CHAPTER 7

The Peoria International Airport had its share of mums and bored children. But rarely ones with an arsenal of poisons tucked into carry-on shampoo

bottles, which made Ian Kabra quite proud.

The fact that the Cahill children had missed their flight did spoil things a bit. Not to mention the airport uniforms they were wearing.

"I can't believe we have to make ourselves look so ... so ..." stammered Natalie Kabra.

"Working class?" said Ian, whose airline security shirt was already making him itch. "Remember what Mother said. It's no longer so easy to

infiltrate airline personnel. Be grateful for our Lucian contacts."

"Don't get me started on the little airplane name badges," Natalie grumbled.

"Will you two be quiet?" said Isabel Kabra as they rounded a corner, heading for the airport employee lounge. A brimmed supervisor cap could not

hide the anger in her eyes as she hissed softly into her mobile: "Arif, speak slowly. My Indonesian is exceptional but not

perfect... yes, I know you outwitted them ... of course they didn't suspect you knew English, that is precisely why we pay you the big bucks ... yes, I

saw their names on the passenger list to Peoria, but they were not in their seats, Arif! ... Ah, you have information on the next flight... three hours?

Good. We shall hope they are on it. And, Arif... you should hope so, too." She flipped the phone shut, her face flushed.

"Well, then, happy news! Hakuna matata and all that," Ian said cheerily. "We'll rest and have a fine dining moment while we wait." He looked

around at the various airport fast-food choices. "Well, er, we'll rest..."

"Three hours --here?" Natalie pulled on her starched collar. "Yesterday it was Tokyo, Paris, Vienna, Seoul, Sydney, and Java. I had such respect

for the Cahills' location scouting. But --oh, honestly, Mother, that bumpy little puddle jumper to ... P-Peo --" Her face turned green. "Excuse me, I'm not feeling well."

Ian watched her run off. "She has a point."

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"Complaining about a location?" Isabel spun on her son. "When those children evaded us in Indonesia--twice? What does that tell you, Ian?"

"That they're lucky?" Ian guessed.

"Those children," his mother said, "are our only worthy adversaries."

Ian barked a laugh. "Good one, Mother!"

"Are you laughing at me, Ian?"

"No." Ian dropped the smile. "Then is it possible, Mother, that they have flown somewhere else?"

"Remember who is leading them," Isabel replied. "That nose-ringed nanny grafted to an iPod. It's a wonder they ever make a flight on time. No, Ian,

we will not panic. They will be on the next flight they can manage to book. Remember, by our little arrangement with Bae Oh, we have taken out

Alistair. Here in Peoria, they will be alone. To eliminate them, there must be no variables -- that is the lesson of Indonesia."

Ian nodded. Do not question her, he told himself. Not when she is in a state like this.

Still, it was a pity to attack them with such force. Especially the girl, Amy. He'd never met anyone like her. Shy. Gentle. With an exciting edge of

hostility. So unlike the girls back home, who flung themselves at him so often that his chauffeurs traveled with first-aid kits.

Doesn't she know better? Isn't she smart enough to stop the hunt?

It was the boy and the au pair. He was a pint-sized hothead. She was a collection of piercings and piggish-ness. If only Amy and Dan had stayed

trapped in the cave in Seoul, at least long enough to get discouraged. Why did they antagonize Mother?

They don't know what it's like to live with her.

"Right you are," Ian said. "They're asking for it. Heaven forbid they listen to the brains of the outfit."

"And that would be --?" Isabel said

Ian looked away. "Well, the sister, I'd say. Amy."

He felt a smile inching across his face.

"Ian?" His mother grabbed his wrist. "If you are having the inkling of a shadow of a thought..."

"Mother!" Ian could feel the blood rushing to his face. "How could you suspect for a moment...?"

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By Team Evo

"Mother! Ian!" Natalie was racing out of the bathroom now. She looked even sicker than before. "I just got a text message from Reagan Holt!"

Isabel Kabra looked aghast. "You texted a Tomas?"

"No! She hacked into my mobile." Dismayed, Natalie looked at the screen in her hand and began reading. "Thanks, Nat. We managed to pick up

Dan and Amy's next loction from your phine' -- oh, good grief, the spelling! -- 'location from your phone. We are on their tail, and if we smell a Lucian,

WATCH OUT. ttfn, Reagan.'"

