On the other hand . . .

By now, Anton and Victor had gotten to the point where, at least when it came to professional matters, they could almost read each other's minds. So Zilwicki wasn't surprised when Victor said: "Anton, it'll be the very openness of our approach that's most likely to lead Harrington to agree. Whatever I'm up to, she'll know I'm not skulking about—and unlike the assassination attempt on her, I'd be coming at her directly. Which, given her level of protection—not to mention her own reputation as a hand-to-hand fighter—is hardly a real danger."

He spread his hands and looked down upon himself, smiling as beatifically as Victor Cachat could manage. Which, admittedly, would have left any saint appalled. "I mean, look at me. Is this the physique of a deadly assassin? Unarmed assassin, at that, since she'll be perfectly capable of detecting any weapons and insisting I remove them."

Zilwicki made a face. "Anybody know a good dental technician? He'll also have to be immediately available—and be familiar with archaic dental practices like tooth extraction."

Berry frowned. "Why do you need a dental technician?"

"He's actually suggesting that I do, Berry. So I can get a poisoned hollow tooth installed. Which is just silly." Victor clucked his tongue chidingly. "I have to tell you, Anton, that in this technological area Haven is way ahead of Manticore. And apparently Manpower, as well."

Thandi Palane was squinting at him. "Victor, are you telling me that you routinely carry around suiciding devices?" Her tone of voice was short of absolute zero, but could have made ice cubes in an instant. "If so, I am not pleased. And wouldn't be, even if we didn't share a bed every night."

Cachat gave her a quick, reassuring smile. "No, no, of course not. I'll have to get it from our station on Erewhon. But we'll need to pass through Erewhon en route to Trevor's Star, anyway."

On their way out of the palace to start making their preparations, Anton murmured: "Nice save, Victor."

Cachat might have looked a bit embarrassed. If so, though, it was only an itsy-bitsy teeny-weeny bit of embarrassment.

"Look, I'm not crazy. Of course I don't carry the thing into bed. In fact, I don't keep it anywhere in the bedroom. But . . . what would be the point of having a suicide device in another star system? Naturally, I carry the thing with me at all times. I've done so for years."

Zilwicki didn't shake his head, but he was sorely tempted. There were times when Victor seemed like an alien from a far away galaxy with an emotional structure not even remotely akin to that of human beings. It was obvious Cachat thought it was perfectly reasonable—normal practice for any competent secret agent—to carry around a suicide device at all times. He'd no more think of venturing out without one than another man would go without putting on shoes.

In point of fact, no intelligence agency other than that of Haven followed such a practice—and, although he wasn't positive, Anton was pretty sure not even the Havenites did so routinely. Not even when Saint-Just had been running the show. Suicide devices would only be provided to agents on rare occasions, for missions that were especially sensitive. They wouldn't be passed around like so many throat lozenges!

Once again, if Anton needed the reminder, Victor Cachat was demonstrating that he was Victor Cachat.

"One of a kind," he muttered.

"What was that?"

"Never mind, Victor."

Hugh ran his fingers through his hair. That was a gesture he normally only did when he was exasperated. Which . . .

He was and he wasn't. It was all rather confusing—and Hugh Arai hated being confused.

"I still don't see why you're so insistent—"

"Cut it out, Hugh!" snapped Jeremy X. "You know perfectly well why I'm twisting your arm as hard as I can. First, because you're the best."

"Oh, that's nonsense! There are plenty of security people in the galaxy better than I am."

Jeremy's beady gaze really had to be seen to be believed.

"Well . . . all right, fine. There aren't all that many and while I think it's ridiculous to claim I'm 'the best,' it's probably true. . . ."

His voice trailed off. Web Du Havel finished the sentence: "That nobody is any better than you."

Hugh gave the prime minister of Torch a rather unfriendly look. "Meaning no offense, Web, but when did you become an expert on security?"

Du Havel just grinned. "I'm not and never claimed to be. But I don't have to, since"—here he indicated Jeremy with a thumb—"I've got as my war secretary a man who proved, year after year after year, that he could thwart just about any security system in existence. So I figure I can take his word for it, when it comes to such matters."

That was . . . hard to argue with.

Jeremy waited just long enough to make sure Hugh had conceded the point. Concession by stubborn silence, perhaps—but concession it was, and they both knew it.

"The second reason's just as important," he continued. "Normally, we'd lean on the Ballroom for anything like this. But with what we know now, from the Ronald Allen incident, we can't do that. I doubt if Manpower has been able to get very many agents to penetrate the Ballroom or Torch government offices—but it seems almost certain that however many such agents there are, all of them will have assassinating the Queen as one of their top priorities."

He paused, waiting for Hugh—forcing Hugh, rather—to agree or disagree.

Since the answer was obvious, Hugh nodded. "No argument there. And your conclusion is . . . ?"

"Obvious, it seems to me. We need to pull together a security team that's completely outside the Ballroom and doesn't depend on using genetic ex-slaves."

Hugh saw a possible beam of light.

"Well, in that case, I need to remind you I'm a genetic ex-slave, so that would seem—"

"Cut it out!" That was as close to a roar as Hugh had ever seen coming from Jeremy. The man's normal and preferred style was whimsical, not ferocious.

Jeremy glared at him. "You don't count, and the reason's obvious—and you know it. I can vouch for you since the age of five, and if I can't be trusted we're all screwed anyway since I'm the be-damned Secretary of War! Let's not go crazy, here. But even with you in charge, I still want the rest of the team to be from Beowulf."

Even while he'd been raising his objections, Hugh's mind had been chewing on the problem. On a second track, so to speak. He hadn't needed Jeremy to explain to him the advantages of using a security team that had no pre-existing ties to Torch or the Ballroom. That had been obvious, from the outset. And the solution to that problem was just as obvious—if it could be done at all.

"The best way to handle it would simply be to have the BSC assign me and my team to Torch."

Jeremy nodded. "Finally! The lad's thinking clearly."

Web Du Havel looked from one to the other. "I didn't have the impression BSC teams specialized in security."

Hugh and Jeremy smiled simultaneously. "Well, they don't. As such," said Jeremy. "It's rather like my own expertise on the subject. What you might call, developed from the inside out. Or the outside, in."

Web rolled his eyes. "In other words, you don't have a clue about security procedures except how to get around them."

"Pretty much," said Hugh. "Leaving me aside—I do have a lot of security training and experience—the skills of my team are what you might call those of the OpForce. But that's plenty good enough, Web. And since they're completely out of the loop in terms of Torch or the Ballroom—and I can vouch for each and every one of them—we don't have to worry that we've been penetrated."

"That still leaves the problem that whatever method is being used in these latest assassinations and assassination attempts might be able to circumvent everything."