"Noisily," Cate answered, putting a finger to her ear to drown out an eager jackhammer. "Very noisily. Listen, Jimmy, I want you to run my piece as is. Give me metrics this week and I'll give you whatever you want next Friday. Come on, Murph. A favor."

"A favor?" Jimmy Murphy's voice cracked, and she could picture him at his desk, hurriedly figuring the angles. No doubt he was wearing one of his bright red dress shirts with a collar two sizes too big for his scrawny neck. "Deal," he said, finally. "I'll get back to you on a subject. Maybe we can find out what Jim Clark's doing these days. Whatever happened to that boat of his? Maybe you could track it down, go for a sail."

Cate sighed. That was someone else's story. A real writer. Someone who possessed the wherewithal to write a book. "Sure thing, Jimmy. See you."

Collapsing onto her unmade bed, Cate put down the phone while shaking her head. Thank goodness, she'd convinced him to run the column. Time was precious. Even the smallest skirmishes counted as battles. She was mustering her troops, marshaling her evidence for the final assault. Rolling over onto her stomach, she pulled the top sheet off her bed, then the fitted cover. Slipping a hand down the side of the mattress, she found a horizontal indentation, and dug her hand into it until her fingers touched a sheaf of papers. Still there, she confirmed, awarding herself a contented smile. Not the most imaginative of hiding places, but for a girl who'd passed up spy school, not bad.

After replacing the sheets, she made the bed. The room looked better now, friendlier. Her armoire wasn't drunk, just a little tipsy. The desk Jett Gavallan had built for her beamed with memories of their time together. The furniture was a little too "shabby-chic" for her taste, but it would have to do. The furniture, the bedroom, the house, all of it was cover. A mask she'd put on eight years ago.

Her eyes drifted back to the desk, and she thought of Jett. Jett, her erstwhile love. Jett, her weathered Boy Scout. Jett, her pigheaded ex who refused to blink his eyes at the lights of an oncoming train.

Until seeing him last night, she'd thought her loyalties decided upon, her duties sworn. But five minutes in his presence had weakened her resolve. She wondered how much more she could tell him about Mercury before he'd finally accept her words as the truth. How much before she revealed too much about herself.

Rising, Cate turned on the radio and headed to her closet. The raucous jangle of The Clash's "Rock the Casbah" hit her ears, and immediately she felt better. She loved Western music. The hard guitars, the irreverent edge, the joyous mocking of authority.

Sharif don't like it

Rock the Casbah, rock the Casbah!

She was still shaken from her early-morning visit. That she hadn't been harmed was small consolation, runner-up only to the fact that the men hadn't found what they'd been looking for. Their haphazard rummaging of the house made it clear that no one had any proof she was behind the attacks. They had come to frighten her. They had come to let her know she was being watched and that she could be controlled. They had come to signal that her life as she knew and loved it could come to an end anytime they wanted it to.

They had come to tug at the mask.

Sliding back the door, she chose a pair of faded jeans, a bold blue and white striped dress shirt, and a cowboy's leather belt Jett had given her on a trip to his ranch in Montana. Cate chose her clothing carefully, rarely buying trendy items or accessories that might be out of style the next season. She knew how to read a stitch and checked a garment's cut and the quality of its material before making a purchase. She'd worn enough cheap clothes to know the difference between good and bad. Her only extravagance was a pair of Todd's driving shoes, fire engine red and buffed to a gloss.

Moving to the mirror, she applied her makeup in quick, deft movements. Two strokes apiece for the eyelashes, nothing for the brows- they were too dark as it was, too arched for her liking. A hint of eyeliner. Nothing for the lips. The lips would do on their own, she thought, pressing them together. The lips were her best feature, wide and sensual, full without being grotesque. Yes, she'd keep the lips.

Finished, she took a step back, checking for any sign of the fear she felt bubbling inside of her. Her eyes were clear and registered their usual nonchalance. Her smile was in place, and she was glad to see it still conveyed the promise of mischief, a hint of merriment. She found her face too serious as a whole. The high cheekbones, the narrow nose, the widely spaced eyes- all conspired to lend her a haughty, insolent regard that she felt was the opposite of her true personality.

No, she concluded, giving herself a final looking-over, there was scant sign of fear. And she was cheered by her mastery of her emotions.

Strolling from the bathroom, Cate stopped at the dresser and picked up her handbag. She spent a moment checking the contents- recorder, notepad, digital camera, phone, pager, wallet, hairbrush, tic tacs. All present and accounted for.

Just then, her pager buzzed. She picked it up and checked the digital readout. "Urgent information about our mutual friend. Let me know when to send." Excitedly, Cate set down her purse and keyed in a response, then dashed downstairs and stood by the fax machine. A minute later, the phone rang and the fax began to stutter.

The writing on the paper was Cyrillic, the stationery that of the "Prosecutor General of the Russian Republic," but the message was written in English. Dated May 31, the transmission was a copy of a memorandum from Yuri Baranov to "Deputy Assistant Director Howell Dodson of the FBI, Chairman, Joint Russo-American Task Force on Organized Crime."

Cate held her breath, reading the body of the text.

"Pursuant our inquiry re: subject Kirov, Konstantin R., evidence forwarded my offices regarding Novastar Airlines graded sufficient to obtain warrant. Issuing date 7 June. Details of operation to follow. Suggested timetable: Week 23."

Operation? She wondered what they had in mind. Week twenty-three had begun Monday of this week. Damn it, she cursed, why was she always behind the curve?

Cate reread the fax. While there was nothing on the page mentioning Mercury by name, it was a damning document nonetheless. Investors would shy away from an offering for a foreign corporation whose chairman was being investigated on charges of corruption and money laundering by his own government.

Moving to her PC, Cate scanned the document into her hard drive. For all her effort, she was still unsure of the good it would bring. She was sowing doubt, when she needed to be bringing evidence. The article on metrics would help, even if it didn't mention Mercury. More certain was the pain her efforts would cause Jett. He'd lose the deal and his bridge loan to Kirov. He might even have to part with his company. Wouldn't it simply be easier to call Jett up and have a heart-to-heart?

About what? the steely voice inside her demanded. He's been warned. There's nothing more you can do.

Cate ignored the voice. One look at Jett Gavallan last night had brought back all her strenuously suppressed feelings. Lowering her eyes, she remembered the touch of his fingers, the defiant glance when she told him to drop the deal, the tide of blood in his eyes. She told herself it wasn't fair for any woman to demand so much of herself.

The hard voice laughed. Fair? What's fair? She only had to call to mind her own past- her struggles, her denials, her battle to rebuild a career from scratch, to carve a new identity for herself- to know that "fair" was not a promise life often kept. But there was more to it than that. There were some things she could never say, no matter how much her heart demanded.