**********

The hot, arid, late summer days of northeastern Afghanistan were quickly growing shorter; already a nightly chill swept down from the mountains, invading Birat like an ancient marauder, determined whether by stealth or by storm to seize hold of the tiny village, and never let it go.

In the military camp hugging the eastern edge of Birat, the constant haze of dust that normally choked the air had settled; the dry blowing winds had ebbed away for the time being, and activity on the makeshift thoroughfares was at a minimum. Bellies were full and eyelids heavy after the main midday meal, and the dhuhr had been recited – the required prayers just after noontime.

Abbado El-Yousef sat at the battered camp table in front of his tent, choosing this open, public place to confer with his right-hand-man and camp commandant, Rashid. It was cooler inside the air-conditioned tent, to be sure, but El-Yousef enjoyed putting himself on display in front of his men from time to time. He thrived on seeing the adulation in their eyes, witnessing their unequivocal commitment to his cause. For he was the Chosen One.

The Taliban might be the tacit rulers of Afghanistan in the capital of Kabul. But here, in the far reaches of the barren northeastern ranges, it was he, Abbado El-Yousef, whose rule was absolute. Now, as small groups of his men passed quietly by, he waved to them, nodded, offering encouragement. And why not? He was feeling generous. They had all been successful so far, toiling for the cause, and he saw no reason why they should not continue on that course.

It had been years of hard work, of sacrifice, and of prayer, that had brought them to this point. Careful planning and strategizing. Attention to detail. No loose ends. Nothing left to chance.

"Do you see this as a problem, my friend?" El-Yousef pushed the papers he’d been studying to one side of the rough-hewn table. Frowning, his long tapered fingers reached for a cup of tea.

Rashid took a checkered kerchief out of his uniform pocket, nervously swabbing at the perspiration dotting his forehead. He had known Izo Mufti for years, had considered him a friend. That friendship had been strained when the Saudi had taken an infidel as his bride, but Mufti had sworn by word that he would remain dedicated to the jihad, and he had certainly proven that vow by his subsequent service. His most recent activity against the hated enemy had demonstrated that, most of all.

Still, the reports they had received from their Saudi contacts had been worrisome.

"I cannot say," Rashid shook his head slowly. "We knew there would be questions. A vigorous investigation."

"Yes. But this," he tapped a thin finger on top of the paperwork, "indicates that the inquiries are moving in a rather… uncomfortable direction." El-Yousef took a sip of the mahogany-colored tea, swallowed, and pursed his lips. "You know Izo. You trust him."

"Yes! Of course I do! Otherwise I would not have recommended him for the mission!" Despite the shade, the sweat was pouring off the commandant in rivulets. Yet El-Yousef, clothed in his traditional Arab robes, drinking steaming hot tea, looked as icy cool as a mountain stream.

"He is loyal to us? To our holy cause?"

"I am certain of it!"

El-Yousef smiled and waved, offering a pleasant greeting to the pots and pans trader noisily passing by the command tent, leading his overburdened donkey. The old man blushed at the attention and offered a toothless grin in return, bowing so low that he nearly lost his turban. There was no reason for the trader to be this far past the edges of Birat, but it was always this way, among the locals. He was a celebrity, a God in their midst, and any traveling trader or journeyman planning a stop at Birat would make sure it included a pass through the Chosen One’s camp.

"Still, regarding Izo," El-Yousef continued, not missing a beat, "he took an infidel to his bed, did he not?"

Rashid felt his stomach lurch, sending the goat meat he’d had for lunch into a state of immediate distress. "But she has been eliminated, Chosen One!"

"And now, in his mourning for the she-devil, he may be weak. Vulnerable."

"No!"

"Leaving us weak and vulnerable."

"Please... Abbado, don’t!" Rashid dared to use El-Yousef’s given name, as he’d done only infrequently since their school days. He had been content to lose that familiarity, to distance himself from that friendship, for in doing so he’d secured a bird’s eye seat to watch El-Yousef’s ascent to the pinnacle of the worldwide Muslim community.

El-Yousef took another swallow of his tea, and turned his dark, dead eyes past Rashid to the hills beyond their camp. Though the landscape looked desolate and empty, he could just see the darkened blotch against the hillside, marking the entrance to the cave housing their communication post and weapons stores.

Things were running smoothly. Results were better than he ever could have imagined, this early in the game. There was too much at risk, too much at stake, to let one man ruin it all.

"I am sorry, my friend." El-Yousef made a show of sighing heavily, of coloring his words with sadness and regret. "But if Izo is as loyal as you say, then you know he would willingly give his life to insure our victory in the jihad, would he not?"

The muscles in Rashid’s jaw flexed as he ground his teeth and lowered his eyes, saying nothing.

"As you would Rashid," El-Yousef continued, his voice holding a thinly veiled threat. "As we all would."

"Yes," the commandant at last replied, his voice a hoarse whisper. "You know that to be true."

"I never doubted it," El Yousef showed his teeth in a small, glittering smile. "Then you know what to do. We have another contact in Paris?"

"Several," Rashid said, still examining the wooden table.

"Excellent. Have one of them pay him a visit." El-Yousef’s voice was calm, cultured, as though he were discussing plans for a social call. "We must… help him to preserve his loyalty. We can afford no doubts at this critical juncture."

Rashid finally lifted pained eyes to his friend; his leader, the Chosen One. He knew his mission. He understood his role. He had accepted that long ago, when he’d decided to follow El-Yousef to whatever hell or heaven lay in store. "I will see that it is done. Quickly."

"Excellent!" El-Yousef’s smile broadened. "I knew I could rely on you, my friend. This is Allah’s will, after all!" He poured more tea into his cup, and motioned to a second one. "Are you sure you won’t join me?"

Rashid swallowed hard, feeling the heat of despair coursing though his veins, setting his cheeks aflame, choking off his breath. He was already burned. What did it matter now? Silently, he slid the porcelain cup towards El-Yousef, accepting what the Chosen One offered him.

Insha’Allah. He accepted it all.

**********

"So, let me be sure I have this straight," Rebecca Hanson closed her eyes, gasping, as teeth lightly nipped at her throat. "Robert is just a friend, right? Nothing more... not now, at least." One hand tightened its grip on the chenille bedspread upon which she lay, while the other wound its way through Catherine Phillip’s silken hair.

"Nothing more," came the muffled response from a dark head that dipped lower. "Whatever we had was over long ago."

A pause, and then Becky shivered as a hot, wet tongue slowly circled her navel.

"You believe me, don’t you?"

"Hmmn…." The flight attendant lifted her gaze to the ceiling, taking in the heavy oak beams that ran from side to side. "I don’t know… you’ve spent the last hour and a half trying to convince me." Becky felt a rumbling vibration begin as the long, lean body lying next to her began to shake with laughter. "What?"

Kate propped her hands on the young blonde’s stomach and rested her chin on top. "Well," she flashed a rakish grin, "how am I doing?"

Rebecca had to admit it; when she’d first arrived at Charles de Gaulle she had been quite peeved at the pilot. Why, the way Kate had lit into her on the phone about her solo investigations, virtually ignoring the useful information she’d uncovered, twisting it all around!

And then there was the matter of a certain British-accented fellow who had answered the pilot’s hotel room phone in Riyadh. Someone Kate had felt comfortable and familiar enough with to leave him hanging about while she took a shower.

Becky hadn’t known which she despised more: being treated like a child or a fool. Either way, that Catherine Phillips had had some explaining to do, and fast. In fact, Becky had been halfway surprised that Kate had met her at the airport, given the shouting match that had been their last phone conversation.

It had been a quiet cab ride, at least at first, from the airport to the hotel. Becky was tired and hadn’t had much to say, answering the pilot with little more than grunts and nods. It had been obvious to her that Kate’s demeanor had improved somewhat; at least she wasn’t angry anymore. Now it was the tall woman’s turn to try and use a bit of small talk to lure a companion out of a foul mood, but Rebecca would have none of it.

Good. Let her suffer, she’d thought. God knows I did all the way across the Atlantic.

"Where are you sleeping?" Becky had said coldly, throwing her bag onto the mattress and dropping the laptop onto a table.

"All right, that’s it, Hanson!" The pilot had thudded the door shut behind her. "I – I’m sorry, okay? You did good work tracking down Mishka and getting the name of his contact. And it’s not because I don’t trust you to do the job, that I didn’t want you to come to Paris!" She raked a hand through her hair and turned to look out a thinly draped window. "It’s… it’s just that I worry about you, okay? About what I’m getting you into with all this…" she waved her hand uselessly, "…stuff. And as far as Robert goes, yeah, we screwed around."

Rebecca face had fallen and she’d felt the air rush out of her body like a burst balloon. There it was. The truth she’d been dreading. Kate was owning up to it.

"No… listen to me!" The pilot had stepped closer to her, seizing her arms. "That was during the war. Whatever we had," her voice grew ragged, "I killed it long ago. I needed his help this time, Rebecca. And God knows why, but he gave it to me."

Kate had placed her index finger beneath Becky’s chin, lifting her head so she could meet her gaze with her own. "There’s no one but you, Rebecca," she’d said, her blue eyes wide and moist, "there never could be. You’ve spoiled me for anyone else. You know that, don’t you?"

Well.

That had been a record of sorts for Catherine Phillips, Becky thought. More apologies in one long breath than she’d ever gotten out of her over the past six months or so. The pilot had sealed her appeal with a kiss, and Becky had considered it only fair that she accept the overture gracefully, without complaint.

