“This will never do,” she said. Taking each one by the arm, she led them directly up to the doorman. She twirled a shiny credstick in her right hand. The four dark bands on the end of the cylinder marked it as certified for at least one hundred nuyen. She tossed it to the man. “My friends here are late for their table.”

She tinted back to them. “Giacomo will take care of you, so there’s no worry. Everything’s wiz, but I’ve got to make a call to check up on the other member of our party. See you in about half an hour. Have fun.”

Sam watched her walk back along the line to converse with a quartet of scruffy men and women. Even at this distance, he could tell that the biggest was an Ork. Her tusks were capped with silver and glinted coldly in the hallway lights. She carried a large case with a casual ease born of enormous strength.

Roe’s companions were surely shadowrunners, her team for the extraction. They had a hard, used took about them. Maybe even overused, Sam thought. He had little experience in these matters, but he had expected Roe to show up with a team that was more… more what? Imposing? Dangerous? At ease in the Club Quarter? More like Tsung and her runners? It didn’t help his state of mind to wonder about their competence.

Roe and the runners walked toward the head of the line for a block, then turned into a corridor that took them away from Rumplestiltskin’s They passed Sam and Hanae, and getting a closer look only fueled Sam’s fears. As Roe’s team moved in and out of the hall’s pools of illumination, the play of light and shadow focused Sam’s attention on the person in the middle of the group. That one maintained a steady, if oddly gaited, walk while the others shifted around. They seemed to be running interference, keeping the crowd from jostling the dark-clothed figure.

The person’s long overcoat effectively concealed gender along with almost everything else. All Sam could glimpse was a pallid face showing between the turned-up collar and the slouch hat. The skin looked soft and unlined as a baby’s. The eyes were hidden behind some kind of heavy goggles. The face turned briefly, and Sam had the distinct impression he was the object of that stare. Then the face was gone, masked by the crowd. No look of recognition, antipathy, concern, or any other emotion marred the sexless smoothness. Whoever that person was, Sam found the appearance of the dark-coated albino unsettling.

“Sam, you’re staring,” Hanae whispered. Louder, she said, “Come on, darling. This nice Mr. Giacomo has found our reservation.”

“Thought I saw someone I knew,” he mumbled as he allowed himself to be led into the club.

12

The pickup had taken less time than she had expected. Mr. Target-she found it easiest to think of him that way-had been waiting in the quiet little bar, as arranged. Her tardiness must have made him think she wouldn’t come and he had begun drinking. He had gotten a good start. When she arrived his face was already flushed, making the silver metal of the datajack in his temple stand out starkly.

Between his relief that she had not forsaken him and his nervousness about their rendezvous, it was easy to persuade him to a few more rounds. The more alcohol a target had in his system, the less likely he would notice any anomalies in the world around him. She had only toyed with her own drink, waiting for the chance to suggest that they go on up to the executive suite. It was child’s play overcoming his propriety and natural caution. So many brains cells, she thought, so easily overruled by hormones and the animal need for comfort.

“Hope I don’t have this much trouble with you, Kathy,” he said with a leer as he tried a second time to get his credstick into the slot. His corporate rank would open the door as soon as the maglock read the ID encoded on his stick. But he had to get it into the hole first.

“Here. Let me.” She kissed the hand from which she took the credstick, then smoothly slotted the stick home. “I can usually put things where they belong.”

As the door slid open, she skipped past him. Trailing her scarf along his shoulder, she gave him an inviting smile as she backed into the chamber. She had every confidence that Jenny was monitoring the room and would have the ground team squared away in their hiding places.

Mr. Target followed her in. He was a bit unsteady, as though he’d overextended himself. Not too hard for someone so out of shape. Though not particularly overweight he was soft from easy corporate life. She doubted he had seen much of the world outside the arcology, which was just as well. His deskbound focus made him more open to her advances.

After two steps, he stopped and turned back to the door. She tensed, ready to drag him back, but relaxed to see him reaching for the control panel. He grinned like a child as be turned from punching numbers into the keypad.

“Wouldn’t want to get interrupted. I have my reputation to consider.”

“No,” she purred. “We most certainly don’t want to be interrupted.”

Playing her part, she bounced deeper into the room and looked around with wide eyes.

“Wow,” she exclaimed, trying to force into her voice all the awe she had felt upon first seeing the chamber. “This place’s wiz. Totally ritz.”

The street slang was inadequate to describe the room’s opulence. From the scattered furs of extinct and endangered species and rare paranormal animals strewn over the redwood flooring, to the masterpieces of art on the walls and carefully highlighted on pedestals to the cutting-edge trid screens with their vistas of ocean and forest that filled the walls, it was furnished with only the most rare and precious items. A construct of chrome frames and alternating clear and black lacquer panels offered all the standard small electronic entertainments, from simsense headsets and trid screens to cases of dreamchips and illegal wire ports. The spread of expensive liquors, herbs, and exotic delicacies was extensive The central piece of furniture was an enormous bed shimmering with the silken sheen of its sheets. It was more than sybaritic. It was unconscionably decadent.

“Renraku takes good care of its important people.” He tossed his coat over a leather-upholstered Louis XV chair in a gesture of casual possessiveness. “We’ve got several of these little hideaways on this level. They are convenient for private meetings with special guests.”

“Being here certainly does make me feel special.” She detected a flicker of doubt on his face. He had complained to her that people liked him only for what he could do for them. This was no time to make him feel defensive. “But I always feel special when I’m with you.”

That made him smile. He still had that look of awkward nervousness, but he was no longer suspicious. Once again the hopeful suitor, he squared his shoulders with determination to impress his chosen lady. In another time and place, she might have found his naivete charming.

“Attention, computer,” he said. The command was spoken with familiarity, but the next words were less assured. “We’d like some music. Bolero, I think. Do it.”