Sydney rarely ventured down near where the sweeper corps of the Centre kept its locker room, gymnasium, weight room and lounge – a bastion of physical prowess and intimidation – but he made an exception that morning. He got more than a few hard stares for his trouble – he definitely looked as out of place as he felt. But his patience and persistence paid off when he saw Sam striding through the lounge door and heading directly for the pot of sludge that the sweepers were calling coffee. He waited, watching the dark haired man look for a long moment at the rack of assorted ceramic mugs for his own and then pour himself a cup of coffee with a long yawn.

Broots was right – Sam didn’t look as if he were getting much rest at all. In fact, if Sydney didn’t know better, he’d have sworn that Sam had slept in his suit all night. The dark hair was less than impeccably groomed – and the morning shadow of a day’s growth of stubble was unmistakable. Sam took a long sip of the coffee with closed eyes, and then drooped into a nearby chair without even noticing that there was someone watching him that was definitely out of place.

Sydney had seen enough. If things were as precarious as Broots claimed Sam said, then it was in Miss Parker’s best interest for him to get to the bottom of things. He rose to his feet and tried not to draw too much more attention to himself as he moved over to across the table from Sam – who still hadn’t noticed him yet. “Sam?” he asked softly, “do you think we could go somewhere private?”

Sam’s eyes, when they lifted in surprise to gaze at Sydney, were red-rimmed. “Sydney? What the hell…”

“I need to talk to you – and I’d rather do it where we don’t have an audience…” Sydney looked around pointedly.

Sam took a moment to get the hint and then looked around himself as well – only then noting the number of fellow sweepers doing their best to look unconcerned while keeping an ear twitching in their direction. “Yeah, sure,” he growled and forced himself out of his chair. “Follow me.”

Sam led Sydney through the lounge door and down a corridor until they were suddenly at a doorway to the outdoors – where several benches and a few picnic tables sat virtually abandoned in the early morning chill. “How’s this for you?” Sam asked gesturing at the closest picnic table.

“Fine.” Sydney followed Sam and seated himself only after the sweeper had once more dropped his tall frame onto the seat like a sack of potatoes. “Broots came to talk to me…”

“Oh?” Sam frowned in confusion. “Did he find something else?”

“He told me what he told you,” Sydney explained quickly, “but his main concern was you.”

That seemed to awaken Sam more than anything else had that morning. “ME?!”

“And I share his concerns, now that I’ve had an opportunity to observe what it was that Broots worried to me about…”

“There’s nothing wrong with me…” Sam protested loudly, then looked about himself sheepishly to make sure nobody had been eavesdropping on them. “I’m fine!” he reasserted forcefully, if more quietly.

Sydney shook his head and gave the sweeper as sympathetic smile. “Have you looked at yourself in a mirror lately, Sam?”

“What the hell is THAT supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Sydney sighed – he’d hoped Sam would make this just a little easier for the both of them, “that you have dark circles under your eyes that tell me you haven’t been getting enough sleep for several days now at the very least. You look as if you slept in your clothing, your hair isn’t combed and you haven’t shaved yet today. In a word, you look like hell.”

“Thanks a lot…”

“Then there’s your observed behavior,” Sydney continued, carefully modulating his voice into a calm and neutral observer’s voice. “According to Broots, you’ve become jumpy and tending to either try to take on more than your usual workload or avoid tasks that have been assigned.”

“I’m good at what I do,” Sam complained bitterly.

“Yes, under normal circumstances, you are,” Sydney agreed readily, “which is why Broots was worried and why I decided to speak to you this morning – to give you a chance to explain. So…” He leaned forward. “What’s going on, Sam?”

“Nothing!”

“If that’s true, then I’m going to need to take Broots’ and my concerns to Miss Parker,” Sydney responded in a quiet, non-threatening voice. “In my opinion, your physical state of exhaustion and related abnormal behavior means that you’re in no shape to be a capable bodyguard, much less the point man on some of the investigative…”

Sam was bristling now. “Wait just a minute…”

“But if you tell me what it is that has you so off-balance,” Sydney cajoled gently, “perhaps I can be of some assistance – not to mention find a reason not to speak to Miss Parker.”

Sam glared at the old Belgian, who simply gazed at him sympathetically and steadily until the sweeper could no longer hold the gaze. “There’s nothing you can do,” Sam muttered finally.

“Perhaps not, but I think sharing your worries might at least lighten your load some,” the psychiatrist countered firmly.

Sam closed his eyes and took another long draught of his rapidly cooling coffee – then opened his eyes and grimaced at the bitter taste. “All right, all right! I heard something, OK?” he offered at long last.

“What did you hear? Where? When?”

Suddenly the sweeper was leaning across the table at Sydney, his gaze almost wild. “You have to promise me you won’t spill a word of what I’m going to tell you to Miss Parker!”

“Sam!” Sydney frowned in reproach. “That depends entirely on what it is that you have to tell me, don’t you think?”

“Promise me!”

The psychiatrist could see he wasn’t going to get much further without offering Sam at least a few concessions. “I promise, if you can give me adequate reasons, that I won’t share what you tell me with Miss Parker.”

Sam seemed to collapse back on himself. “It was at the anniversary party.”

“OK,” Sydney nodded encouragingly. “That takes care of where and when…”

Sam sighed and rubbed his hand down his face – noting with dismay that Sydney’s assessment of his physical state was probably right on, considering the scratchy state of his face and its more-than-five-o’clock shadow. He HADN’T stopped at home to shave or change because the time had slipped by so quickly that he barely had made it in on time as it was. “I never saw WHO it was that was talking – but I got an earful without they’re knowing that I was there…”

“What did they say?” Sydney was beginning to get frustrated at the delay – it was as if Sam had suddenly taken a page from Broots’ play-book of talking all the way around an important bit of information without saying anything pertinent, a trait that got the computer tech yelled at regularly by Miss Parker.