So she’d done so, only to find that Kate seemed quite intent on… demonstrating her apology. With both relief and desire flooding her system, Becky had let her, soon finding her luggage thrown onto the floor and herself flat on her back, experiencing a cure for jet lag that she’d only heard voiced in low chuckles in darkened Orbis galleys during long hauls.

"C’mon, c’mon!" Kate persisted, demanding Rebecca’s attention, courting her approval like a floppy-eared lapdog.

"Wha—"

The pilot’s voice dropped to a low, throaty purr. "I – want - to - know," she lifted a hand to walk long fingers up Becky’s middle, taking a finger-step with each word, "have - I - convinced - you - yet?" Her finger-walk ended with a slight brush against the younger woman’s lips, and she quickly followed the move by pushing herself up and over-top her lover, so that she hovered above her, face-to-face. "Well?"

The flight attendant could see the playfulness in Kate’s eyes, but she should see the concern there, too. The worry. The uncertainty. The pilot struggled to hide it, but Becky knew her too well. Understood that no matter how blustery and confident Catherine Phillips seemed, there was also a soft, vulnerable side to her. It was a precious, private thing that Kate gave her glimpses of from time to time. Trusted her with it, in all its naked truth.

God, what the heck had that fight been about, anyway? Of course she trusted Kate. No matter what.

"I don’t want you to ever stop convincing me," she sighed, linking her arms around Kate’s neck and pulling her greedily down. "Not ever."

**********

"Ooh! Is that the Jardin du Luxembourg?"

"Yeah," Kate said, strolling next to Becky along the rue de Vaugirard. "It’s on the way to where I thought we could grab a bite to eat. Wasn’t sure if you’d seen it before—"

"No, are you kidding?" Becky tugged lightly on Kate’s arm. "Can we check it out?"

"Sure," the pilot said, allowing the younger woman to lead her into the gardens.

"I never got to see much of the left bank the few times my friends and I got into the city. We stuck with the major tourist sites, you know? Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, that stuff. Rennes was quite a distance away."

"Rennes?"

"West of here. Waaay west," Becky replied. "It’s where UCLA had their French Seminars. We were there for the whole semester – three months."

"So that’s where you learned to speak French so well, eh?" Kate had been very impressed with the few bits she’d heard her companion voice so far, and those natives she’d conversed with seemed to understand her, at least.

"Oui, mon ami!" Green eyes sparkled up at Kate in the late afternoon sunlight. "It was sink or swim, baby."

"Keep swimming, Champ," Kate felt a smile nudge its way across her face, "You’re doing just fine."

Paris.

The City of Light.

A city like none other that Kate had ever been in. The history, the art and architecture; the cuisine and, of course, the romance. With its intimate cafés, the grand elegance of its boulevards, the timeless beauty of the river that formed its lifeblood, it was the perfect place to fall in love.

Or, to be in love.

Funny, Kate thought, how she’d never taken the time to notice that before. Oh, she had appreciated Paris and all it had to offer, making it a point during her past layovers there to strike out on her own and explore the museums, walk the Champs-Élysées, or grab a café noir and sit at a street-side table, watching the world bustle around her. Then, she’d toured the city with all the enthusiasm of one taking on a high school science project. It was new. She would study it. Learn from it, and file it away for future use.

In her own clinical way, she and Paris had reached a grudging truce. She knew her way around, could use the metro with ease, and even picked up a few key phrases of French in the bargain. In return, just for her, the lights at night seemed to twinkle not so brightly, the soft strains of music filtering from the nightclubs onto the sidewalk did not beckon her, and the couples passing her by were not impossibly, passionately in love.

Although the young flight attendant had been quiet, hurt, during the ride in from the airport, Kate had eventually been able to get her to snap out of it.

Apologizing. It was new to her, but damn, if it didn’t work!

Now, following Rebecca through the sweetly scented formal gardens, feeling the gravel pathway crunching under her feet, she grinned at the memory of just how vigorously she had pursued that apology. Of course, she had allowed a few hours in their schedule for Rebecca to grab a nap after her flight, but she really hadn’t intended for things to work out as they did. Not that she was complaining. It was all Hanson’s fault, really, for being so damned irresistible!

Ah, well. In spite of that bit of a detour, they were on schedule. Maybe another time, when they had more time, she’d bring Rebecca back to Paris, on their own terms. But for now, they had a lot to do and not much time to do it in.

The local authorities had confirmed to her – in the spirit of reciprocal information exchange – that an Izo Mufti did in fact live at the address that Orbis had on file for Isabelle Rouen. Kate had debated calling him first or just showing up at his apartment, finally opting for the latter. Catching him off guard might work to their advantage.

"Oh, wow! Would my nieces ever love that! C’mon!"

Becky fast-walked over to a large pond in the center of the sun-drenched gardens, where a tiny armada of toy boats sailed gently about on a Lilliputian sea. She sat down by the edge of the pond, mesmerized, completely engrossed in the enchanting flotilla. Kate stood behind her, straightening out her shoulders, and breathing in deeply of the clean, fresh air. She enjoyed seeing Rebecca like this; unguarded, happy, with a childlike curiosity that sparked a feeling in Catherine herself that she dared not put a name to.

A stately 17^th century palace housing the French Senate overlooked the gardens, ribboned with gravel walkways. The walks were lined with trim hedges, and strolling along there were Parisians and tourists alike, simply enjoying this verdant oasis in the middle of a concrete and stone desert. Jugglers, acrobats, and musicians plied their crafts in return for applause and tips, and the laughter of children tinkled on the air like the chiming of delicate bells.

"We’d better get going," Kate said at last, lightly placing a hand on Rebecca’s shoulder.

"It’s so beautiful here, Kate," Becky said, sighing. She pushed herself to her feet. "So… peaceful."

"You can rent those boats, you know." Kate guided the smaller woman towards the exit that would take them out onto the boulevard Saint-Michel.

"Really?" A hopeful, upturned face.

"Next time." Kate smiled and gave her arm a squeeze. "Next time."

**********

Saint-Michel was a grand boulevard that basically sliced Paris’ left bank in half; the fabled Latin Quarter, home of tortured artists and academics for centuries was on one side, with the haughtier Montparnasse/St-Germain district lying directly opposite. Kate had selected a small brasserie along St-Michel, where she knew the food was good. Hell, in Paris, it was hard to go wrong anywhere. She’d been alone when she dined there before in travels past. But now, with Rebecca, she knew that the younger woman would appreciate the half-timbered walls, the crisp, white tablecloths, and the distinctly ‘non-tourist’ clientele.

They were seated immediately; the brasserie was only one third full. They were quite early for the bulk of the dinner crowd, but Kate had heard the telltale rumbles in her companion’s stomach while she dozed, and knew that there would simply be no waiting until 1900 hrs or later. In addition, her goal was to catch Mufti at home before he perhaps went out for the evening.

The waiter was prompt and attentive, granting their request for a table on the outside terrace, and Kate let Rebecca have her fun, ordering in French for the both of them.

"Okay, I’m eating what?" Kate quirked an eyebrow.

"Well," the flight attendant began, in her best haute cuisine voice, "for the lady, there will be a succulent free-range chicken dish, cooked in wine sauce, accompanied by a delightful array of root vegetables."

"Really!" Kate grinned and shook her head, "Sounds… okay."

Becky released a sharp burst of air and slapped her hand down on the table. "Kaaaate!" she warned, in a mock-serious tone.

"No… no!" The pilot laughed aloud now. "Ya done good. I’m sure it will be delicious!"

Becky eased back in her seat, satisfied. "Thank you," she said primly.

"And you’re getting…?"

"A mixed green salad garnished with foie gras."

Kate made a face. "Goose liver, right? I thought I caught that. Ugh."

"You’re in Paris, Kate," Becky’s voice was overly-patient. "It’s about broadening your palate."

The waiter returned with a basket of crusty French bread and a pitcher of the house wine, a rich burgundy. He poured them both a glass before discretely retreating to a service alcove.

"The only thing I want to broaden," Kate tipped her glass towards her companion, is my knowledge about what the hell brought down Flight 180."

The instant the words left Kate’s mouth and she saw Becky’s face fall, she regretted them. But dammit, it was too late to reel them back in now. Of course they were here to work. But did that mean she couldn’t allow Rebecca to enjoy just one meal without indulging in her own obsession? Wasn’t it enough that it haunted her every waking and sleeping moment? Did she need to keep dragging Hanson through the muck as well?

Becky diffidently shrugged her shoulders, tugging at the pilot’s heart. "You’re right, Kate," she said, her voice solemn, resigned. "I forced you to let me come, we’ve got a job to do, and here I am going on like some sort of tourist from hell." Her eyes flickered and she lowered her head.

"No!" Kate reached her hand across the table and clasped Becky’s. "Listen to me now. I’m glad you’re here. I need you with me. I – I never thought I’d be here in Paris, with someone I care about so much."

"Hunting down potential terrorists," Becky laughed tonelessly.

"You and me… working together," the pilot said gently, "getting to the bottom of this thing. And when it’s all over with--"

"If."

"When," Kate insisted, "We’ll come back here, okay? I’ll show you around… show you off…."

A small smile started to push its way onto the flight attendant’s face.

"…And I swear," she gave the smaller hand a squeeze, "I’ll eat whatever you want me to."

"Anything?" Rebecca’s face brightened. "Because—"

"Anything," Kate interrupted, shooting a devilish smirk Becky’s way.

