"

She held the gun steadily in one hand. Glitsky noted how comfortable she looked with it and, at the same time, how nearly unrecognizable she'd made herself. The haircut was not so much short as chopped unevenly. With no lipstick or other facial makeup, and with the silver post through her bleached white eyebrows, she had adopted the look of an all but marginal figure, anonymous. By looks alone, she was a kind of lost-looking older and pathetic waif, a spare-change artist from whom people would naturally tend to avert their eyes.

But she never took her eyes from him. "Hold your left arm straight out like I'm doing. Okay, now with your right, thumb and first finger only, lift the gun out of the holster and put it on the floor. Stand." She raised her own gun to his chest and Glitsky thought she was going to execute him. But she extended her arm instead and said, "Back up. More."

The backs of Glitsky's knees hit the couch and he heavily, awkwardly, went down to a sit on the piece of furniture. She got to his gun, picked it up, put it into the pocket of her overalls. "Pull both of your pant legs up to your knees. All right, you can let them back down. Now hands back on your head. Link them." Neither eyes nor gun ever leaving him, she went to the open kitchen area, six feet away, and pulled a metal chair over onto the rug in the center of the room. She sat on it, facing him. "What's your name?"

"Abe Glitsky."

"You're with the San Francisco police?" "Yes, I am."

"You need training in how to follow people. You're no good at it."

"I'll keep it in mind next time," he said.

But she didn't follow up on that, a conversation line that he thought might humanize him, which in turn could perhaps give her pause as she was deciding whether or not to kill him. Although to protect her identity and her family, he knew that she would have to.

But she simply said, "It's about Paul, then. "

"And Dorris." Glitsky would keep her talking if he could, even if he had to bait her. "You remember Dorris?"

She moved her shoulders in a kind of shrug. "Dorris had to be. In the world, there are millions of Dorrises who have uses and then become expendable. I wish it hadn't been necessary." Almost as an afterthought, she added, "I thought I was done with killing. But no one will ever miss her. She didn't matter."