30

“You scare the hell out of me,” Swain said crossly, stripping off his leather coat and tossing it across the bed, then shrugging out of his shoulder holster.

“Why is that?” Lily asked mildly, succumbing to an impulse she had every time she saw his coat. She picked it up and stroked the butter-soft leather, then slipped it on. The garment was too large, of course, hanging off her shoulders, and the sleeves reached way past her hands, but it was warm from his body and the feel of the leather was so scrumptious she almost purred.

“What are you doing?” he asked, diverted.

“Trying on your coat,” she replied, giving him a look that said Duh. What did it look like she was doing?

“Like there was any way it was going to fit?”

“No, I just wanted to feel it.” She pulled the edges together and stepped in front of the mirror, then had to laugh at her reflection. She was still wearing the mustache and black street clothes, and the knit cap pulled down over her hair. She looked like a cross between a street punk and Charlie Chaplin.

Gingerly she peeled off the mustache and latex, then removed the knit cap and ran her hands through her hair to fluff it. She still looked like a clown, so she removed the coat and tossed it back on the bed, then sat down and began removing her boots.

“Why do I scare you?” she asked, returning to his previous statement.

“You don’t scare me; I’m scared for you. Though my balls did draw up when you told Bernard where you were going to shoot him, but I guess any man would have that reaction. Scared the hell out of him, anyway. Jesus, Lily, what if the Fiat had rammed the car while you were under it? Do you know how—What are you doing?”

“Taking off my clothes,” she said with that Duh look again. She was down to her underwear and she unhooked her bra and dropped it on the bed, then skimmed out of her panties. Totally naked, she picked up his coat again and slipped it on, then walked back to the mirror.

There, that was more like it. The coat still swallowed her, but now it looked sexy, with her tousled hair and bare legs. She put her hands into the pockets and hunched her shoulders, then rolled her neck. She turned around to get a back view. “I love this coat,” she crooned, lifting the hem just enough to show the beginning curve of her ass. She felt breathless and a little too hot, as if someone had raised the thermostat setting in the room. She lifted the hem higher.

“You can have it,” he said hoarsely. His eyes were glazed. He came up behind her and gripped her buttocks in both hands. “You just can’t ever wear it when you have other clothes on.”

“That’s awfully limiting.” She had all she could do not to pant. Her nipples were so hard they ached, and he hadn’t even touched them. Where had this intense sexual need come from? She didn’t know, but she felt as if she would die if he didn’t enter her.

“Take it or leave it.” His palms were hot as he kneaded the rounded cheeks.

“Well, okay, I’ll take it.” She took her hands out of the pockets and stroked the sleeves. “You drive a hard bargain.”

“That’s not all I drive that’s hard,” he muttered, reaching between them to unzip his fly. “Bend over.”

Because she was all but melting, her inner muscles clenched tight against the surging lust that gripped her, she bent over and braced her hands against the wall, going up on her tiptoes while he bent his knees. She caught her breath as he worked the broad head of his penis into her, then with a long, steady push sank to the hilt. He gripped her hips, anchoring her as he pulled back and thrust again.

Her feet almost came off the floor, and her head bumped the wall. He swore and slid one arm around her hips, holding her to him as he swung her around and took her to the bed. He didn’t pull out, didn’t change their basic positions, just bent her over the bed and began pumping.

Normally she needed direct stimulation in order to climax, but she was so ready for him just the friction of those long strokes was doing it for her. There was something about the combination of adrenaline, the sensuous leather on her bare skin, the knowledge that she was naked except for his coat, while he was still fully clothed, the primitive position, that was sending her responses soaring. She clenched her legs together, tightening herself around him, and the feel of that next stroke squeezing him deep into her was all that was needed. Choking back a scream, she buried her face against the bedspread and gripped fistfuls of fabric as the spasms of release shook every muscle in her body.

Swain leaned over her, bracing his hands on each side of her shoulders, driving so strongly that the impact of each thrust shuddered through her. He made a guttural sound, his penis growing impossibly hard; then he began short-stroking and his back arched and he began to climax, gripping her hips hard and grinding against her.

Five minutes later, they both managed to stir. “Don’t move,” he said thickly, drawing back and sliding the leather coat up so he could look at her bottom. He groaned and shuddered. “Oh, yeah, I think I’ve just discovered a fetish.”