Ian groaned. The Holts were one of the more unpleasant aspects of this hunt--nasty, brutish, and dull. "So much for the Cahills being alone."

"Perhaps we can put a 'Tomas-Free Zone' sign on the landing strip," Natalie said. "That will confuse the dolts --sorry, Holts -- for a day or so."

"Those dimwits," Isabel said with a calm smile, "may be good with a paraglider, but they will not stop us from isolating Dan and Amy here. And

once we have them, we'll have some fun with this."

She pulled out a glowing green vial from her shoulder bag.

Ian swallowed hard.

"It's the liquid we snatched from the Cahills in Paris!" Natalie said. "Mother, you've made a mistake!"

Isabel glared at her daughter. "As Ian no doubt realizes, this vial is a fake. Inside it is a poison. After we administer this, they will experience a slow deterioration of body function, culminating in a long

hospital stay and then death." Isabel opened her shoulder bag to reveal a collection of hypodermic needles.

"I see," Ian said. "We, erm, force-feed them, as it were."

Natalie's face was turning green. "What if they ... have an antidote?" she squeaked.

"A good question -- by God, was that Natalie speaking?" Isabel said. "Well, yes, one of the family branches is rumored to have developed

antidotes to Kabra poisons over the years. I always suspected Grace of being behind this. But oh, dear, I do suppose it's a bit too late for the children

to run crying to her, isn't it?"

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Ian flinched. He glanced toward his sister to see if she agreed, but she seemed intent on her mobile, as usual.

"Okay, change of topic?" Natalie said, looking up. "Um, do either of you know what red snapper is?"

"It's what some people eat when there is no lobster or caviar," Ian replied. "Why?"

"My RSS feed on Dan Cahill's name shows a request a few hours ago for... red snapper?" Natalie scratched her head. "For their cat!"

Isabel grabbed the phone so quickly her hat went askew. "Natalie --where did that request come from?"

* * *

"We are in Code Red."

The professor sat bolt upright. He had been only

half awake when he'd answered the mobile.

The call could mean only one thing. "They are here?"

"I am not at liberty to say," came a familiar gravelly voice. "But this is my final request of you."

With the phone tucked into his ear, the professor quickly, quietly dressed himself. "You know I cannot do as you wish. I am not one of your people."

"You have left the Tomas--"

"I am an educator," the professor said. "I believe in teaching. It is not necessary to cut each other's throats. This kind of thinking has hurt my country,

my people--and the family."

He knelt over his laptop and keyed in the network password. Running the cursor down the left side, he clicked on the flight passenger information

nav bar.

He scrolled through a list of flight rolls.

There. Just as he suspected.

Running out to the car, he kept his attention only half tuned to the voice at the other end. "... your goals are exactly the same as ours," it said.

"But our methods could not be more different." The professor spoke loud as he started the car, to blot out the engine noise. "I do not take joy in

being feared. As I recall, neither did you, years ago!"

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By Team Evo

"Isabel Kabra has killed Spasky," said the voice. "She is getting angry. And sloppy. I have picked up an intercept on her phone. We must close

ranks. We need you."

The professor barreled through a red light. A horn blared in his ear and he slammed on his brakes. As he swerved through the intersection, the

sounds of motorists' curses rose up behind him like barking dogs. "How on earth --how did Irina die?" he shouted.

"While saving the children's lives!"

"What?"

"Where are you?" the other voice demanded.

The professor closed the phone. Could it be?

He pulled to the side of the road and let his breathing ease. Focus was necessary. For his own safety.

For the safety of his fellow drivers. And,

perhaps, for the peaceful end to a half millennium of needless violence.

Irina came to her senses. Irina is dead.

The chase was heating up. Loyalties were fraying.

He reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a small framed photograph. It was a portrait of a man dressed in full Zulu war gear, white

feathers at his arms and calves. He wore a black-and-white headdress and held a full-body shield and a bladed weapon that was neither sword nor

knife. His face was gaunt and severe, his skin nearly as coal-black as the Macassar oil that slickened his hair.

The professor placed the portrait on his seat. He drove on singing, as he always did to clear his mind.

In twenty minutes he reached the airport.

Flashing his badge to security, he entered the service road to the back of the terminal.

They would be arriving in a matter of minutes.

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By Team Evo