"Wha—oh, Kate!" The young blonde sharply withdrew her hand, blushing. "You… you!" She reached for the bread, roughly pulled off a piece, and began chewing on it in earnest.

"Hey!" Kate chuckled, enjoying her friend’s discomfiture, "You brought it up!"

"That’s not what I meant, Catherine Phillips and you know it!"

"I have no idea what you mean!" The pilot opened her palms defensively. "Seems to me that you’re the one with the naughty thoughts!"

"Ooooh!" Becky chased back the bread with a mouthful of wine. Finally she began to laugh, knowing this was a battle she was destined to lose. "Well," she settled her eyes on Kate, "since you’re the one who brought up the investigation, let me tell you what Rory found out about Izo Mufti."

Kate sat up straighter in her chair, all business once again. "Like, who he works for?"

"Yeah," Becky replied, opening her purse and removing several folded papers. "Your Saudi contact was right. He doesn’t work for Birktec any longer. But, get this: he works with them."

"I don’t follow you."

"It was just a change in classification, Kate." She pushed her papers towards the pilot. "Officially, he’s an independent consultant." She paused. "With only one client."

"Birktec," Kate breathed.

"Uh-huh. It’s as if he never left."

"We know the connection between Birktec and the electronic timer on the bomb," Kate said, working it through her mind, "but the fact that Mufti still works exclusively for them, that his wife was on the plane… that’s no coincidence. The question is, how can we connect Mufti--"

"Or Isabelle Rouen—"

"To El-Yousef," Kate finished, tightly gripping the edge of the table. "We’ve got no solid proof that Birktec is one of Mufti’s operations."

"Well, I’m glad you asked," Becky’s voice was proud. "I’ve been doing a lot of computer work with Rory these past few weeks, you know?"

"I noticed," the pilot smiled faintly. "I think he has a crush on you."

"Well, he is kinda of cute!"

"What? With that pierced nose?"

"Body art," the young woman blithely corrected her. "Anyway, we know that El-Yousef uses a system of laptop computers that transmit encrypted communications to his operatives via satellite, right?"

"Yes. If we could only get our hands on the damn encryption key! It might lead us to his cells, his contacts. Shit, the whole bloody house of cards could come tumbling down!" Kate’s eyes grew hard and cold as she considered the tantalizing prospect of El-Yousef’s demise.

"Well, a first step towards that could be a data tap, Kate. Intercept the impulses that travel along Mufti’s phone lines."

"A what?"

"We’d need permission from the local authorities, of course, and that could take some time—"

"Slow down, Rebecca," Kate held up a hand. "A data tap. Explain."

Becky cleared her throat. "It’s really neat, actually. It does the reverse of what a computer’s modem does. A modem takes digital data from the computer and translates it to analog signals that run along phone lines."

"Okay, I’m with you so far," Kate took a sip of wine.

"The data tap intercepts the analog phone line signals, and converts those impulses back to digital."

"Meaning… what?"

"Meaning," Becky continued, "we… er, Rory, can take the digital signals and convert them. Kate," she lowered her voice, "we can capture Mufti’s individual keystrokes."

The pilot pressed forward. "If Mufti’s working for El-Yousef, he’s got to be using a computer as a means of contact. So we’ll know who he’s talking to. What he’s saying."

"Rory thinks he can bypass the encryption program entirely, Kate." Becky fell silent, locking her eyes on the dark haired woman sitting across from her. The implications were plain. Rory Calhoun, computer whiz kid, was proposing an electronic shortcut. One that could possibly short-circuit El-Yousef and his entire operation.

Permanently.

"Well," Kate sighed, releasing a breath she hadn’t been aware she’d been holding, "sounds like Rory deserves a raise."

"He’ll take it in KitKat bars, I’m sure," Becky grinned as the waiter arrived with their food. "Speaking of which… god, am I starving!"

"Don’t forget, there’s always dessert!" Kate nodded at a passing blueberry tart.

**********

Kate and Becky moved along the boulevard Saint-Germain, studiously avoiding the intriguing book-shops, the chic clothing stores, and the beckoning art galleries. The local police inspector had explained to Kate that Mufti’s address could be found in an empire-style building just past the point where St-Germain intersected with the rue Mazarine.

The pilot had to admit it; the French authorities had been more than helpful, answering her questions, offering to accompany her. She had to wonder if a part of it was that they were anxious to prove the sabotage of Flight 180 had not occurred on their watch. And no wonder, she thought, considering it was beginning to look more and more as though that were precisely the case.

But what if things turned more serious? With a liberal portion of Gallic pride at stake, it would be tough going, to be sure, maneuvering their way along the rocky shores of Paris’ infamous bureaucratic machine. The data tap Rebecca had proposed could provide just the break they needed, and yet Kate could envision weeks of petitions and hearings before the authorities might grant such a request – if ever.

Weeks they didn’t have.

"Okay, here we are," Kate said, drawing up to an eight story building with an ornately sculpted façade. A deep breath. "Follow my lead, okay?"

"You got it," Becky allowed, trailing behind Kate as the older woman pushed open an outer wrought-iron gate. They passed through a tiny cobbled courtyard, stopping at a massive oaken door. A buzzer entry system lined the doorway.

The pilot pressed number 7C, noting the listing ‘Rouen’ next to it. "If he’s home, let him know who we are. Tell him we just want to ask him a few questions."

Trying to control the butterflies rioting in her stomach, Rebecca nodded. C’mon, get a grip! She told herself. This is cake after your little jaunt to the prison to visit Mishka, right?

"Oui?" A deep voice crackled through the speaker.

"Bonjour Monsieur Mufti," Becky shot an anxious look towards Kate. "Nous sommes des Lignes Aériennes de Orbis. Je suis Rebecca Hanson avec Catherine Phillips. Nous aimerions vous demander quelques-uns questionne."

"Non! Je dois partir. J'ai un engagement!" Mufti sounded agitated. Annoyed.

"S'il vous plaît, le monsieur. Il est important."

"Non!"

"He won’t do it," Becky said in hushed tones. "Says he’s got to go out."

Kate’s eyes narrowed. "Tell him we’ve come a long way to talk to him and we’re not leaving. We’ll wait." She paused, her mind racing. "Better yet, tell him we’ll go and come back with some help. Inspector Girard seemed quite willing."

Becky pursed her lips and nodded. "Monsieur--"

"All right!" an accented English-speaking voice, hissing through the speaker, interrupted her. "You may come up. But be quick about it!"

Mufti buzzed them in. As the lock clicked open, a gentleman came up behind the two women and followed them through the heavy wooden door. He was of middle height and of dark complexion, with deep-set brown eyes, and carried a bag of baguettes. The scent of a just-smoked cigarette was on his breath and hung on his clothes, and Kate could detect the tell-tale bulge of a cigarette pack in his breast pocket.

"Bonjour," He greeted them, flashing a white smile. "Merci!" He dipped his head toward the door while making a show of his full arms.

"De rien," Becky smiled in return, happy to be of assistance.

The man joined them on the elevator, shifting his hold on the bread and fishing into his pocket for a set of keys.

"Quel étage?" The flight attendant’s hand hovered over the number panel after pressing ‘7.’

The elevator creaked slowly to the sixth floor, finally grinding to a stop. With a nod and another blinding smile, the man exited and moved off down the hall as the doors slipped closed behind him. Even when he heard the elevator continue on its way, he kept walking. Onward, to the stairwell at the opposite end of the corridor. He opened it, and carelessly dropped the bag of baguettes to the floor. The steps were dirty with years-old footprints, and the still air was rank and musty; he felt the dust of it clinging to him as he took the stairs to the next level.

He heard a door slam just as he arrived at the seventh floor. Peeking through a yellowed, greasy window, he was pleased to see that the emergency exit was within eye and earshot of Izo Mufti’s apartment. Surely it was Allah helping him now, guiding him through on this mission!

He sat down on the landing, reaching into a pocket for his Gauloises. So, those American women wanted to see Izo. Worse, they were from that airline! He’d been shocked to hear them buzzing Izo’s apartment when he’d stolen up behind them. All he’d wanted was to slip inside the building without warning Mufti of his presence. Now, here were these infidels, wanting to question him! Just what Rashid had told him he’d feared.

Walking down the hall to the elevator, he had half flirted with the idea of taking action right then and there, but no. He had to sort this through. He couldn’t afford to make any mistakes now. Rashid would have his head! Plus, that tall dark one had been giving him the fisheye. She was bound to be trouble.

Think Omar, think! He flamed a cigarette to life and took a deep pull from it, watching the glowing orange tip deepen in its intensity. First things first. He released a billowing plume of smoke into the stairwell.

He would deal with Mufti, that was what he came for. He would find out what the women had wanted, and what Izo might have told them.

And then… well. He had a mission, didn’t he? He would do what he must.

For he was the sword arm of the Chosen One.

**********

Izo Mufti was a small man. He carried too many pounds on his frame and too few hairs on his head, and had never thought of himself as anything more than an average man. Leave the wealth, the looks, the women to others, not him. If that was the card he’d been dealt in life, then he would play it. Like many of his fellow Saudis, he’d been educated abroad, eventually taking a job with an international electronics company based in Paris. There, he had quietly toiled away, content in his obscurity.

Paris was not the worst place in the world to be, and in fact he secretly preferred it to anything that Saudi Arabia had to offer. He was a foreigner, yes, in an urban melting pot seasoned with a global flavor, and so he felt… comfortable, at least. Particularly when he made a break and decided to part with his traditional Arab garb. There were many times, sitting at a sidewalk café, edging up to the bar at a bistro for a drink, that he fancied himself blending in as much as any Parisian native.