“Mine or yours?” she managed to say. Little lightning bolts were still zinging through her and she suspected the same thing was happening to him, because he hadn’t softened very much.

“God, who cares?” He blew out a breath and gripped her buttocks hard, spreading the cheeks and dragging his thumbs down the crease until they met where her sensitive flesh was stretched tightly around his erection.

Her entire body flexed at the sensation as he massaged her; then gradually she relaxed under the soothing ministration. “This is depraved,” she murmured sleepily. “We were shot at tonight; we should be upset, not turned on.”

“Adrenaline does funny things to the system, and you have to burn it off somehow. But if this is how you react, I’ll start shooting at you myself.”

She shook with laughter, making him slip out of her. Groaning, he straightened and began to pull off his clothes. “C’mon, let’s take a quick shower. I worked up a sweat.”

She shrugged out of the leather coat and went with him into the bathroom. She’d have liked a long soak in the tub, but was afraid she’d fall asleep, so she settled for a shower. Refreshed, she put on clean underwear and one of his shirts, and a pair of socks so her feet wouldn’t get cold. The room was untidy, with clothes scattered everywhere, but she wasn’t in the mood to pick them up, and other than hanging up his leather coat—he had to take care of that coat—evidently neither was he. Instead, after pulling on a pair of pants and nothing else, he opened the duffel bag and began testing the bars of Semtex.

The good bars went on one side of him, the bad ones on the other. After all the bars were out of the duffel, there were only five bars that were too old to be used. “We’re okay,” he said. “There’s enough of the good stuff. I allowed for some of it to be bad, just in case.” He began packing the good bars back into the duffel.

Lily nudged an old bar with her toe. “What are we going to do with these?”

“I guess putting them in the trash might not be too smart. The only way I know of to dispose of plastique is burn it or blow it up, so I guess we’ll have to take them with us to the laboratory, try to detonate them with the others. Even if they don’t blow, they’ll burn in the fire.” He had acquired a combination tool—knife, pliers, miniature saw, and she didn’t know what else, all in one handy-dandy implement that was banned on all airlines—and he used the blade to notch the old blocks so he wouldn’t get them confused with the others. Then he replaced them in the duffel, and stowed the duffel on the top shelf of the closet.

“I hope the hotel’s too classy to have nosy maids,” he said, then yawned. “I could use some sleep. How about you?”

Lily had gotten progressively sleepier since getting out of the shower, and his yawn triggered hers. “Fading fast. What’s our next step?”

“Detonators, radio controlled. We’ll have to be a safe distance away when I set off the charges, and running hundreds of yards of det cord all through the lab might make someone suspicious. Once we have the hardware, then we’ll work on the peripherals: the business cards and coveralls, the van. They won’t be that hard to get, and a magnetic sign on the side of the van will take care of the customization.”

“There’s nothing else we can do tonight, then.” She yawned again. “I definitely vote for bed.” Now that the adrenaline rush was gone and the bout of earthy sex had relaxed her, she felt as if her bones were turning rubbery. She turned toward the bed and left him to take care of the lights. She was so tired all she did was pull off her socks; then she fell into bed.

She was vaguely aware of him peeling her out of his shirt, then skimming her panties down and off. She could have slept comfortably in both, but liked being naked in his arms. She sighed as he got into bed and cuddled her close to him. Her hand drifted across his chest. “Love you,” she mumbled.

His arms tightened around her. “I love you, too.” She felt his lips brush her temple; then it was lights-out for her.

Swain lay awake for a long time that night, holding her close and staring into the dark.

On Saturday, D-day, Lily took her time in front of the makeup mirror. The disguise had to be as good as she could make it, or this wouldn’t work. If Dr. Giordano spotted her, all bets were off.

Her options had been either to cut her hair short and dye it or to buy another wig. She didn’t mind coloring her hair, but she didn’t want to cut it as short as a man’s unless there was nothing else to be done. Luckily, very good wigs were available in Paris. The one she bought was longish for a man, but not inordinately so. Nor had she wanted to duplicate the brown color she had used as Denise Morel, or her own blond color. That left black or red. She had opted for black, as it was a much more common color than red. In fact, most of the world’s population had black hair. Over the wig she wore a cap printed with the initials of the fictitious security company Swain had invented, Swain Security Contractors, SSC. He had gone with an American name, since there was no way he could convince anyone he was anything but American.

