10

"All you've got to do is get yourself to South Florida," Abe said. "From there everything will be taken care of."

During the few hours they'd been apart Abe had accessorized his wardrobe with a mustard stain on his white shirt and a sprinkle of powdered sugar on his black pants.

"Can you be a little more specific than 'taken care of? What's going to be taken care of and by whom?"

"My Balkans contact. We'll call him Mischa for now."

"For now?"

"With his real name, of course I trust you. But him, I don't know. I've vouched for you but that doesn't mean he'll want you to know the name his mother gave him. If he does, he'll tell you. If not, it's Mischa. Professional courtesy."

"Gotcha. All right, I'm down in South Florida. What next?"

"Before you go I'll be given the number of a slip at a marina in Palm Beach. You go there first thing Tuesday morning and the owner of the boat in said slip will take you across to the Bahamas and drop you off on West End, one of the out islands."

"How far is that?"

"About seventy miles. Hell be piloting a sport fisher that can make the trip in three hours."

"Deja vu."

"Yes. Reminds you of a similar trip you made with your brother last month, I'll bet. Only this is much shorter."

Right. Bermuda had been 650 plus. After that, seventy was around the corner.

"From said island you'll be ferried into New Providence where one of Mis-cha's associates will sneak you aboard a cargo plane."

"Not in a crate I hope."

"Not so bad as that, but a pretty stewardess you shouldn't expect. Brown bag it if you want to eat."

"Seems kind of roundabout, don't you think? Why don't I just call the Ashes and have one of them fly me straight to the Bahamas?"

"Because this is the way Mischa wants it done. It's the procedure he uses for moving certain commodities back and forth between here and Sarajevo or Kosovo. Everyone knows their parts. Like a well-oiled machine it works. He doesn't like to mess with a winning formula."

Jack shrugged. He understood. Perfectly.

"Okay. It's his show. The plane takes me to Bosnia-Hurtslikegonorrhea. Then what?"

"Not so fast. You're expecting a nonstop? Don't. The first plane takes you to Nouakchott International Airport."

"Jeez. Where the hell is that?"

"Mauritania."

"Swell."

"Less than an hour you'll be there. Then it's onto another cargo plane to Sarajevo. That's when you'll be crated up. Another of Mischa's associates will get your crate through customs and truck you to a warehouse where you'll meet Mischa himself. And that's when you'll pay half the fee."

And a hell of a fee it was.

"He's agreed to take Krugers, right?"

"Yes. Of course." Abe smiled. "They're as good as gold."

"Ha-ha. How long am I there?"

"A day, two at most. Mischa will settle you into your new identity, get you through immigration, and you will fly to JFK tourist class on Bosnia Airlines."

"And that will be it."

"That will be it."

"Next week I'll be Mirko Abdic."

"Next week you'll be Mirko Abdic."

Something squeezed in Jack's chest.

11

A customer for Abe's real line of merchandise came in so Jack left them to their dealing. His headache had faded but still nagged him. His stomach felt sour.

This called for a beer.

He was halfway to Julio's when his cell phone rang: the man himself.

"Julio. Just on my way over."

"Maybe you shouldn't, meng. One those gun guys from last night showed up."

Jack stopped walking.

"The big one or the smaller?"

"Smaller."

Davis.

"What's he doing?"

"Just sitting at the bar, drinking a draft. He let me pat him down. Say he don't wan' no trouble. He's clean but I dunno. I look outside, don't see nobody, but maybe you better stay away."

Hell with that. Julio's was his hang and he wanted a beer in Julio's.

"See you in a few."

If it had been Miller he might have thought twice, but Jack had sensed a core of decency in Davis. Question was, what did he want? Talk? Okay, Jack could talk. He still had questions.

But just the same, certain precautions were called for.

He made a slow approach to Julio's, checking all the cars and nooks and crannies. But he didn't stop there. He ambled a block past the front door, still checking.

No one. At least no one he could make.

As he stepped inside he spotted Davis at the bar. He wasn't in his suit and was just polishing off his draft. Without breaking stride Jack tapped him on the back and motioned him to follow. He led him to his rear table where he assumed his usual back-to-the-wall position, eyes on the door. Davis pulled out a chair opposite him and dropped into it. He thrust out his hand.

"Cal Davis."

Jack shook it. "Jack. What are you drinking?"

"Stella. Didn't expect to find it on tap in a dive like this."

Dive… Julio would have liked that. He worked hard keeping his place a dive. And Davis had passed the first test: He didn't drink Bud or—God forbid—Bud Light.

Jack signaled to Julio for two Stellas, then leaned toward Davis.

"I hear you want to talk."

"Yeah." He ran a hand across his short blond hair and put on an affable smile; Jack didn't know how real it was. "Interesting morning, huh?"

"Very. What do we talk about?"

The beers came then and Davis lifted his in a toast.

"To lots of interesting mornings."

Jack had a sense that Davis was trying to soften him up, charm him. Jack wasn't in the mood for charm.

"Interesting is personal. And it's something of a curse to the Chinese."

Another smile. "Touched"

"Talk."

Davis sighed. "Nothing too serious to say. Just want to see if I can persuade you to throw in with the MV."

"I gave my answer."

"I know." Davis lost his smile and leaned forward. "But 'I'm not a joiner' doesn't cut it. This isn't about you or me or the Oculus. The stakes in this battle go way beyond us. They impact on everyone you know and love."

"You don't get it: I've never worked with anyone. I don't know how. I'd be more of a hindrance than a help."

"That's a cop-out." He jerked a thumb back over his shoulder. "Your Puerto Rican friend behind the bar, the one who's got one eye on me and the other on the sawed-off he keeps under the bar. He and everything he knows and loves are at stake. How about your attachments? Got a girlfriend, a wife, kids?"

All of the above—sort of. But wasn't about to tell Davis.

"My business."

He shrugged. "Fair enough. I don't see you doing the Ward Cleaver or Jim Anderson thing, but what—?"

"Let me ask you something," Jack said. 'The Oculus—and speaking of the Oculus, does he have a real name? You know, like Joe or Tom or Fred? I don't see his mother leaning out the back door shouting, 'Ocky, dinner's ready!'"

"His mother was an Oculus, and she did have a name for him. But as with all Oculi, that fell by the wayside once he assumed the role. We address him as Oculus but out of earshot he's 'the 0.'"

"Okay. The 0 says I'm the Heir. What exactly does that mean?"

Davis gave him a wide-eyed stare. "You mean you don't know?"

Jack was sick of hints—he wanted a full explanation. Maybe he could squeeze one out of Davis.

"Nope. Heir to what?"

"Why… the role of Sentinel."

"And just when does that happen?"

"Should something happen to the Sentinel, something final, you will step into the role."

"Swell." That was what he'd gathered. "But I'm just a regular guy. I can't fight the Otherness… or the Adversary."

"When you're elevated to the part, you'll be changed. You'll have… powers."

Jack didn't want powers.

"All right. How many of these Sentinels have there been?"

"Only one."