And when he’d met Isabelle Rouen, surely, the blessings of Allah were shining down upon him! Tall, thin, blonde. A French-Canadian, working in the fashion industry in Paris. Marketing was her field, but in Izo’s eyes she was beautiful as any model he had ever seen. And of all the men she could have had, of all those who had wanted to be with her, he had been the one she’d said ‘yes’ to.

He never could figure out what she managed to see in him, short and rotund as he was; whenever he had asked her about it, she would always laugh and tell him it was what she couldn’t see that mattered most.

After a brief courtship they had married, and she had moved into his apartment off the avenue Foch. He had known he had married outside the laws of Islam, but he didn’t care. It didn’t matter to Isabelle, so why should it matter to him?

Shortly after the wedding, the offer came from Birktec. He had been shocked when they contacted him, and flattered, too. The substantial increase in salary. The furnished apartment in the city center. Computer equipment. Certainly the firm had many Saudi connections, perhaps that was where they had heard of him. His new job gave him the opportunity to return to his hometown of Riyadh from time to time, and he enjoyed that. It was there, on one particular business trip, that he’d stumbled across his old friend, Rashid.

Somehow, Rashid had known about his job with Birktec. Talked to him of future rewards, promotions, if he promised to ‘help’ Rashid and his friends from time to time. Help with what – Rashid would not say. But with a beautiful wife at home who was bound to be tempted by other men, those who could offer her what he could not – an open checkbook, matinee-idol looks, expensive homes and automobiles - who was he to deny such a harmless opportunity? The cause was secondary. A thing as distant to him as the Arab robes he had left behind.

He trusted Rashid. And so an agreement had been reached.

He had thought Isabelle would be pleased, but she was not. His new job required much travel, and so the time they were able to spend together was limited. She continued to travel for work as well: London, New York, Montreal, and there were lonely times when he wondered just whose company she kept when he was not by her side.

His suspicions born of insecurity led to arguments. Arguments to out-and-out fights. The fighting, finally, to a separation. With Isabelle swearing to Izo that she would never have him as long as he persisted with his ridiculous claims of her supposed infidelity.

He had moved out.

Too exhausted to get a divorce, and with not enough trust to fully reconcile, their relationship had foundered. She would take him back on occasion, briefly rekindling the passion they once shared, but always it would end the same, with her blonde locks flying and her face twisted in anger as she showed him the door.

Until that last time.

"Mr. Mufti, what was your wife doing on Flight 180?" It was the tall woman speaking, the one with hair dark as midnight and eyes that seemed to reach into him, grabbing for his soul.

"I believe she had business in Montreal. A retailers meeting."

"I’m so sorry that I can’t make this plane with you, darling! Damn client! I promise, I’ll join you in Montreal in just a few days. You’ll be at the Regency?"

The dark woman, Catherine Phillips, seemed to believe him. Good.

"Tell me, why weren’t you listed as next of kin? We might have contacted you sooner."

Izo fought to maintain a calm, cool exterior. Just answer their questions, and get rid of them. "We’d been having problems on and off."

"We need you to help us, Izo. One last time. What do you care about that bitch?! She’s done nothing since the day you were married but cheat on you and laugh about it, behind your back!"

A tight smile. "You know how it goes. We’d only just gotten back together again."

"This time it will last, won’t it, Izo? I don’t think I could bear it if we parted again!"

"Do you work for Birktec Electronics?"

"No!" Izo answered, more sharply than he’d intended. Uh-oh. So much for the dark one buying his story.

"Oh, but you do," Phillips said, drilling him with the sapphire chips of her eyes. "You’re a consultant, working with them on an exclusive basis."

Izo gulped, hard. How had they found that out? "I have many clients," he hedged, feeling the perspiration break out on his brow.

"Don’t worry, Izo. As a consultant you’ll be safer this way. And of better use to the cause!"

"I’m sure you’ll be able to prove that to the authorities if necessary, correct?" Phillips lifted an eyebrow to him.

"Of course," he insisted, insulted. Just how he would, he was uncertain. But Rashid had never let him down before. He would deliver.

"Well," Phillips continued, flipping through some papers that the smaller woman had handed her, "what do you know about Birktec manufacturing electronic timers?" Her face remained impassive, but he could see a flash of anger spark behind her cold stare.

"Wha –" Izo felt his bowels turn to water. "Who knows?" He waved a dismissive hand towards his visitors. "Possibly. I don’t keep track of every inventory item they have!"

"It will be quick and painless, Izo. They won’t know what hit them. And the authorities will never be able to figure out what happened!"

The tall woman took a step closer to him. She bested Izo in height by at least a head, and knew it. She was using that advantage to intimidate him, to try and get him to crack. No! It wouldn’t work!

"Mr. Mufti," she said, her voice so low and close that he could’ve sworn he felt her breath on his face, "Did your wife own a black, hard-sided Sky King suitcase?"

"The taxi’s here, darling. Are you ready? All packed?"

"The suitcase, Mr. Mufti. Did she own one?"

"NO!" He roared, turning his back on the accursed woman so she could not see him shaking. What should he do? It was bad enough that Isabelle was gone. He had told himself that he wouldn’t feel a thing. That it was justice, after all.

But these past weeks without her… it was a heartache, a sense of loss so exquisite and profound that he never could have anticipated it for himself. So different from the times they had been separated. So… final. Since Isabelle had died, he had begun to doubt himself. Doubt the cause. Doubt what Rashid had told him. While at the same time, the one thing that grew in his conviction was a phantom love for a woman he could no longer possess.

She had told him she would wait for him there, in Montreal. Maybe, Isabelle had said, with a glint of mischief in her eye, the time would be right to start a family.

Instead, he had sent her to her death. And once he had seen her on the plane, that late foggy night at Charles de Gaulle, he had rushed back home and quickly gotten on his computer, sending the message to Rashid that they had agreed upon.

The gift is on its way.

"Mr. Mufti." A soft voice behind him.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. It was that other woman, the smaller one who spoke French.

"When that plane went down, 210 people lost their lives. Women. Children." A pause. "Your wife. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?"

"Please," he said, his voice breaking, "You must go. Now. Or I shall have to contact the authorities." For the love of Allah, was he crying? Angry with himself for this show of weakness, he used the heel of his palm to wipe away his tears.

"We’re staying here for the next couple of days," Phillips said, and he heard a pen scribbling on paper. "If you decide you want to talk, call. It will go better for you if you do, Izo. Believe me."

Footsteps moved away, and he heard his door open. "El-Yousef won’t get away with this," Phillips vowed, "I promise you that."

Izo spun around just as the door clicked shut. No! The Chosen One! She had spoken his name!

Panic jolted through Izo’s system like an electric shock. What should he do? Who could help him now? He raced into his bathroom and splashed trembling handfuls of cold water onto his face, panting, fighting to rein in his galloping heart. What if those women came back? Rashid would protect him, certainly, but he was so far away. And Isabelle was gone… gone.

He stared at his image in the mirror; balding, fat, his normally dark complexion a jaundiced yellow under the fluorescent light. It would be typical for an average man like himself to get stuck taking the fall. He had seen it happen before, countless times. Simply grab the most convenient suspect, and leave it at that. Perhaps he should talk to those women after all. Maybe he could confuse them, throw them off the trail? It was worth a try. Better to deal with them now, than to wait for the police to get involved. The tall one had threatened that, after all.

A soft knocking at his door.

No! No! Fear clutched at Izo’s gut. Could it be the women, back already? Very well. He would tell them just enough to cover his tracks. And then run like bloody hell to Rashid, and take his chances there.

"Who… who’s there?" He asked, his voice unusually high and querulous.

"A friend," came the muffled response. "My name is Omar. Rashid sent me."

Izo was stunned. Of all the luck – why, Allah hadn’t deserted him after all! "Come… come in!" Izo cried, sagging in relief.

He flung open the door to admit his visitor, a man taller than himself, dark skinned, with a mustache. A strong odor of cigarette smoke clung to him, and instantly Izo found himself craving a Gitanes; Isabelle had made him quit. Omar wore the clothes of a westerner: brown slacks, a sport short, and blazer, but Izo instantly recognized him as being a brother Arab.

"May peace be upon you," the man said, stepping inside and giving Izo the traditional greeting and embrace, along with a brush of lips upon his cheeks.

"And upon you be peace," Izo replied, grinning from ear-to-ear like a silly schoolboy. He was saved! He knew that Rashid would come to his aid!

"Rashid sends you his warmest good wishes," Omar said, smiling broadly.

"Thank you Omar, thank you!" Izo ushered him into the living room. "And your timing could not be better."

"Really?" Omar eyed the little man curiously. "How so?"

"Well…" Izo began, finally getting a grip on himself, "You first. What brings you here to Paris?" He hesitated. "To me?"

"The cause, my friend, the cause." Omar let his gaze roam around the room, taking it all in. "How goes it with you, Izo?" He returned his attention to the smaller man. "It was some sacrifice you made for us… the Chosen One is pleased. But surely… you miss your wife?"

Izo was taken aback. "Yes, er – no. What I mean is – that’s what I want to tell Rashid!"

"Yes…." Omar’s voice was soft, soothing, urging Izo on.

"Omar," Izo’s eyes darted nervously from side-to-side, and he drew closer to his visitor, whispering. "The authorities are on to Birktec. To… to the device I put in Isabelle’s suitcase. They suspect me, Omar."

