“Easy…easy, love…”

They were words, just words. Of course he didn’t mean them. she told herself afterward as she stood in the kitchen stirring soup, her wet hair dripping onto the shoulders of her tunic, her knees still weak from the residual effects of her body’s most recent cataclysm. She could hear Tom whistling as he toweled himself dry in her bathroom. Probably, she thought, he didn’t even know he’d said that-it was doubtful he’d be so cheerful if he had known.

She sniffed a little as she wiped away shower drips with the back of her hand, set aside the ladle and turned off the burner under the steaming minestrone. Turning to survey the table, she murmured, “Oops,” and bent to scoop up Tom’s jacket, which she’d just noticed lying on the floor behind one of the chairs. For a moment she stood and held it, stroking the old, butter-soft leather with her hands, bringing it to her face, inhaling deeply of the musky, already-familiar smell. Tom’s smell.

Was that when it happened? she wondered. Did I fall in love with him there in that moving van, when he put his jacket over me, thinking I was asleep? Almost certainly that was when she’d known she could fall in love with him.

There was something in one of the pockets. Something hard, and…

A peculiar vibration began in her spine, right between her shoulder blades. I won’t look, she thought. I won’t look…I mustn’t look. It’s not what it seems.

She could just see the corner of a handkerchief sticking out of the pocket. The vibration spread from her spine and into her chest as, in a kind of hypnotic and unwilling fascination, like someone passing by the scene of a traffic accident, she watched her own fingers touch the handkerchief, then slowly, slowly pull it forth. Pull it until the folds of clean white cotton parted, and she could see the pale blue gleam of china. China that perfectly matched the soup bowls sitting on the table a few feet away.

The shaking was all through her now. She shook as if with a terrible sickness, unable to do anything but stare down at the broken pieces of the bowl she held in her hands, nestled in Tom’s handkerchief. What does this mean? What does this mean?

Moving slowly and stiffly, like a mechanical toy forgotten too long in the garden, she turned her head toward the doorway, trying to listen through the roaring in her ears. She couldn’t hear Tom whistling now. Any minute he might walk in. Any minute. Jerkily, she shoved the handkerchief back into the pocket from whence it had come and dropped the jacket onto a chair.

What does it mean?

It wasn’t an oversight,. a forgetful accident. She remembered very clearly. He’d deliberately hidden the pieces from her, wrapped them in his handkerchief and tucked them carefully away in his pocket. Why?

Oh, but she knew why. There just wasn’t any other reason she could think of that Tom Hawkins would have pieces of her broken china in his pocket. China only she had handled. She just couldn’t bear to admit it. So…that’s why. That’s what he really came for.

Of course, she thought, aching and sick inside. I should have known.

Interpol. The word conjured up such exotic, romantic images, it was easy to forget that it was just another police department. And that Tom was, first and foremost, a cop. He was working a case, a case in which she, obviously, was still a suspect. Of course, she thought, drawing in deep breaths and trying desperately to calm her trembling before she had to face him again. Why hadn’t she realized she’d still be a suspect?

But he didn’t know what she knew-all right, suspected-so why wouldn’t she be?

Maybe I should have told him, she thought. Then he wouldn’t have had to go to all this trouble.

But she’d been so shocked and devastated to think she could have been so badly fooled, so stupidly naive, such a lousy judge of character…all right, and just plain hurt, too, to think she’d been used by someone she’d considered a friend, someone she’d trusted. She’d wanted to find out for herself if it was true. She’d wanted to be sure.

And if I’d told him, I wouldn’t have had this. I wouldn’t have had tonight

Calmer now, she leaned against the edge of the sink and gazed at her image in the night-darkened window. Her forty-five-year-old reflection stared back at her, with eyes full of inexpressible sadness. “Dummy,” she whispered, and her image did, too, mocking her.

Feeling lost and adrift in a sea of unfathomable sorrow, she took a deep breath, affixed a smile on her face and went to see what was keeping Tom.

Just inside her bedroom doorway she halted, then continued, the smile gone, now that there was no longer a need for it. A tear began a lonely journey to the place where her smile had been.

“Oh. Tom,” she whispered as she stood gazing down at the face of the man now sound asleep in her bed. He was lying on his side facing toward her, his head pillowed on his hand, mouth half-open…vulnerable, unguarded, in need of a shave. She reached out a hand to touch the hair that had fallen across his forehead, then pulled it back. After a moment she raised her arms and drew her tunic over her head and let it fall to the floor. Then she carefully lifted the edge of the comforter and slipped between the sheets.

