The waiter approached before he could answer. Abel ordered a cup of coffee and when the waiter was gone he said, "My services have been retained by someone who would like a problem to go away. A very interesting problem. One that I'm not sure I'm comfortable using any of my ordinary contacts on."

She studied him from behind her one-way glasses. "If things don't go as planned, you don't want anyone tracing the job back to you?"

She was a smart woman. Abel conceded the point saying, "That is part of it."

"And the other part?"

Abel put on a humble face. "Some jobs require nothing more than brute force. I have many people who fit this profile, and to be honest, I do not enjoy doing business with any of them. Other jobs require a bit of cunning and deceit." Abel shrugged. "I have a few people who aren't so rough around the edges and are competent enough. Still other jobs require a true professional. Someone who is creative with solutions and adept with follow-through. I have maybe one man who I would put in this category."

"So why not use him?"

The waiter appeared with the fresh cup of coffee. Abel held his answer until they were alone again. "I considered it, but in the end I decided there was one limitation that might prevent him from succeeding."

"What, may I ask, is that?"

There was a line that Abel had predetermined he would not cross. This bit of information fell just shy of that line. "We are nearing a juncture in our conversation that I like to refer to as 'the point of no return.' "

She nodded, but offered nothing more.

"I will answer this one question, and then it is my turn to do some asking."

"You may ask all you'd like." She pushed her chair back slightly and recrossed her legs.

"Some jobs require that nothing is left to chance. This is one of those jobs, and whoever takes it must be fluent in English. My man is not, and I feel that this could be a potential problem either before or after the job."

"Is your target British or American?"

Abel ignored her question, and instead asked, "Can your partner speak in both the British and American dialects?"

"Yes."

"Good. Now I would like to go over your rйsumй."

She put her hand up to stop him. "Before you go any further, I need to lay down a few rules. First, no heads of state. We don't care how much money you're willing to pay. We have no desire to spend the rest of our lives living under a rock. Second, we will set the terms and conditions. You will have nothing to say, operationally speaking. The only thing we will allow you to do is set a deadline."

"And pay you, of course." Abel smiled.

She smiled back. "Of course."

Abel was struck by how beautiful her smile was. He desperately wanted to reach out and take her sunglasses off so he could complete the picture. "Now, on to your rйsumй."

"I forgot the last point, and I doubt you will like it." She folded her arms across her chest. "We reserve the right to back out at any time prior to the deadline. You will of course receive a full refund with the exception of the hundred-thousand-dollar retainer that you have already paid."

Abel kept his cool even though his German temper was bubbling up just beneath the surface. "I have never heard of such a preposterous thing."

"I'm afraid those are our conditions."

"You cannot conduct business this way." Abel pushed his cup and saucer away. "I have proceeded in very good faith. I have paid an obscene retainer for which I have received nothing in return other than a list of your conditions. I need to be protected just as badly as you do, and I must tell you that if you insist on being so one-sided in this negotiation I will be forced to look elsewhere."

"Herr Abel," she began, "you can look all you want, but if you need something done in Britain or America, you need to look no further." She opened her purse and fished out a cigarette. "We are not in the business of sharing secrets. We are a fee-for-hire service and our reputation is everything." She lit the cigarette and pointed it at him. "Things come up in this line of work. Unexpected things that we cannot control. A true professional knows when to walk away. I can guarantee that we will do everything possible to fulfill the contract, but in the end, if we decide to walk away, that will be the end of it. You will get your money back, and we will take your secret to our graves."

Nothing was going as he'd planned. These two had done their homework. They had allowed him to think he was the smarter man and then they had knocked him off balance and set the entire tone. He was the one supposed to be doing the interviewing, not them. As much as he wanted to stay and continue chatting with this lovely woman he needed to show at least one sign of strength.

Abel pushed his chair back and stood. "I am sorry we have wasted each other's time. The fee you stood to earn was extremely large." He extended his hand more in hopes that he could touch her skin than as a courtesy. She did the same, and he held her hand delicately. "If you decide to be more flexible in your negotiations, I will reconsider doing business with you." He gave her a curt bow and left.

A BLOCK AWAY a man stood leaning against his motorbike pretending to read a copy of Rolling Stone. Gnarled dreadlocks cascaded down to his shoulders. He had a messenger bag slung over his shoulder and his helmet was hooked onto one of the handlebars. Clipped to the strap of the messenger bag was a two-way radio. A wireless earpiece was linked to the radio via Bluetooth technology. For the last fifteen seconds there'd been nothing but the background noise of the city.

Finally, her voice asked, "As-tu tout compris?" Did you get all of that?

"Yep."

"You don't sound very concerned."

"Nope." He glanced sideways at his rearview mirror and just as he expected he saw the German walking in his direction.

"What are we going to do?"

"Give him a little private audition, I think."

She sighed. "Why do you always insist on taking risks?"

He began tapping his foot and singing a Peter Tosh song replete with Jamaican accent. Once the German had passed he said, "We're in the risk business, my darling. I'll see you back at the place. Give me a ten-minute start." He closed the magazine and shoved it in his saddlebag. After strapping on his helmet, he started the bike and raced out into traffic.

14

Rapp pulled into the parking lot, shut off the car, and got out. He walked to the asphalt curb and looked out across the playing fields. His mood began to change almost immediately. It had been more than fifteen years since he'd been back, but the place was more familiar to him than perhaps any in the world. It was pretty much as he'd remembered it. Some of the trees were bigger, some were gone, and there were a few new ones planted near the parking lot, but other than that, it was the same old place-the place of his youth.

The view, the smell, the weather, all brought back a deluge of memories-most of them good, but not all. This was where he'd broken his arm at the age of seven. He'd gone running home bawling, only to have his father enforce his "no blood, no tears" rule. After a brief check, his father, who was fond of the phrase "Suck it up," told Mitch it was just a sprain. When young Mitchell awoke in the middle of the night soaked in sweat, and his arm twice its normal size, his mother intervened and Mr. Suck It Up was ordered to take his son to the emergency room. It was not their first trip to get x-rays, but it was their last. The next year his father died of a massive heart attack and left behind a relatively young wife and two kids: Mitch and his younger brother, Steven.