"Sssh! Don’t worry, my friend!" Omar gave Izo’s arm a comforting squeeze. "We’ll take care of everything. Now tell me. What authorities, Izo. Who?"

"They were just here!" Izo scurried over to the table by the door and picked up a piece of paper. "From the airline! They wrote down where they are staying! They wanted me to talk to them, but I refused!" He waved the paper triumphantly.

"Good," Omar smiled. "We knew you would be loyal to us, Izo. To the cause."

"Of course, my good friend!" Izo laughed heartily. All would be well. Those women who had so unnerved him only a short time ago – hah! They were merely specks of sand in the desert wind. Allah would provide.

"Has anyone else contacted you?" Omar plucked the paper from Izo’s outstretched hand.

Izo wagged his head in the negative. "No. But what shall we do, Omar? What if they come back--"

"There, there, my brother." Omar’s manner oozed calmness, comfort. "Leave it to me. You have your laptop here?"

"Yes." Izo brightened, motioning towards the bedroom. "Shall we send a message to Rashid? It’s not the normal contact time but…."

"Yes," Omar softly replied, stepping behind Izo as they walked into the bedroom. His eyes narrowed into two darkened slits. "Why don’t we do that?"

Izo never saw the flash of metal in Omar’s hand… was never able to fully process what had happened to him.

There was only a sharp thump in his back that took the wind out of him, and then he was sprawled face down on the floor. Had he fallen? He tried to draw in a breath, but strangely, it would not come. A pair of shoes glided past his line of vision – that would be Omar, moving to help him up, of course.

He felt a warm, sticky moistness creeping across the middle of the shirt on his back. Had his fall caused him to spill something? And the pressure – the thunderous weight he felt in his chest, pressing in on him, swamping him.

Sluggishly, he struggled to make sense of it all, but could not.

Omar.

He needed his help.

He reached out a hand, only to see it flop uselessly by his side. ‘Help me,’ he wanted to say, and was baffled when his throat produced only a strangled moan. He focused upon the brightly colored carpet on which he lay; the rich weaves of gold, blue, and rose reminded him of the floor covering in his childhood home in Riyadh. The carpet needed cleaning, and he smiled at that. It had not been done since Isabelle had left. She would be home soon. She would help him… she would take care of everything.

But the colors began to fade, even as the smile froze on his face. He heard a voice, so far away, and yet close enough that it seemed to breathe into his ear. He listened… and heard the words he now knew in his heart to be true.

**********

Catherine and Rebecca walked slowly along the rue Bonaparte back to their hotel, moving without hurry, simply breathing in the sights and sounds of Paris in the evening. A few streets away from their destination, they passed through the spacious square ringing the church of Saint Sulpice, the ‘cathedral’ of the Left Bank. A number of cafés were still open, as well as several smaller restaurants. Tables in the square were filled with patrons, dining, drinking; their faces animated by candles flickering in the light evening breeze. Mouth-watering cooking smells and strains of music wafted on the air towards them, offering an invitation.

"Want to get a drink or something to eat?" The pilot looked down at her quiet companion. Rebecca’s mind was elsewhere, completely oblivious to the temptations surrounding them.

"No thanks," Becky replied, smiling faintly. "I—I feel kinda tired. But if you want something--"

"I’m good." Kate casually draped her arm around the smaller woman’s shoulders and gave her a squeeze. Well, that’s a first, she thought. Rebecca Hanson never turned down the opportunity for a food encounter, let alone a fresh shot at Parisian delights. She teased her companion about her appetite on occasion, but secretly, she loved to watch Rebecca eat. The flight attendant attacked her plate – and those dishes around her - with passion and joy, eating with a bottomless abandon as though each meal might be her last. No, if Rebecca wasn’t hungry, then something was definitely on her mind.

The sounds of the square faded behind them as they turned a corner and headed down the last block towards their hotel. The two friends walked in silence, Rebecca’s brow furrowed deep in thought, Kate giving her the space that she needed.

"Well," Becky spoke at last, gazing up at the strong profile of her lover in the twilight, "what do you think?"

Kate thought about the question for a moment, knowing instantly what Rebecca was talking about. Hanson was her friend. Her colleague. Her confidant – and more. Kate had an opinion, all right. The blunt and honest truth. She owed her that.

"What do I think?" Kate sighed. "I think he helped kill his wife and 209 other people, that’s what. He’s a murderer, Rebecca, plain and simple. And now he’s afraid."

"And alone," Becky added, pursing her lips. "I think he misses her." She stuck her hands into the pockets of her pants. "Isabelle, I mean."

The pilot stiffened. "Well he should have thought of that before he planted a plastique explosive in her luggage."

"Let’s get some sleep, okay?" Kate guided Rebecca through the great wooden doors and into the fieldstone lobby. "It’ll all be better in the morning." She offered Rebecca a tired grin.

"’Kay," Becky said, smiling, snuggling into the warmth of the tall body next to her. "If you say so."

They tumbled into bed, exhausted. Kate slept soundly, for once, comforted by the feel of the small blonde lying in her arms after too long an absence. It was Becky who slept fitfully, her dreams troubled by herky-jerky flashes of being lost in a raging storm. The crashing thunder, the jagged streaks of lightning exploding against a darkened sky, sounded a note of terror that struck at the very core of her being.

And Catherine Phillips was nowhere to be found.

**********

The next day dawned bright and fair. A warm breeze parting the thin, gauzy curtains of their window, stealing into the hotel room where Rebecca Hanson lay curled on her side in bed, tickling her on the nose.

"Mmnpf!" Becky twitched her nostrils, feeling the tug of consciousness, and flung her arm out behind her, groping into thin air.

Something, or someone, to be precise, was definitely missing.

"Kate?" she mumbled, edging herself up on an elbow.

"Hey, sleepyhead!" Catherine Phillips, wearing nothing more than the clothes she was born in, sauntered out of the bathroom toweling her hair. "Rise and shine!"

"Ugh," Becky made a show of shielding her eyes from the sunlight streaming in, the better so she could covertly eye her partner’s breathtaking form. "What time is it?"

"Nearly 0800 hrs."

"WHAT?" She sat up in bed as though she’d been shot. "You mean we’ve been in asleep over 10 hours?"

"You have been," Kate said, planting a kiss on top of the younger woman’s head.

"You should have gotten me up!"

"What makes you think I didn’t try?" The pilot grinned mischievously, and turned back towards the bath. In truth, Rebecca has seemed so exhausted the night before that she hadn’t had the heart to waken her. Instead, she’d allowed her to sleep in, catching a few more moments of rest.

"Oh… you!" Becky tossed a pillow at the retreating back of her lover. "If you did, you didn’t try very hard!"

"We can debate that later," Kate laughed, easily dodging the missile. "Right now we’ve got things to do. They serve breakfast in the garden downstairs. I figure we can grab something there, and then head over to the Sorbonne."

"Ahmed lives near there, right?"

"Yeah, according to the address Miskha gave you." A disembodied voice echoed from the bath. Maybe he’s taking classes there, who knows. We’ll see what we can find out from him, and then pay another visit on Mr. Izo Mufti. Based on what we find out today, we’ll take it all to Inspector Girard and see about the data tap."

"Sounds like a plan," Becky yawned, ruffling a hand through her short blonde hair. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, just as her stomach let loose with an ungodly rumble.

"Kaaate?"

"Mnnn?"

"What you think they’ll have for breakfast?"

**********

Tables topped with crisp white linen cloths were spaced discretely throughout the garden; they were about half full with guests from the hotel as well as public customers; an iron gate at the far end of the enclosure led from the portico to the rue Cassette.

"This must have been the cloister at one time," Becky said, diving into her third croissant of the morning. "It’s so peaceful here, so quiet." She reached for a shallow bowl of apricot preserves, proceeding to douse them on her croissant.

"It is," Kate said, her eyes traveling around the courtyard at their fellow dinners: a group of elderly women. A young couple. Several tables of businessmen. And a single man, smoking, his face obscured by a copy of Le Monde. "I’m glad you like it."

Becky paused, her croissant hovering in mid-air. Her eyes flickered from the pastry to Kate, and then back again, thinking. Carefully, she parked the croissant on her plate.

"Kate," she said, her eyes finding the pilot’s and locking in on them, "I—I’m glad you picked this hotel. This… area. I mean, I know you just as well could have set us up at the Paris Hilton or something."

"I know," Kate’s tan face colored slightly. "This place was convenient, though," she said, reaching for her café noir, struggling to remain professional. Detached.

Rebecca silently dipped her head closer to the pilot’s, a look of skepticism skipping across her face. "And…?"

Busted. "And," the corner of her mouth curved up in the beginnings of a smile, "I thought… you might like it."

"Well, I do!" Becky smiled happily, returning her attention to her croissant. "It was very… romantic of you."

"Hey!" Kate said crossly, even as the smile took over her face, "what’s that suppose to mean?"

"Relax, sweetie," Becky’s voice was patient, "it was a compliment, okay?"

Kate motioned for the waiter, her blue eyes sparkling. "Says you."

"Mnnn – hang on," Becky crammed another bite of croissant into her mouth, "Let me finish this!"

"Either make it to go, or leave it, Champ." Kate stood, smirking. "We’ve got to get moving." She signed for their breakfast, and then waved a beckoning hand at the smaller woman. "Let’s go."

"Okay… okay!" Becky took a last swallow, trailing after Kate through the garden and out the gate leading to the rue Cassette. "Can we walk?"