She had practiced with the latex of the sort used in movie makeup. She was nowhere near as good as a makeup artist, but she didn’t have the luxury of years of practice to perfect her technique. She could widen her jaw a tad, build up the bridge of her nose so she had a classic Roman profile instead of a near-beak—which was the only way she could think of to disguise her profile, which was every bit as distinctive as her eye color—darken her brows and lashes, and add the mustache to hide her full upper lip. She had decided against building up her brow ridge, because she never could get it right and always looked Neanderthal. Dark brown contacts—darker than the hazel brown she had worn as Denise Morel—and wire-framed glasses completed the facial disguise. She had to be skillful with the base that colored the latex the same shade as her skin, because she didn’t want anyone to notice that she was wearing makeup.

She had even covered the tiny holes in her pierced earlobes with the latex. A man might have one ear pierced, might even wear an earring to work, but most men definitely did not have both ears pierced. She supposed some did, but she didn’t want anything about her to attract attention.

The cold spell that had ushered in December was still with them, which was a blessing. To hide her figure she had wound a wide elastic bandage around her breasts, and the dark blue coveralls she wore were loose enough to disguise the shape of her hips. The weather was cold enough that she added a lightweight fiber-fill vest over the coveralls, and that last touch completely hid her figure. Thick-soled work boots with lifts added three inches to her height.

Her hands were a problem. Her nails weren’t polished and she had clipped them very short, but her fingers were slender and undeniably feminine. Because of the weather she could wear gloves while she was outside, but what about inside? She couldn’t help Swain plant the charges and keep her hands in her pockets at the same time. The best she could do was use blue eyeshadow to outline the veins on the backs of her hands and make them look more prominent and, as a crowning touch, add adhesive bandages to two of her fingers to give the impression that she sported the nicks and cuts of someone who did work with her—his—hands.

At least she wouldn’t have to talk much. Swain was the mouthpiece; she was the labor. She could pitch her voice into a lower register, but that was hard to maintain. To coarsen her voice for when she did have to talk, she had forced herself to cough enough to irritate her throat.

Swain, of course, thought her hoarse voice was sexy. She was beginning to think she could sneeze and he would find it sexy. As often as he’d made love to her over the past week and a half, she suspected he’d lied about his age and was really just twenty-two, with premature gray in his hair. Not that his attention wasn’t flattering; in fact, she soaked it up like a plant starved for rain.

However, it wasn’t as if they hadn’t been doing anything other than going at it like bunny rabbits. Either Swain had a talent for locating the sleazoids in the city, or he had some really questionable acquaintances. While Lily—always disguised—had handled the peripheral things they needed, such as locating a van that fit their requirements and having two magnetic signs made, getting the business cards printed up as well as forms with very official-looking technical checklists on them and “SSC” at the top, clipboards, a variety of tools, their coveralls and boots, Swain had been associating with some very rough characters in order to buy the detonators they needed.

He had wanted to build the remote control himself, something he said was easily done with the remote-control system from any radio-controlled toy—such as a car or an airplane, available in any good toy or electronics store—but decided that using a custom control would look more professional, so he had forked over the money required, and bitched about the cost for days.

Then, going by the information contained in the blueprints, he had set about determining where the charges should be placed, and how strong they should be. Lily had never really thought about demolitions from a mathematical standpoint, though she’d known Averill had taken pride in calculating the strength of his charges to exactly what was required to do the job, and nothing more. Swain had explained it all, reeling off numbers as if they were general knowledge: this much Semtex would do this much damage. He used the terms plastique and Semtex interchangeably, but when she asked, he acknowledged that they weren’t exactly the same. C-4, plastique, and Semtex were all in the same family of explosives, but plastique was the more widely known term and was used all-inclusively, but incorrectly. Lily hated when details were wrong; too often her life had depended on getting the details right, so she insisted he say Semtex when he meant Semtex. He’d rolled his eyes, but humored her.

He’d spent hours showing her how and where to place a charge and set the detonator. The detonator was the easy part, but he was very particular about where the charges went. He had numbered the locations, then prepared the charges for each and labeled each charge with the number corresponding to where he wanted it to go. They had studied until they could reel off each location and its number without hesitation, memorized the blueprints, then driven out into the country, where he had marked off the distances to give them a better feel of the size of the complex and how long the job would take.

