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that makes it 100 percent secure. Claire, my FBI friend, gave it to me.
Lisa sounds tired, and I doubt she got much sleep. I feel bad about having turned her life upside down, but I can t think of another way to keep her safe.
I still haven t located Jeff, she says.
Did you call his house?
What do you think?
I think that might be a bad idea.
Look, Alisa Perne, or whatever your real name is, he may be dead to you, but I still have hope.
You have to take my advice seriously. Hope can be a good thing in many situations, but you have to admit it s a bad sign he hasn t left a message on
your home voice mail, which I m sure you ve checked a hundred times.
She s tired and she s hurting. It s all there in her voice.
You don t have to keep rubbing it in, she says.
Okay. Let me ask you a question. How often does Ms. Brutran work around the clock at her desk?
What do you mean?
I m sitting outside your building. I ve been here all night and she s never gone home.
That s weird.
I take it this is weird even for her?
As far as I know. When the day is done, she usually goes home with the rest of us. At least as far as I could tell. I didn t keep close track of her
schedule.
It is as I fear. Ms. Brutran is staying at work because of me.
I ll give her another night, see what she does, I say.
What are you going to do? Kidnap her the way you kidnapped me?
There s no use whining, Lisa. I gave you plenty of cash. You can go home if you like. But I wouldn t want to bet on your odds of being alive next week.
Lisa s tone softens. I do appreciate what you re trying to do for me. It s just hard, you know, to be here all alone, not knowing what s going on. Without
Jeff.
I understand. I promise to call you tonight and give you an update. But for now, try not to use the phone to call anyone other than me. Okay?
I hear ya, Lisa says.
We exchange good-byes and I stretch out and wait.
TEN
That night, finally, not long after sunset, Brutran leaves her office and heads for her car. I run for mine. It s a mile away, but I set a world record getting to it.
I m not unduly worried about losing her in traffic. My ears are acutely attuned to every sound in IIC s basement, where the firm stows their cars. Fortunately,
the garage isn t equipped with vacuum-plated glass, and I m able to hear Brutran not only start her car, but say good night to the garage attendant.
To my surprise, Brutran heads north on Pacific Coast Highway, not south into Los Angeles. The road is winding, the traffic sparse. I hang back a mile.
The woman drives a white BMW, one of the six brands of cars I sacrificed to the sniper and his Gatling gun. As I follow, I try to envision what type of
security I will find at her home, and what I ll have to do to defeat it. My heart beats with anticipation, and I realize how anxious I am to get my hands on her,
to get to the truth of IIC and its mysterious Array.
The woman has a remarkable ability to control her mind, but I m confident I can break her. There s a limit to how much pain any human being can stand.
Plus her cavalier attitude toward assassinating innocent people angers me, and when I m angry, my behavior knows no limits.
Brutran drives north along the coast until there s a break in the hills on our right and she s able to take a country road across vast farmland. From there
she accelerates and races into the hills overlooking Ventura. I m not surprised to see her turn up a long driveway that leads to a mansion sitting atop its
own peak. The architectural style of the residence is the opposite of her workplace. This house belongs on an old Spanish plantation. Although technically
one story, it s spread over an acre of shifting terrain, giving it a half dozen different levels.
The view is beautiful: the glittering lights of the city below, the dark expanse of the far-off ocean. But what strikes me most as I sit in my car down the hill
from her driveway is the silence of the spot. I hear a garage door open and close. Brutran turns off her engine and enters her home. Yet she talks to no
one, because no one s there. For the moment I m bewildered. There s no husband present, no children, no security guards.
I remember the conclusion I came to earlier, when I spoke to Lisa. That Brutran must have stayed at work because she was afraid of me. The idea
seemed logical at the time. The woman and I had a tense conversation, and then she went out of her way to spend the next thirty-six hours locked in her
fortress. But now she s come out in the open, and returned home to an empty mansion, without a soul around to protect her.
There s something here I m missing.
Yesterday afternoon, I was unable to read Brutran s thoughts. Yet when I did catch a faint glimpse of her mind, it felt like a tight capsule of consciousness
that intimidated even me. She wasn t simply disciplined and calculating. It was her coldness that struck me the most. It was like she had been born without
a conscience, or else had had it surgically removed from her brain because it no longer suited her goals.
I know nothing of her likes and dislikes, but I do know she d leave nothing to chance. Yet she has met me, face to face, and felt the danger I represent,
the same way I sensed the danger she represents, and now she s left herself wide open to attack.
It worries me. No, it scares me.
What I m missing is the unexpected.
Carefully, I park in a cluster of trees and get out and hike around the ridge where the house stands. I search for hidden cameras, scanning lasers,
infrared sensors any type of high-tech surveillance equipment. But I find nothing, which is odd. Nowadays, virtually anyone rich enough to own such a
mansion would have installed a basic blanket of electronic security. It s like Brutran s so confident of what s inside her that she s no longer worried about
what s outside.
I hear Brutran turn on the TV. CNN.
My head tells me to wait, to learn more, to see what she s up to. My heart burns with impatience. I not only want the truth, I want revenge for all those
she s so casually killed.
I step to a sliding glass door at the back of the house. It s locked. I snap it quietly using brute force. Then I m inside, my Glock in my right hand, the
safety off, moving silently toward the sound of the TV.
Suddenly a little girl, with big green eyes, stands before me.
I m stunned I didn t hear her approach.
Who are you? she asks.
I kneel beside the child. A friend of your mommy s.
She holds up her doll. A beat-up clown with a sad smile.
Mr. Topper can t sleep. He s having nightmares. He keeps waking me up.
I pat the doll s head. Mr. Topper just needs a big kiss from you. Then his bad dreams will go away.
You promise?
I promise. Now go back to bed. I have to talk to your mommy.
The girl nods and walks away. Strange little thing. Silent as a mouse.
I continue my hunt. Around a sharp corner, in an open living room with windows that reach from the floor to the ceiling, I see Brutran munching on a fruit
salad and watching the news. There s no sign of her husband. Then again, I never saw Mr. Brutran in his office the last two days. And it was easy to
identify his workplace. His office is next to his wife s. I have to assume he s out of town.
Her food is fresh, with slices of strawberries, bananas, oranges, apples, kiwis, and melons. I realize I m starving. I don t know whether to shoot her or to
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