From behind an unfolded newspaper, where a thin wisp of smoke twirled a lazy pathway towards the sky, a pair of dark eyes flashed and watched intently as the two women left.

**********

The irony did not escape Omar.

As he took the elevator to the floor indicated on the slip of paper he’d taken from Izo, he smiled at the thought that he had so easily been able to track down these women from Orbis Airlines; their names, where they were staying. And written by one of their own hands, no less! Looking down at the bold script slashing across the paper, confirming the room number, he guessed that the writing belonged to the tall one. Regardless, he would find out what he needed to know from them. Starting with a simple survey of their hotel room. For Rashid had warned him it would be best to avoid further bloodshed, unless the situation called for it.

He slipped a hand into his pocket, feeling the smooth coolness of his switchblade. Just let one of them get in his way. Then, he would be sure to have an excuse to kill them. They were trouble. He knew that from the first moment he’d seen them, standing there at Izo’s front door. Omar had no rational reason for his concern, just a gut instinct that had served him – and the cause – very well over the years. He would not stop relying on it now.

Getting into the room was easy; the ancient convent doors had locks on them only slightly newer than the abbey itself. He slipped inside, clicking the door shut behind him, sweeping his eyes about the room like a cat seeking its prey.

In his eyes it was a rather modest room, charming, he supposed to some, but inferior to his acquired luxurious tastes. The bed was unmade, a damp bath towel lay draped over the side of an upholstered chair, and from the open window he could hear the muffled sounds of traffic coming from the street below.

Next to the window was a simple wooden table with a single drawer attached, and he moved there, first.

Nothing.

A clothes chest by the door, likewise, was empty. A night-stand near the bed with a phone and memo pad – he flipped through the pad and found no indication of any notes being made. Hmnn. He’d seen the women leave, carrying portfolios; what if whatever information there was to be had, they kept with them?

No matter. He would deal with that if and when he needed to.

Patient, unhurried, he stepped over to the closet.

He quickly checked the pockets of the clothes hanging up, producing only a tissue and a stick of gum. His eyes lit upon the two travel bags stacked neatly on the floor of the closet. They were unlocked and, to his dismay, empty.

Sighing, he was about to check under the bed, when he saw it. A less thorough man might have missed it, but not he, Omar. He, who left no detail unattended to. There, in the rear of the closet, behind a crude excuse for an ironing board, he spied a black leather computer bag.

Aaah! He thought. What luck. He could not have asked for a better information source as to the activities of those Orbis women! He thought about leaving with the laptop immediately, but Rashid’s cautionary words still rang in his head. Better to make sure it was worth taking, rather than risk an unnecessary early exposure.

Gently, as though crooning to an infant, he lifted the bag and removed the computer. Fighting the urge to light up a cigarette, he turned the power on.

**********

"Oh, shoot!" Becky cried, holding a hand to her forehead. She and Kate had gotten no more than a few steps down the sidewalk of the rue Cassette. "I forgot Mishka’s letter!"

"Forgot it – how?" Kate froze in her tracks. "As in… back at the hotel? Or as in… back in the States?"

"Tsk – oh ye of little faith!" Becky playfully elbowed her taller companion. "It’s in our room, ya big skeptic!" She was already starting back for the gate. "Look, I’ll run back upstairs and get it. Why don’t you just wait down here, and have another cup of that… oil you’ve been drinking?"

"It’s called café noir, for your information," Kate said formally. "You ought to try it, Miss ‘Broaden Your Palate.’"

"No way," Becky laughed over her shoulder, pulling away from Kate and moving towards the elevators. "I figure I’ll actually need the use of my stomach for the next fifty or sixty years!"

"Chicken!" Kate called after her, grinning. She eased her lanky frame down into a garden chair. Another café? Well, why not! And she lifted her hand in the air.

************

Rebecca jogged down the hall to their room, breathless. How could she have forgotten the letter? Granted, she had put it in a safe place, but leaving it behind like this sure didn’t make her look good in front of the boss. She hurried, fumbling for the key in her pocket, knowing how Kate’s moods were as changeable as a quick-moving cloud skipping over the sun on a summer’s day. It didn’t take much for the pilot’s short fuse to blow, and she had so wanted to get this day to get off to a good start. So far, it had.

Standing in front of their door, Becky turned the antique-looking key in the lock, and tried the knob.

Only to find that the door didn’t budge.

Well, that was strange. Somehow, she’d locked it. Yet she distinctly remembered the overly-cautious Kate checking the door when they’d left for breakfast. Perhaps the maid had come and gone and left it unlocked?

Whatever, Becky didn’t give it much thought as she inserted the key again and heard the tumblers turn. She pushed open the door and stepped into the room.

And gasped, her heart skipping a beat.

All right… now this was very strange. A dark-haired mustachioed man, wearing black pants, white shirt, and a gray blazer, was crouched in front of the closet. Next to him on the bed, the laptop lay open, its screen flashing. The man turned his black eyes to her, but they did not register surprise. Anticipation, Becky thought later, if she’d had to put a name to it.

"What the—" Her jaw hit the floor. All logical explanations for the man’s presence crashed and collided together in her mind, nearly shorting it out. One by one, they were rejected. He was definitely not the maid. And if he were, where was his cart, anyway? He was no-one she’d seen at the hotel, although he could be security or some such. Or what about a guest? Might he possibly have entered their room in error? Just a simple tourist, who’d made a mistake?

If so, what was the laptop doing out – and on?

"I’m sorry Mademoiselle," he said, speaking in English. He moved quickly towards her, his teeth flashing. "Perhaps you can help me!" His voice was calm. Soothing. And his glittering smile was one Becky vaguely remembered from… somewhere.

There! She found herself stupidly returning the smile. Now he’ll tell me his logical explanation, and everything will be okay!

And then he was on her, the smile bleeding away from his face, turning it into a cold mask of hatred. In a movement so quick, so practiced, that Becky was powerless to defend herself, he shoved the door shut behind her, grabbed at her left arm and spun her around. Twisting her arm so brutally that she thought he might tear it from its socket, he threw her up against the wall, hard.

What might have been a scream flew out of her mouth instead as a strangled cry, thanks to the force of the impact. Uh-oh, Becky thought dully as spots swam before her eyes. I think I have this all figured out.

**********

Catherine Phillips closed her eyes and let the sun hit her full in the face. This was a hotel she could get used to, that was for certain. Rebecca seemed to like the place. And it was in a good location, despite the ribbing she’d taken from the flight attendant earlier. This might be just the spot to stay when she brought Hanson back here for an extended vacation.

Kate took in a deep breath and released it, already planning in her mind’s eye the delights she would treat Rebecca to when they returned for pleasure. Once this damned case was over with.

The tables around her were being cleared by the wait-staff with a quiet efficiency; the service for le petit-déjeuner was nearly through. She took another sip of her café noir, relishing the strong, robust flavor of it as it seared a path down her throat. Leave the café au lait for wimps. Nothing but the hi-test stuff for her!

All around her there was still the scent of coffee brewing, of fresh bread baking, mixing with the delicate, fragrant scent of the roses and tulips blooming in the garden. Eyes closed, she focused in on her breathing, and listened to the murmurs of French conversation.

The language of love.

Hmnn. She’d have to get Rebecca to teach her a bit more of it. Hey – she was willing to learn! And, thinking of Rebecca – where was she, anyway? Maybe she did have to go back to the States after all! Kate sat up and opened her eyes, checking her watch. It was getting late. Well, she’d give it a few more….

What the fuck was that?

A – a what? A feeling of… of something, stabbed at Kate’s heart and clutched at her gut. God, too much coffee on an empty stomach? Maybe Rebecca was right! Her eyes fell upon a table near where they’d been eating before. A single man had been sitting there, as she recollected. Reading. Smoking. Now, the table was empty, save for a discarded Le Monde riffling in the breeze.

C’mon! Snap out of it! She chided herself. A chill skittered down her spine, despite the warmth of the sunlight heating the cobbled garden stones. She found herself with no explanation for why she was rising, heading back through the courtyard to their room. Passing by the empty table, looking at the discarded butts in the ashtray, a memory tickled at the based of her skull, and she quickened her pace.

I just want to get her moving, she told herself, deciding to take the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator. Rebecca, where are you?

**********

Swallowing her initial shock at being assaulted, Rebecca was finally able to collect her wits and her wind, and she began to scream. God, what else was there to do? Instantly, a hand roughly clamped down over her mouth, cutting her off in mid-yell. She felt her arm being twisted further behind her, shoving her painfully into the wall.

"Where is your friend, eh? Where is that bitch?" Gone was the intruder’s gentlemanly voice, replaced by a coarse, low growl.

Kate! He means Kate! Oh God… oh God! A new fear blossomed in Becky’s chest, propelling her into action rather than paralyzing her. Mustering what leverage she could, given her awkward position, her reply to her attacker’s question was the sharp stomp of her heel onto his foot.

He yelped in pain, slightly releasing his hold on her. "You fucking whore!"

She twisted desperately in his grasp, panting wildly, tears springing to her eyes as her shoulder moved in a direction it was never meant to go. But it was enough. With a chop of her elbow towards his Adams Apple that nearly struck home, suddenly, she was free.

"Help!" She screamed, racing for the door. "Help me, please!" She was so close. Sobbing, her hand reached out for the doorknob.

But then her body was rocked by what felt like a linebacker ramming into her, arms snaking around her middle, driving her down to the floor in a tackle that very nearly crushed the life out of her.