The good news was, they had a cover for being in the complex. The bad news was, depending on what they found when they got in there, placing all the charges could take a couple of hours or more. The longer they were in there, the better the chance of discovery. Swain was safe; Lily was not, especially if for some reason Rodrigo showed up. He would know from Damone that “security experts” were touring the facility, and he might be curious. If he did appear, Swain would handle the meet-and-greet while Lily busied herself elsewhere and hoped Rodrigo wouldn’t insist on meeting the other “expert.”

Dr. Giordano was the other danger, as far as recognizing Lily was concerned. Likewise, she would try not to attract his attention, though that would be more difficult. After all, the facility was his and his work was his pride and joy. He would be very interested in Swain’s opinion of the security measures in place. Since Swain was supposedly the owner of SSC, he would be more the focus of attention than Lily, but she couldn’t hope to escape completely.

Neither of them had forgotten that this was to be Dr. Giordano’s last day on earth. Lily remembered how kind he’d been to her when she’d been so ill, but at the same time she knew he was at the heart of an evil scheme. So long as Giordano was alive, the knowledge of how to mutate a virus so it would pass from human to human could be used to produce a pandemic. If not avian influenza, then it would be something else. Viruses were deadly enough without his help. The pandemic might occur anyway, at any time, but she’d be damned if she would let it be deliberately timed so someone would make a lot of money.

The plan was, after the charges were set, they would hold a mock bomb-threat drill, timing how fast the buildings could be emptied. When everyone was outside, Swain would detonate the charges and almost simultaneously Lily would execute Dr. Giordano. The percussion and fire from the explosions would certainly cause panic, perhaps some injuries. They themselves would slip in earplugs before detonation, and make certain they were standing behind something for shelter. In the confusion they would get into the van and drive away—they hoped. Nothing was taken for granted.

A luxury hotel wasn’t the best place they could have chosen to prepare explosive charges. Everything had to be tidied away every day before the arrival of the housekeeping service, and they didn’t want to put the charges in the van as they were completed, in case the van was broken into. The last thing in the world they wanted was some punk in possession of that much Semtex.

“Are you ready, Charles?” Swain asked. Charles Fournier was the name they had chosen for Lily. Swain got such a kick out of it he’d been calling her Charles even when they were alone.

“I think this is the best it’s going to get,” she said, getting up from the vanity and pirouetting for him as best she could in the heavy work boots. “Do I look okay?”

“Depends on your definition of ‘okay,’ ” he said. “I wouldn’t ask you out on a date, if that’s what you mean.”

“That’ll do,” she said, satisfied.

He grinned. “I don’t even want to kiss you. That mustache gives me the willies.” He had just finished packing the charges, some in the duffel bag and some in a box. The detonators were in a separate box, and as a precaution he’d taken the batteries out of the remote control.

He was dressed in coveralls that matched hers, with SSC embroidered on the left breast pocket, but underneath he wore a white dress shirt and a tie, to denote he was the boss and draw attention his way. The coveralls were unzipped enough to reveal the tie, and they were loose enough to hide the line of the shoulder holster he wore. She had opted for her familiar ankle holster, though with these boots, getting to her pistol was more difficult than usual. They weren’t entering a fast-draw competition, though; when the time came, if everything was working right, she’d have plenty of time to pull her weapon.

He carried the duffel bag and the box containing the charges, while she carried the box with the detonators. They had the elevator to themselves, but they didn’t indulge in any small talk, or go over the plan one more time. They each knew what they had to do.

“You drive,” Swain said when they reached the van, taking the keys from his pocket and tossing them to her.

Her eyebrows went up. “You’re trusting me to drive?”

“A: I’m the boss and I’m the driven, not the driver. B: a van’s no fun to drive.”

“That’s what I thought,” she said drily. The van must handle as agilely as a beached whale for Lucas Swain to have willingly turned over the keys.

They were supposed to meet Damone Nervi at the complex at three pm. Swain had chosen that time because in the afternoon people are tired and less alert than they are in the morning. When they reached the complex, Lily couldn’t help looking at the small park where the gun battle had erupted just two weeks before. The incident had been mentioned in the news; then when no additional excitement was added by someone dying, it had been completely dropped the next day. She was pleased to see that even though it was a weekend, the cold weather had kept most people from enjoying the park. It was mostly deserted, except for the very occasional hardy soul walking a dog. The fewer people who were about, the better.

