"I'll take these," the other said, jostling Gree's train of thought. He held a stack of ten packages.

"Yes, sir." Gree took them and returned to the counter. "Cash or on the plate?"

"Cash."

Gree had expected that. "All right. Ten at two marks each is twenty; plus tax—" Impulsively, almost of its own accord, Gree's finger pushed a button on his register. "Plus tax, twenty-two," he announced through suddenly dry lips.

The Security man had several crumpled bills out already. Extracting two tens and two ones, he handed them over and in the same smooth motion picked up the packages. "Thank you," he said.

"Do you want a sack?" Gree asked as he turned toward the door.

"No, thank you," the other threw back over his shoulder. "I'm being picked up."

And then he was gone. "Sure you are," Gree muttered, his knees beginning to tremble with reaction. A big risk, but it had paid off. A real Security man would have gone through the roof if he'd been charged luxury-item tax on food. The penalty for fraud—but never mind that. He'd been right; that had been the elusive blackcollar Jensen. In full Security uniform, yet, and with the gall to just stroll into town for supplies. No wonder they hadn't caught him yet.

Reaching under the counter, Gree found his phone and began punching numbers. The connection was made, and he let it ring twice before hanging up. Thirty seconds later he repeated the procedure, checking his watch carefully as he disconnected. Exactly two minutes and forty seconds and he would call one final time, and the phone would be answered on the eleventh ring. Presumably.

Involuntarily, he glanced at his front door. He'd had a grace Gree had never before seen, a sort of submerged feline power that almost made the grapevine reports about the man believable. And if his rads were anything like him, maybe the vague rumors coming out of Calarand this morning weren't as exaggerated as he'd thought, either.

Almost time. Gree punched in all but the last number, watching his old Army chrono and waiting for the exact second to complete the connection. As he did so, the half-completed order forms on the counter caught his eye, and he smiled.

He'd best not swell his inventory too much more. He had an idea that the activity around Split would be breaking off very soon.

CHAPTER 19

The tension in the conference room was thick enough to slice up and make into sandwiches. Gazing around the table, Caine saw nothing but hostility; from Bakshi's icy expression to his blackcollars' more open contempt to Jeremiah Dan's steepled fingers with their white nails. Salli Quinlan and Miles Cameron had the look of lions awaiting their turn in the arena, and even Faye Picciano was unnaturally silent as she worked on Lathe's burns. And Ral Tremayne, standing behind his chair, was as mad as Caine had ever seen a man get.

"Soft probe. A look at the prison. Really cute." Tremayne's eyes bored into Lathe like twin antiarmor lasers. "What the hell did you expect to accomplish by that half-assed play?"

"I got in and back out alive," Lathe answered, wincing as Faye spread salve on his shoulder.

"Hold still," she chided. "This stuffs expensive—we can't afford to waste it on healthy skin."

"Or on stupid grandstanders. Put it away, Faye," Tremayne ordered. "Save it for Radix people injured in the line of duty. You haven't answered my question, Lathe."

"What are you griping about, Tremayne?" the comsquare said as Faye capped her tube of burn salve and began to bandage the skin already treated. "I don't need your permission to take action as long as it doesn't involve your people or equipment."

"What about the van you lost?" Cameron growled. "That was our equipment." He glanced over irritably as Novak passed by along the nearby wall. "Will you two sit down, damn it?"

Neither Mordecai nor Novak paid any attention, but continued their quiet wanderings. "They aren't hurting anything," Lathe told the intelligence chief. "And as for the van—"

"I'd rather they sat.

"All right, enough," Tremayne snapped. "Forget the van. The issue—"

"No, let's not forget the van," Lathe interrupted. His tone was suddenly hard. "We lost it because we were ambushed. And that means we were betrayed—by one of you."

"I've heard Commando Fuess's report," Tremayne said. "There's no conclusive evidence of that."

Lathe glanced at Fuess, and Caine thought he saw the Argentian squirm a bit. "Did Commando Fuess mention they were on to us ten blocks from the Strip? And that they had their roadblocks all set up—complete with heavy mag-lock shackles, which I'm told are not standard patrol car equipment? How much evidence do you want?"

"Someone could have seen you leave this morning," Faye suggested.

"That wouldn't have given them enough time. Besides, I had people in the garage watching for that."

Tremayne slammed his fist on the table. "That does it, damn it." Abruptly, he sat down and leveled a finger across the table at Lathe. "I've had it with taking you on faith and then watching you go off and work behind our backs. You're going to tell us what you're up to, and you're going to tell us now."

"I'm sorry," Lathe shook his head.

"You don't have a choice." Tremayne raised his hand.

And in the side wall across from Caine three small sections of the woodwork suddenly swung inward. From the gloom behind the openings three laser rifles appeared.

Caine froze, caught completely off-guard—but Novak was already moving. The blackcollar had been standing against the wall directly between two of the eye-level gunports, a meter and a half from either one; but almost before the rifles had steadied he'd taken a long step toward the one at his right and smashed the muzzle straight back into its port with his nunchaku. His back still to the wall, he reversed direction: two quick steps to his left, and his left leg snapped up and back in a hook kick, again jamming the protruding laser back into its owner. His nunchaku was spinning through the air before his foot was back on the floor, catching the last muzzle between the two sticks and slamming it against the edge of the port. The laser spat once, cutting a deep groove in the table. By the time the gunner recovered his aim Novak was there. Grabbing the muzzle, he first shoved and then pulled, and a second later was down on one knee with his prize pointing past the table. Caine glanced behind him, realizing only then that Mordecai had similarly taken out the three gunports on his side of the room.

In the brittle silence Bakshi's voice carried clearly: "Drop those guns or I'll kill you."

Caine focused on him. The comsquare hadn't moved, hadn't drawn a single weapon; and yet, looking at his expression, Caine had no doubt he could carry out the threat. Suddenly the room felt very cold indeed.

"Everyone just relax," Lathe said calmly. "We're not trying to take over. But I warned you against pulling weapons on us again." He eyed the walls and jerked his head toward the door. "Out, all of you. Tremayne?"

Glowering, the Radix leader gave a hand signal. Splitting neatly along lines in the woodwork, a door swung open around each of the gunports. Six men, nursing cut lips and sore shoulders, stepped from the dark alcoves and headed for the door. Lathe motioned, and the Plinry blackcollars returned the captured lasers to their owners.

"We'll have no more of this eavesdropping," Lathe said as the door closed behind the guards.

"Don't worry," Cameron growled. "Those men are completely trustworthy."

"No one on Argent is completely trustworthy," Lathe said, "and before you get your hackles up I simply mean we're too small a group to take the wrong chance twice. That's why we didn't tell anyone about our plans this morning. I'm sorry if you feel offended, but that's how we have to operate here."