She lay there dazed, gasping, knowing she should be fighting for her survival; wanting to, but unable to direct her body to respond.

Pressure from behind. Grinding her face into the woodwork. Oh God, he was on top of her now, straddling her, grabbing at her arms and pinning her to the cold, wooden floor.

"Now, you will tell me," the intruder panted, leaning down, close to her ear, "what information did Izo Mufti give you?" He gave a tug on her hair, pulling her head towards him, and Becky groaned at this latest violation.

Okay… so this was not your normal hotel thief. His breath was overpowering, reeking of strong coffee and stale cigarettes, and for a moment Becky thought she might be ill. In hopeless desperation she cried out again, weaker this time, and once more a hand covered her mouth, and nose too, smothering her.

Frantically, her mind raced over her limited options, quickly settling on one.

With a strangled cry, she bit down for all she was worth on the hand imprisoning her.

"Aaah!" There was an enraged bellow behind her, and her head was sharply, painfully smacked against the floor for all her efforts, but at least she could breathe again, and she did so in grateful, hitching pulls.

""You infidel bitch!" He roared, and she felt him move slightly.

From her position she could not see what he was up to, but she heard a dry click. No! Dread washed over the flight attendant like an icy-cold wave, and she froze. There was a flash, she managed to see that, of finely honed metal catching the light from the window.

What? Oh…. Her mind fuzzily put the pieces together as soon as she felt the sharp pressure of a blade at her throat.

"Another move," his voice was a harsh rasp, "and I slice you open like a squealing pig!"

"Oh God," Becky whimpered, squeezing her eyes shut. This was it. I love you, Kate. Don’t be angry with me, please!

And then she heard the crash of a door nearly wrenched off its hinges.

"Rebecca!" A hoarse, panicked cry.

She couldn’t see her, but God, how good it was to hear her! Kate!

Becky felt the man’s weight shift on her back, and the pressure on one of her arms was somehow lighter. "Stay back or I kill her now!"

"You’re the dead man," the pilot replied, in a voice so cold and lethal that Becky could scarcely recognize it as Kate’s own.

The intruder was definitely distracted by this sudden change in the odds, by that damned tall bitch he’d been worried about, standing there calmly in the doorway as though he posed no threat to her or her little friend whatsoever. Well, he would show her!

He took a deep, steadying breath, reassessing his strategy, unaware that his knife bobbed slightly away from his victim’s throat.

It wasn’t as much clearance as she would have liked, but she didn’t care. Becky jerked an arm free, putting it between her neck and the blade.

"What the—"

It was all the opening Kate needed.

In the dizzying blur of motion that followed, Rebecca was hard-pressed to figure out just what had happened. As if by magic, the crushing weight was removed from her body; the knife clattered to the floor. She rolled over onto her side, her breath coming in aching spurts, and was in time to see an enraged Kate, her long dark hair flying, toss her attacker into the chest of drawers.

The man scrambled to his feet, his eyes wild, watching the chest teeter precariously. Disarmed, with this crazy woman at his throat, he saw his escape. He pulled the chest down behind him. Wood splintered and drawers came whizzing out of the cabinet, sliding across the floor and blocking Kate’s path. The intruder tore out the door, retreating without a backward glance.

The pilot, nearly blinded by her fury, started after him.

Until she heard a soft, mewling cry. "Kate…."

And she stopped. With her heart pounding, her chest heaving wildly, she turned her eyes from the life or death hunt she found so intoxicating, and let her gaze fall upon the small figure crumpled on the floor behind her.

In a flash of grounding recognition, her anger and rage melted away.

"Oh, God… Rebecca!"

Immediately she was by her side, holding her, stroking her hair, whispering the meaningless nothings that soothed heart-stopping fears from trembling limbs. "There… sssh, it’s okay. I’m here."

"Kate, I… oh God, I didn’t know… he, he—" Suddenly, it all hit Becky like a sledgehammer; what had happened, what nearly had happened, and she broke into tears. "Oh Kate," she sobbed, "I was so scared!"

"Ssssh," it’s all right, I got ya now." Kate squeezed her tight, rocking her like a small child. She fought to control the pounding of her own heart, to quell the abject terror she’d felt at bursting into their room and seeing Rebecca on the floor with that bastard on top of her, holding a knife to her throat. God… for a moment there…. She swallowed, hard. She had to get a-hold of herself. She couldn’t fall apart, not now. There was no time for that.

Rebecca needed her.

They sat there on the hardwood floor for a few moments, clinging to one another, recovering.

Finally, "Are… are you okay?" Misty blue eyes searched moist green.

"I - I think so," Becky hiccuped, rubbing her aching shoulder.

Kate gently reached out and stroked the younger woman’s neck, testing. Probing. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah," Becky said, laughing without mirth. "Just a little shaken up, that’s all. Sorry I lost it like that."

"Hey, Kate kissed away a tear from a soft, pale cheek, "you were entitled, okay?" She paused, sweeping her eyes around the disordered room. "C’mon," she said, helping Becky carefully, solicitously, to her feet. "We’ve got to call the police."

As if on cue, the phone on the night-stand shrilly sounded.

"Here, sit." Kate maneuvered Rebecca to the edge of the bed. "Probably the neighbors wondering what all the commotion is about!"

"Tell ‘em I’m not home," Becky flashed a pained grin.

"Oui," Kate smiled back, relieved beyond all measure to see that Rebecca’s shock seemed to be wearing off; that glimpses of her normal self were returning. And God, after what she’d just been through! The internal strength, the resolve of the smaller woman never ceased to amaze her.

Kate grabbed the phone. "Bonjour, hello," she said. "Yes, this is she." Two dark eyebrows furrowed. "Mn – hmn. Mmn hmn. Yes."

"Who is it?" Becky whispered, leaning closer to Kate.

"Really." Silence, as the party on the other end continued speaking. "When?" The pilot turned slightly, her eyes falling on Rebecca, her face set like a stone. "Thank you inspector, we’d appreciate that. Actually," she hesitated, "we’ve just had a break-in in our hotel room, and my colleague was attacked." The muscles in Kate’s jaw flexed at that, and she nodded, listening to the inspector’s words.

"Very well. We’ll wait for you here. Merci." She slowly replaced the phone in the receiver.

"That… was the police?"

Kate regarded Rebecca intently. Saw the confusion in her eyes; the reddened nose and the pale face where the tears had nearly dried. This woman who was her everything. "Yes," Kate replied quietly, sitting down on the bed. "Inspector Girard." She released a heavy, quaking sigh. "We can forget about needing the data tap, Rebecca."

Becky’s eyes widened and then clouded over as the realization of Kate’s words struck home. "No…."

"Izo Mufti was found murdered this morning."

It was not until the police at last arrived at their doorway that Catherine Phillips finally let Rebecca Hanson out of her arms.

**********

It took some time to be rid of Inspector Girard and his associates; the French police inspector was nothing if not thorough. He wanted to know word for word Mufti’s conversation the day before, and agreed with Kate and Rebecca that the man they’d seen on the elevator at Mufti’s building, the very same one who had attacked Becky, was currently the prime suspect in Mufti’s murder. The man was obviously after something.

"Information?" Girard puzzled in passable English, "About the plane crash?"

"Well, he did want to know what Izo Mufti had told us – but there was nothing to tell, really," Becky said.

"You had no other information about the investigation here in this room? Papers? Lists?"

"Besides what was on the laptop – no. Everything else was in our portfolios, and we had them with us."

"The letter…." Kate said, lifting an eyebrow at Rebecca. She hadn’t left the flight attendant’s side, sitting next to her on the bed, keeping a protective, reassuring hand on the small of her back as the inspector quizzed them both.

"Oh, gosh!" Becky gingerly got to her feet and moved to the closet where the discarded laptop bag lay. She unzipped an inside pocket, and withdrew a sealed envelope. "Phew!" she breathed, sagging back down onto the bed.

"That is—?" Inspector Girard flipped open his note pad, the pages were already filled with his earlier jottings.

"Just… just some travel documents of ours," Kate quickly volunteered, silencing Becky with a look. "Tickets and such."

"Oh, I see," Girard snapped the pad closed, satisfied.

"Well," Kate added, anxious to move on, "Whatever he was after, he didn’t get it."

"Yeah. I mean, when I walked in on him, the laptop had literally just been turned on. I could tell by the screen."

Girard leaned closer to Becky, eyeing her carefully. "Are you sure you’re all right, mademoiselle?" A fatherly concern flickered in his gray eyes.

"Yes," Becky mustered up a tense smile. "Really."

"Don’t you think you should go to the hospital at least, just to get checked out?" Kate could not resist another opportunity to suggest that her companion seek medical treatment. Her shoulder was obviously bothering her, and the purpled beginnings of a bruise had started to color the young blonde’s jaw. It had taken several frowning hotel staffers some time to bring a semblance of order back to the room, installing a state-of-the-art lock on the door in the process. Judging by the level of disarray, it had been quite a struggle between Rebecca and her attacker. Just to be on the safe side, she really wished the younger woman would agree to a check-up.

"No, I don’t think so!" Becky said, reaching out and tugging impishly on the sleeve of Kate’s blouse. "And that’s my final word on the subject, Captain Phillips!"

"Very well." Inspector Girard motioned his team towards the door, oblivious to the glower on Kate’s face. "We’ll be leaving, then. I would advise you to stay in touch, Mademoiselle Phillips, and have a care while you’re here. We wouldn’t want any further… complications.