As they approached the gate where two guards waited, she coughed several times again, to roughen her voice. One guard held up his hand and she obligingly eased to a stop, then lowered her window. A blast of frigid air made her glad she was wearing the vest. “Monsieur Lucas Swain to see Monsieur Nervi.” Before she could ask, Swain handed over his international driver’s license for the guard to check. She fished out her new fake license and handed it over, as well.

“Fournier,” the guard said, reading the name off the license. They checked the names against a list, which, she noticed, had only the two names on it, so completing their task didn’t take very long.

“Go to the main entrance on the left,” the guard instructed, returning the licenses to them. “Park in the slot marked for visitors. I will call Monsieur Nervi and notify him of your arrival. Beside the door is a buzzer; press it and someone inside will release the lock for you to enter.”

Lily nodded as she slipped the license back into her pocket, and raised the van window to shut out the cold air. She coughed several more times, because she didn’t think she had sounded hoarse enough when talking to the guard. The more she coughed, the worse the cough sounded, as if her throat was getting into the spirit of things. It was already a little sore, so she needed to be careful not to overdo.

Two men stepped out of the entrance. One was Dr. Giordano. “That’s the doctor on the left,” she said to Swain. “The other man must be Damone Nervi.”

There was, in fact, a strong family resemblance, but where Rodrigo was a very good looking man, Damone Nervi was probably the most handsome man she had ever seen, though in no way was he effeminate. His looks were classic, from his thick black hair to his smooth olive-toned skin. He was tall and trim, elegantly dressed in a double-breasted charcoal gray suit that draped on him the way only the Italians could get a suit to fit. Dr. Giordano was smiling in welcome, but Damone’s face was set in an aloof, rather stern expression.

“Something’s off,” Lily murmured.

“How?” Swain asked.

“Supposedly we’re here at Damone’s insistence, so he shouldn’t look as if we’re as welcome as the plague.”

“An apt simile,” he observed. “Yeah, I see what you mean. The doctor’s smiling, Damone isn’t. Maybe he isn’t a smiley type of guy.”

Sometimes the most simple explanation was the best one, but Lily couldn’t shake her vague uneasiness. She parked the van in the appropriate slot and tried not to be obvious as she studied the two men.

Swain didn’t wait. He left the van and strode confidently to the entrance, where he gave both men a brisk handshake. His bearing had changed, Lily realized, the habitual lazy saunter had been replaced by a walk that said, “get out of my way.” Everything about his body language had subtly changed, and he looked like an aggressive, no-nonsense businessman.

According to their plan, she got out and went to the back of the van, opening the doors and getting out two clipboards that each held a thick sheaf of printed forms, plus two circuit testers that were totally useless for anything they were supposed to be doing but which Swain had decided looked impressive. They might even test a circuit or two, just to look as if they were doing something.

Laden with this paraphernalia, taking care she held everything as a man would hold it rather than clutching the clipboards to her chest as women did, she approached the three men. “My associate, Charles Fournier,” Swain said, indicating her. “Damone Nervi, Dr. Giordano. The doctor has agreed to give us a tour, show us all the security measures in place in order to save time.”

Her hands were occupied to prevent her from shaking hands, so everyone contented themselves with nods and greetings. Dr. Giordano was still relaxed and welcoming; if anything, Damone’s expression had gotten more stern. Lily’s uneasiness grew in proportion. Why was Damone acting as if this “inspection” hadn’t been his idea from the beginning?

Damn. Could all of this have been orchestrated simply to draw her into a trap, into a private building where anything could happen to her and no one would ever be the wiser? Was Rodrigo even more cunning than she’d imagined? She had to admit that if so, he’d merely borrowed a page from her own book and drawn her into the trap by not jumping at the first few chances to capture her. Taking her off the street would have been noticed, and while Rodrigo had the political capital to make an incident go away, why spend it when he could simply be patient and lure her into a place where no one would notice anything? For all she knew, the lab was empty of personnel and the vehicles in the parking lot were just window dressing.

If she had miscalculated, she had caused not only her own death but Swain’s also. She thought of all that laughter and zest for life being snuffed out, and went cold inside. The world would be a darker place without Lucas Swain in it. If anything happened to him because of her—

But now Damone had turned away, and Dr. Giordano was chiding him for being so morose because his fiancée had cancelled a scheduled visit. “Perhaps you should visit her,” the doctor teased, slapping Damone on the back. “Women like it when we men come to them.”

“Perhaps tomorrow,” Damone said, shrugging and looking faintly sheepish.

