Arlene broke the connection and turned her phone off. She waited only a few seconds, half expecting the bug control van or the police cruiser to reappear at high speed.

Nothing. Just the small woman and the old suitcase and the empty lot.

Arlene started the Buick, turned on the headlights, and drove up to the woman in a wide arc so as not to spook her.

More girl than woman, thought Arlene as she hit the button to roll down the passenger side window. The doors had, as she'd feared, not been locked. "Aysha?" she said.

The young woman did not flinch back. She looked to be a teenager, with a pale face and large eyes above her cheap raincoat. The suitcase she clutched looked like something Arlene's parents might have owned.

"Yes, I am Aysha," said the girl in accented but smooth English. "Who sent you, please?"

Arlene hesitated only a second before saying, "Yasein. Please get in."

The girl got in the front seat She still clutched her bulky suitcase.

"Toss that in the back," said Arlene and helped her lift it between the seats and drop it on the rear seat. The young woman was smaller than fourteen-year-old Rachel.

Checking her mirrors again, Arlene drove quickly out of the Rainbow Centre's parking lot took Third up to Perry, and Ferry to 62. Within minutes they were on the northern extension of Niagara Palls Boulevard, headed toward Buffalo. It was drizzling again and Arlene turned on the Buick's wipers.

"My name is Arlene DeMarco," she said slowly. And then, without planning it she said, "Welcome to the United States."

"Thank you very much," said the young woman, looking calmly at Arlene. "I am Miss Aysha Mosed, fiancée of Mister Yasein Goba of Lackawanna, New York, United States of America."

Arlene nodded and smiled, while inside she was hurting and thinking, How am I going to tell her? And how am I going to tell her in a way that will still allow her to talk to Joe tomorrow?

"Yasein is dead, is be not?" said Aysha.

Arlene looked at her. Lie to her, was her thought Aloud, she said, "Yes, Aysha. Yasein is dead."

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

The Artful Dodger lost the ambulance and the cop car in the rainslicked streets of Niagara Falls—all he had to do was get out of sight of them and then duck down an alley between Haeberle Plaza and Oakwood Cemetery—and then he headed back to the Rainbow Centre.

Once there, he parked near the mall doors, watching the street and the Niagara Street entrance for the returning police cruiser.

What the fuck was all that about? He was sure it had something to do with the Buick parked out there. It was gone now, of course. He'd known for half an hour that something had been wrong with that blue Buick—that someone was out there. He should have driven straight out there and shot the shit out of that car as soon as he'd arrived.

But what kind of tough guy drives a blue Buick? That's a granny-lady's car.

Now the Dodger waited fifteen minutes, watching over his shoulder the whole time, before deciding that the package had been dropped off and picked up already. He called the Boss and told him the situation.

"Did you get the tag number on the Buick?"

"Sure I did," said the Dodger, and recited it from memory.

There was a brief pause while the Boss fed it into whatever computer or data bank he had—the Boss had access to everything and anything—before the man on the phone said, "Mrs. Arlene DeMarco," and gave an address out in Cheektowaga.

The name meant nothing to the Dodger.

"The P.I.'s secretary," said the Boss. "Kurtz's secretary."

The Dodger had left the mall and was driving toward the expressway, but he had to blink away red in his vision when the Boss said Kurtz's name. That motherfucker has to die. "You want me to go out to Cheektowaga now?" said the Dodger. "Get the package back and settle things with Mrs. Arlene DeMarco?" Maybe Kurtz will be there and we'll get everything settled.

The Boss was silent for a minute, obviously weighing options.

"No, that's all right," said the Boss at last. "It's your birthday and you've got a long drive ahead of you. You go on and take the day off. We'll deal with all of this on Tuesday."

"You sure?" said the Dodger. The Beretta with its silencer was on his lap as he drove. It felt like a blue-steel erection. "Cheektowaga's on my way out of town," he added.

The Boss was silent another few seconds. "No, you go on," said the calm voice. "It might work out better all around if we wait a day."

"All right," said the Dodger, realizing how tired he was. And he did have a long drive ahead of him. And much to do when he arrived. "I'll call you Tuesday morning. Want me to go straight to Cheektowaga then?"

"Yes, that would be good," said the Boss. "Phone me when you get near the airport. No later than seven A.M., all right? We want to meet these ladies before Mrs. DeMarco goes in to work."

"Okay," said the Dodger. "Anything else?"

"Just have a good birthday, Sean," said the Boss.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

"I'll go in through the door I blew," said Angelina. "You go around by the terrace. I think we'd better wrap this up fast Baby Doc looks like he's ready to take off without us, and it might be to his advantage to do it. Get Toma and his guy and we'll get the fuck out of here."

Kurtz nodded and they split up.

Kurtz was still carrying his ditty bag, but there was no need for night-vision goggles now. The house was fully engaged, the second floor pouring flames out of its high windows, the roof cedar-shake shingles smoking and more smoke billowing out the first-floor windows on the east and west sides. The flickering light from the flames illuminated everything out to the Bell Long Ranger.

Kurtz paused at the corner of the house and then swung around onto the terrace overlooking the cliff.

Gonzaga's guy, Bobby, swung a shotgun his way.

"Hey!" said Kurtz, holding his hands and the Browning high. "It's me."

Bobby lowered the shotgun. He was watching the open doors to the library and the Major's room, which lay behind two closed, heavy, windowless doors.

"What's the situation?" asked Kurtz. He popped one cartridge out of the Browning's chamber and dropped it in his pocket. Then he racked the next cartridge in, dropped the empty magazine to the terrace, and slapped in another ten-round clip.

"The boss is still in there, gathering up papers and shit and keeping the Major in his room. The whole fucking place is beginning to burn in there, so the boss won't be staying much longer."

This last information was redundant The flames were pouring out of the second floor windows above the terrace and the heat was significant.

"I think the Major's room connects to Trinh's next to it," said Kurtz over the crackling of the flames. "The old man could get out that way."

Bobby shook his head. "The boss had me shove what was left of that library table up against Trinh's bedroom door and pile up a bunch of shit on it The Major ain't getting out that way. Not in a wheelchair."

"Anyone else in there with the Major?"

"We don't know. The boss don't think so. We got some handgun fire from the bedroom door right when you left. Then the Major closed and bolted it. The boss thinks he's in there alone."

"C-4?" said Kurtz.

Bobby shrugged. "I guess. Me, I'd let the old fuck burn." He said it loud enough to carry through the outside doors.

"Go help Gonzaga," said Kurtz. "I'll watch out here."

When Bobby had run into the smoking library, Kurtz backed away, then peered over the edge of the cliff to the valley floor far below. There were emergency vehicles down there—he could see a fire truck and at least three sheriff's cars, as well as a gaggle of big SUVs—but no one was coming up the winding drive or climbing the ziggurat staircase.