"No, we wouldn’t" Kate sourly replied, folding her arms in front of her chest.

"You’ll be here for how long?" The inspector swept his eyes from Kate to Becky.

"Another day or two, at the most." Kate walked the inspector to the door.

"Well, ah, we’ll let you know if we come up with anything."

"Merci," Kate said, closing the door behind them. She leaned her back against it and sighed, her gaze tracking to Rebecca. "This has been some morning, eh?" She checked her wristwatch. "Or, should I say, afternoon?"

"Yeah," Becky agreed, working her sore shoulder, "This was definitely not included on the tour."

"I think you should take it easy for the rest of the day," Kate said, pushing herself off the door and moving towards the desk. She found some papers there and, eyes lowered, began to fiddle with them. "Tomorrow is soon enough to find Ahmed—"

Before she knew what was happening, Rebecca Hanson was by her side, her green eyes on fire. "This is my lead on our case," she said, waving the envelope in Kate’s face. "There’s information out there that people are willing to die for. To kill for." She thrust out her chin defiantly. Judging by this morning, we must be getting pretty damn close, Kate." Becky ran a hand through her hair, fuming. "And I don’t like the idea of getting messed with in my own hotel room."

"But—"

"El-Yousef is still out there, Kate." Rebecca cut her off, her eyes sparking. "Let’s go get him."

**********

Against Kate’s better judgment, Becky rejected a taxi, insisting that going on foot would help to work the kinks out of her pummeled body. As a compromise, they walked back past the church of St-Sulpice to the Mabillion metro, and took it three stops down to the Latin Quarter.

Home of one of Europe’s most prestigious universities, the Sorbonne, the Latin Quarter derived its name from the ancient university tradition of studying and speaking in Latin, a practice that died out after the French Revolution. A uniquely bohemian enclave in what otherwise was a cosmopolitan city, the Quartier Latin was populated with students and would-be academics who filled the air of the local cafés with their grandiose ideas – and tobacco smoke.

The district was perched on a roller-coaster maze of steep, sloping streets, with buildings cut precariously into the hillside, stubbornly clinging to their bit of ground in defiance of the laws of gravity. The sidewalks were crowded with artists selling their wares, craftspeople, book salesmen, even the odd fortune teller. Resisting the urge to stop and browse, the women pressed on until they arrived at a tumble-down building off the rue des Carmes – obviously student housing. The first floor housed a café, and even at this mid-afternoon hour the tables were nearly filled. Students, mostly, engaged in various debates, grabbing a quick bite, or studying.

"Upstairs, I think," Kate said, leading Becky through a rabbit’s warren of rooms to a narrow, winding staircase.

"Third floor," Becky said, breathlessly. "Numero trois."

"Got it," Kate said, glancing back over her shoulder to where her companion followed, leaning heavily on the staircase. "You doing okay?"

"Yeah," Becky huffed, her face flushed. She caught the pilot’s eyes and grinned. "I could use the workout."

"Okay." Kate forced herself to do the impossible – to stop worrying. She breathed a silent prayer of thanks when they got to the third floor landing, with Rebecca none the worse for the wear. The walls had decades old beige paint peeling off of them, and the bare wooden floors in the hallway, sagging slightly in the middle, were worn shiny-smooth by a century’s worth of feet tramping over them. It was warm in the hallway, not a surprise considering there was no visible means of air circulation and, judging by the smell in the air, someone was apparently cooking garlic and peppers.

"Here we are," Becky said, stopping in front of a scarred door with the number ‘3’ spray-painted on the top of the frame. She spared a quick glance at Kate. The pilot nodded, giving Becky the green light.

Returning the nod, she lifted her hand to the door, ready to give it a good rap with her knuckles, when it suddenly burst open.

A young man with a scruffy black beard, carrying a backpack, nearly ran into them. "Pardon!" he cried, as surprised to see them as they were to see him.

"Bonjour, hello!" Becky lurched backwards and nearly lost her balance but for Kate’s steadying hands. "Êtes vous… er, are you Ahmed Dushan?" She asked, her French failing her.

"Ah… yes, I am," he replied in nearly accent-free English. He eyed them carefully now. "Who wants to know?"

"Can we talk to you for a little bit?" Kate stepped forward from behind Becky, taking in the young man’s jeans, tattered t-shirt, and black engineering boots. There was nothing about him that would differentiate him from the thousands of other students here in the Latin Quarter; nothing that would otherwise label him as an electrical engineering genius turned refugee from the Balkan war.

"I – I’m late for class," he said, growing nervous. "I’m sorry. I must go." He started to push past them.

"Please, Ahmed," Becky grabbed at his forearm, stopping him. "We won’t take long, please." She lifted a pair of pleading green eyes to him. "Mishka sent us."

And at that, the Kosovar sagged against the wall and closed his eyes, muttering something in his native language that Becky could not identify. But she could see the lone tear that escaped the corner of his eye and trickled down his face and, finally, she heard him cry, "It’s over… it’s over."

**********

Quietly, with a sense of resignation assailing his spirit and slumping his shoulders, Ahmed had led the way back downstairs to the little café on the first floor of the building. There, the three had procured a corner table and ordered drinks and sandwiches. Exchanging silent glances, Kate and Becky had sat and waited while Ahmed read through Mishka's letter.

"Mishka said you could help us," Becky said, watching the wind lightly lift the flap of the envelope Ahmed had torn open. "We hope you can."

"You know, I thought by leaving Kosovo, I would leave it all behind me," he folded the letter and replaced it in the envelope. "But that’s not true, I’ve found." He turned his sad, brown eyes to them. "I was happy to take their money. Happy to work with them, travel with them before the war broke out, experimenting, playing the scientist. As for their cause," he sighed, "I can’t pretend that it didn’t interest me. After all, I am a Muslim."

"But you weren’t KLA," Becky stated, referring to the Kosovo Liberation Army that had done battle against the Serbs.

"No," he smiled faintly. "I was too intellectual, too much the independent thinker, to affiliate myself with one particular organization. But I was there. I saw what the Serbs did to our homeland, to our families, to our friends…." His voice shook. "I hated them for it."

"Ahmed," Becky reached out a hand to him. "Mishka told us… about his little sister, Natasha. And you." Her heart went out to the thin-faced young man before them. The things he had seen. The suffering he’d been through.

"Yes," Ahmed blinked back the tears that threatened to claim him. "Even so, I had no idea what they would use those polymers for. They never said."

"And you didn’t ask," Kate said, her voice hard. "People died."

"No," the engineer shook his head, "I didn’t ask. You’re right. I should have." He hesitated, biting his lip. "Maybe a part of me didn’t want to know."

Kate let her eyes travel around the café, absorbing the faces of the clientele, watching the people move through the street beyond. "When was the last time you had any contact with El-Yousef’s people?"

"Not since I got out of Kosovo. Their money… blood money, helped me with that," he said. "I thought I’d keep a low profile here, take a few classes here at the Sorbonne and at the Arab Institute… and try to forget. I knew what had happened with Mishka, saw what El-Yousef’s people were doing with the technology I developed, but I didn’t know what to do, or who to trust." The dark curls of Ahmed’s hair framed a face that was ashen with grief, with suffering. "If there were a way I could make it all right… I would do it.

"You can’t keep running forever," Kate said firmly. "They’ll just keep using the technology you developed, with or without you. They don’t even need you anymore. To them, you’re just a liability."

"I don’t care," Ahmed cried miserably. "Let them come and get me. At least it would end this torture!"

"They’re tying up loose ends, Ahmed. Turning up the heat." Kate’s blue eyes searched Ahmed’s, struggling to touch that part of him that was still able to feel. "One man has already been killed. You could be next."

"I tell you I don’t care," Ahmed dropped his eyes.

"Innocent people are at risk, Ahmed," Kate said through gritted teeth. "How many more have to die?"

"It doesn’t have to be that way," Becky said earnestly, following Kate’s lead. "You can help us. We’re trying to break El-Yousef’s encryption code, track down his network of terrorist cells… expose his sham corporations."

"We’re giving you a chance to make good," Kate’s heart pounded in her chest. This was as close as they had ever gotten to penetrating El-Yousef’s defenses, and they could not have chanced upon a more valuable contact. Well, not ‘chanced,’ the pilot corrected herself. It was Rebecca’s smart detective work that had gotten them this far.

"I can never make up for what has happened," Ahmed said, gulping for air, his lower lip trembling. "But… you’re right. I can try to prevent it from ever happening again. To try and make up for what I’ve already done." He tapped the letter and raised his eyes to Rebecca. "And how is Mishka?" A wan smile skipped across his face.

"He is well."

"He says," he picked the letter up, "that I should trust you. Do whatever you ask."

Rebecca’s eyes widened in surprise. "He… he’s a good man, Ahmed. He saved our lives," she glanced sideways at Kate. The tall pilot sat still, rigid, her eyes fixed upon the young engineer.

"Mishka says," he sighed heavily, "that he’s found a peace in prison, in taking responsibility for what happened." Tears filled his eyes once more. "I swear, we didn’t know…."

"Ahmed," Kate leaned forward, "Where did you get the cash? That’s the place for us to start. If you told us, we might be able to track it back to El-Yousef."

Ahmed took a gulp of his coffee and swallowed hard. "I can do better than that," he said, squaring his shoulders and rubbing the tears from his eyes. "For the people on that plane… for Natasha… I can take you to the bastard myself."

Continued in Part 6