Lily relaxed. Her imagination had been running away with her; Damone was simply in a bad mood because his girlfriend hadn’t visited.

Dr. Giordano pressed a series of numbers on a keypad at the door, and it buzzed open. “We used to each have a card which we slid through a scanner, but people were forever losing their cards and the security company decided a keypad would be more secure,” he said as he stepped inside and they followed.

“That’s true,” Swain said, “so long as no one gives the entry number to unauthorized people. However, I’ve been here two minutes, and I can already tell you that the number sequence for entry is six-nine-eight-three-one-five. You didn’t block the keypad with your body when you keyed in the number. Even worse, the keypad is tonal. I could hear it.” He pulled a tiny digital recorder from his pocket. “I activated this when you started to unlock the door, just in case.” He pressed the play button and a series of six different-toned little beeps sounded. “With this, I could open the door even if I didn’t know what the numbers were.”

Dr. Giordano looked acutely embarrassed. “I assure you, I’m not usually so careless. I did not think I should be on guard against you.”

“You should be on guard against everyone,” Swain replied, really getting into his role. “And the keypad should be changed so you don’t hear the tones. That’s the real weakness.”

“Yes, I see.” Dr. Giordano pulled a notebook from the pocket of his lab coat and made a notation in it. “I will have this taken care of immediately.”

“Good. After the tour, there are two exercises I’d like to conduct, if I may. My associate and I will plant fake explosives in various parts of the complex, and we will see how long it takes any of the workers here to spot something they consider suspicious. If no one notices anything, I’d like to make an announcement about what we have done, and invite them to look around, and notify you whenever they spot anything out of the ordinary. That raises their awareness, first knowing that these packages were put in place without being noticed, and again by in effect teaching them where to look and what to look for. Lastly, I’d like to conduct a bomb-threat evacuation, to time how long it takes everyone to clear the buildings, see what routes they use, and possible alternate routes. This would really be best done when your workforce is at its maximum number, but today was the only day available, so we’ll work with what we have.”

Lily was impressed. Swain was doing a hell of an acting job. Not only that, she hadn’t known he had that tiny recorder. He must have acquired it while he was picking up the other electronics he thought they’d need.

“Of course, that’s brilliant,” Dr. Giordano said. “Now, if you’ll please follow me?”

To Lily’s consternation, Damone fell in step beside her while Swain walked beside Dr. Giordano. The last thing she wanted was one-on-one conversation with anyone. Because her hands were full, she couldn’t cover her mouth, but she turned her head into her shoulder and gave two hard coughs.

Swain looked back at her. “Charles, that cough is sounding worse. You should take something for it.”

“Later,” she croaked, and for good measure coughed again.

“You are ill?” Damone inquired politely.

“A cough only, monsieur.”

“Perhaps you should wear a mask. Dr. Giordano is working with influenza viruses, and anyone who is already sick would be especially vulnerable.”

Dr. Giordano turned his head and said with concern, “No, no, we won’t enter that lab.”

“Do your workers often fall sick from the viruses and bacteria they’re working with?” Swain inquired.

“It happens, of course—so often that no one keeps records. But I am trying to develop a vaccine for a particularly virulent strain, and anyone who enters that lab must show no signs of illness, plus I instituted strict measures requiring the wearing of masks and gloves.”

It was good to know the doctor was taking care his bug didn’t spread to the general populace before the vaccine was available to make them millions of dollars, Lily thought. She stared at his back, at his well-shaped head. He seemed such a nice man, but he was the cause of it all. Because of him, Zia was dead.

Lately—since Swain—she had been able to sometimes think of Zia without the crippling pain of grief, with more a fond and sad remembrance. But looking at Dr. Giordano and knowing he was the reason she no longer had Zia, everything rushed back at her in full force. She clenched her jaw to keep from moaning aloud, and fought the burn of tears. It wouldn’t do for “Charles” to start weeping.

They had all—she and Averill and Tina—fretted because Zia seemed to catch every bug that went around. By the age of ten she had already had pneumonia twice. Whether her immune system had been weakened by the deprivation of her first few weeks of life, or she was just unlucky, didn’t matter. Every winter Zia had been ill several times, and she had always caught at least one summer cold that would inevitably turn into bronchitis. She would have been almost certain to catch such an influenza as Dr. Giordano was planning to unleash on the world, and what were the odds she would have been one of the unlucky ones who died?