Tom stirred in his sleep, and his arms came around her, pulling her close as he nestled her bottom against his belly. “Cold?” he murmured when a shiver she couldn’t control coursed through her.

“No.” she whispered gently. “I’m fine.”

His only reply was an unintelligible mutter, followed by a faint snore. Lying very still so as not to disturb him, Jane settled down to wait for morning.


Hawk knew even before he opened his eyes that something was wrong. Something had awakened him-some sound-but whatever it was, it was quiet now.

And that was it. The thing that was wrong. It was too damn quiet. He couldn’t hear Jane anywhere, not in the bathroom, or the kitchen, or anywhere in or around the house, as far as he could tell. The place sounded-felt-empty.

He threw back the covers, swung his feet around and stood up, found his pants on the floor where he’d dropped them, briefs still neatly in place inside his khakis, and pulled them both on in one swift, smooth motion. Zipping and buckling as he went, he crossed the room, bypassed the empty bathroom and stalked in his bare feet down the hallway to the kitchen. Empty.

Through the kitchen window he could see the red Nissan in the driveway. For some reason it looked lonely. A quick check of the carport confirmed his suspicion: Jane’s car was gone. He figured it must have been her starting it up and driving off that had waked him. He didn’t know why that realization filled him with such unease, but it did. Something was wrong. He knew it was. Why had she left without waking him? Why hadn’t she said goodbye?

Swearing under his breath, he closed the door and was about to bolt back into the bedroom after his shirt and shoes when he saw the note printed in Magic Marker on the magnetic message board stuck to the refrigerator door:


TOM! HAVE TO GO TO WORK. THERE’S COFFEE AND ENGLISH MUFFINS. PLEASE (underlined) EAT SOMETHING!


She’d signed it simply, Jane. Her signature looked smudged, as if she’d written something else, wiped it out and written her name over it instead.

Well, sure, thought Hawk, momentarily relieved. It’s Monday. She had to go to work. That explains it.

But the cold, uneasy feeling came creeping back, twice as bad as before. Because hadn’t somebody told him-Campbell, probably, or Devore, or maybe she’d told him herself-that she worked in a bank? What the hell kind of bank opened at this hour?

“Carlysle,” he groaned aloud, “what are you up to?”

His stomach was burning and churning, and only partly from lack of food. He was so keyed up already he didn’t think coffee was a good idea, and he didn’t have time to wait for muffins to toast. He noticed that the kettle full of untouched soup was still there on the back burner of the stove; he poured some into the coffee mug she’d set out for him and drank it down cold, swallowing the lumps of meat and vegetables whole. He knew it was going to hit his stomach like a hand grenade, but he couldn’t help that; he needed the food, and the idea of eating nauseated him.

He had a bad feeling about this. He couldn’t remember ever having had such a bad feeling.

As if someone had been watching him, the cellular phone began to ring as he was settling behind the wheel of the red Nissan. He let the seat belt snap back into its well, snatched up the phone and barked, “Yeah!”

“Hawkins-where the hell’ve you been?” It was Agent Campbell, sounding more excited than vexed. “I’ve been trying to get you all night. You weren’t in your-”

“No,” said Hawk as the ignition fired, “I wasn’t. Listen-”

“Things are about to pop over here. If you want to be in on it, better get your butt in gear now. It’s turning into a regular circus, you want to know the truth-CIA arrived last night, that’s one thing I wanted to tell you-and a bunch of guys from Mossad just called in to say they’re on their way, and not to do anything until they get here. Seems they think they oughta have first crack at her, I guess, because of that Israeli jet that went down two years-”

“Jeez,” Hawk broke in, “who the hell’ve we got here, anyway? Khadafy’s wife?”

“That’s the other thing I wanted to pass along. We’ve got a tentative ID on the lady with all the paintings. Took a while-still sorting things out over there at the Kremlin, it seems. Finally came through about four this morning.” Campbell paused. Hawk ground his teeth and spun gravel as he turned the Nissan onto the paved road. “Ever hear of Galina Moskova?” Hawk frowned and grunted a negative. “Alias Emma Butterfield Parker?”