In trying to stop that from happening, Averill and Tina had set in motion a train of events that had led to that very outcome anyway. The irony of it was bitter.

Hard on the heels of pain came a hot rush of hatred, so strong that she shook with it. She sucked in a harsh breath, trying to wrestle her emotions back under control before she did something stupid and blew everything.

Walking beside her, Damone gave her a curious look. Lily covered for herself by turning her head and giving another cough. She just hoped the latex on her jaw held up under all this stress. Even more, she hoped that Damone didn’t notice that she had a mustache, but not even a hint of a five o’clock shadow on her face.

They walked down a long hall and turned right. “This is my office,” Dr. Giordano said, indicating a door with his name lettered on it in gold, and another keypad entry. “Next to it is the main laboratory, which I would like to show you. It is where I do my most important work. Monsieur Fournier, you should perhaps remain outside.”

Lily nodded. Swain took one of the notebooks and circuit testers from her and said, “We won’t be long.” She leaned against the wall the way she’d seen men do, the picture of patience as the three men went into the laboratory. She was just glad Damone hadn’t chosen to remain with her.

They were out within ten minutes, Swain making notes. She hoped he’d used his trusty little recorder to get the tonal codes of the keypad when Dr. Giordano had entered it, because that time the doctor had been very careful to shield the keypad with his body when he was punching in the sequence. They would need to get into both the lab and the office to set charges.

“Charles,” Swain said absently, “I want you to check the GF modulator on the 365 BS detector in the doctor’s office.”

“Yes, sir,” Lily croaked, diligently writing down the gibberish. She had no idea what a GF modulator was, or if such a thing even existed, and the only BS she knew of was what was coming out of Swain’s mouth almost every time he opened it. It sounded impressive, though, and gave her an excuse for being in Dr. Giordano’s office.

It was that way throughout the tour; whenever they “inspected” an area that Swain deemed on their hit list, he would reel off a set of instructions designed to get either himself or Lily back in that area. Not once did he repeat himself, probably because he couldn’t remember all the numbers and initials he’d used before. Dr. Giordano was obviously impressed by Swain’s comprehensive knowledge, though Damone’s expression was more enigmatic. Lily suspected Damone would be a hard sell on anything, which further underscored how much he must have trusted Georges Blanc, in order for him to have accepted Blanc’s recommendation.

At last they were finished, and Swain gave a brief smile. “That will do, I think. Now, if you gentlemen will excuse us, we’ll check those items I mentioned to Charles, and then we’ll sneak around hiding our little surprise packages. This will probably take . . . an hour, perhaps a little longer. Then we’ll have some fun with your employees that I hope will impress on them how vigilant they should be, and then we’ll have that evacuation drill.”

“Of course,” Damone said, and gave a very Continental little bow. “Thank you both for coming. If you don’t mind, I won’t remain here. Dr. Giordano knows far more about the facility than I, and he is the heart of all the research here. It has been very good to meet you.” He shook hands with Swain, then extended his hand to Lily and she had no choice but to accept his handshake. She tried to grip his hand firmly, and gave it one brisk shake before letting go and slipping her hands into her pockets.

Damone gave her a long, unreadable look, but said nothing and took his leave. Something in her relaxed a little in his absence. He’d been nothing but polite, but she had often felt his gaze boring into her as if he sensed something odd about her but couldn’t quite decide what it was.

After Damone had left, Lily and Swain returned to the van and began dividing the charges between them. Her notes told them where the charges needed to go. Swain had shown her how to use the detonators; there was nothing to it. Destruction was always a lot easier than construction.

“Almost finished,” Swain said. “You okay? You almost lost it there at the beginning.”

So he’d noticed that her emotions were getting the best of her. “Yes,” she said, her eyes dry and her hands steady. “I’m ready.”

“Here we go, then. I’d kiss you for good luck, but your upper lip is hairy.”

“Just for that, I’m going to wear the mustache to bed tonight.” Joking felt strange, given what they were about to do, but in a way the humor anchored her. She just hoped that, come night, they both would be still alive and together.

“That’s a scary thought.” He shrugged his shoulders, as if working out the tension. His blue eyes were deadly serious as he surveyed her. “Be careful. Don’t let anything happen to you.”

“Same here.”

He looked at his watch. “Okay, let’s hustle. I want all of these planted within half an hour.”

They reentered the building and, after one long look, went in opposite directions. Neither of them looked back.