“Something bad’s coming down – and according to what I heard, the intent is to take the Centre down completely.”

Sydney frowned. “That’s impossible!”

Sam merely shook his head. “Whoever it was that was speaking pointed out Miss Parker as the most likely obstacle to whatever their plans were – and the one guy said that he was ready to take her out completely should she start to dig in the wrong place…”

“Take her out? You mean…”

“They were pretty clear on what they meant,” Sam nodded soberly. “So I’ve been trying to make sure that she doesn’t get too steamed… doesn’t keep turning over too many rocks that I can’t be sure won’t be the last straw…”

“And not sleeping?” Sydney asked astutely.

Sam sighed and nodded. “I just had this hunch, after little Evan was approached, that her home isn’t exactly the most secure, so I’ve been…”

Sydney suddenly understood. “You’ve been staking her place out during the evening hours – after putting in a full day here.”

“Yeah.” The sigh was long and spoke of a deep exhaustion.

“While otherwise you did the digging and tried not to trigger any alarms…”

“Which has gotten pretty hard, considering O'Brien’s murder and the circumstances we’ve uncovered so far about the expenses fiasco…”

Sydney frowned. “You think O'Brien was killed over what he’d uncovered about that?”

“I can’t be sure – and if whoever it is that’s making a move on the Centre is nervous enough to approach Evan in order to get her attention away from what she’s doing here, then we must be looking in the right direction. I just don’t want anything to happen…” He swallowed hard, and then glared at Sydney. “So? Will you keep quiet?”

It was now Sydney’s turn to wipe his hand over his mouth and chin. “I don’t want any harm to come to Miss Parker either…”

“Then she can’t know…”

“She has to.” Sydney countered somberly – wishing he didn’t have to. “She deserves to know what’s at stake – it’s her life, after all.”

“But it will only make things worse – YOU know that!” Sam flung his hands wide. “How can I protect her if she’s going all-out to race these people to try to catch them before they bring the Centre down?”

“Sam! Think, man!” Sydney answered with a quiet vehemence that drew the tired sweeper’s attention quickly. “You need her assisting in her own defense – not blundering blindly about. We’ve already had them contact her through Evan – so your plan to keep her safe through ignorance isn’t working anymore. Not to mention that you’re in no sshape to guard her at all anymore – Broots caught you staring at a monitor picture of the sweeper who probably killed O'Brien without even seeing it…”

Sam had the grace to look chagrined. “He told you about that, eh?”

Grey brows rose. “Like I said, he was worried.”

Sam shook his head and drooped for a bit, playing with his coffee mug rather than face the earnest concern of his colleague and, apparently, friend. When he looked up again, his desperation was clear in his bearing and tone of voice. “Telling her is going to be like waving a red flag in front of a bull, Sydney. She’s already pissed at Raines for putting the screws to her about this expense account crap, and now the auditor has been murdered right under her nose. She’s understandably jumpy because of what happened to Evan, and she’s never a happy camper when she’s in the middle of one of these damned security overhauls. If she thinks that by getting to the bottom of this, she can head off a train-wreck, she’s gonna go for it as hard and as fast as she can – damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead.”

Sydney sighed – Sam had a legitimate point. And if the threat to Miss Parker was even more pressing than the one to the Centre, then helping to sidetrack her would, under normal circumstances, be a logical defensive move that might buy them the time they needed to minimize the destruction that was inevitable. “It isn’t just me you’ll have to convince, you know,” he told Sam after a long and pregnant silence. “Broots will need to be brought into the loop – so he doesn’t take it into his head to tell her after the two of us decide to stonewall until we have more information to go on…”

“So we get Broots to keep his yap shut,” Sam tossed out callously. “That shouldn’t be too hard. I’m betting he still has enough of a crush on Miss Parker to be open to convincing…”

Sydney smiled suddenly. “You noticed that, did you?”

Sam puffed out a short burst of air and nodded indulgently. “The little nerd can’t hide his emotions for beans, Doc.”

“I’m going to regret this,” Sydney sighed and then finally nodded. “All right, Sam – we’ll play this your way for the time being.” Sam’s grin of relief was almost painful. “BUT with a few modifications – or the deal’s off and I tell her what’s going on the moment I leave you.”

“Sydney…”

“One,” Sydney continued, putting up a forefinger, “you and I will make a schedule for keeping watch on Miss Parker’s – so NEITHER of us ends up looking like we just climbed out of bed and can’t concentrate. Two…” The next finger went up. “…we tell Broots what’s going on and get him to help on all fronts – including keeping Miss Parker nicely distracted from things that might get her killed…”

“NOW you’re talking!” Sam nodded. “Done and done. So…” He took a long and disgusting pull from his now-tepid coffee. “…you gonna take watch for me tonight - right?”

Sydney leaned his chin into his hand after nodding wordlessly. Somehow he doubted that they’d be given the leeway to continue in his form of insanity for long before Miss Parker WOULD have to be told. And by that time, his complicity would be great enough that the burden of admission would most likely land on HIS shoulders – further straining Miss Parker’s trust in him.

But if it kept her alive and safe, the inconvenience and the emotional consequences would be worth it. He’d just never thought keeping his promise to Catherine to keep her little girl safe would have come down to THIS!

~~~~~~~~*

Jake McKenna watched the middle-aged African woman move gracefully across the rich, cream-colored carpet of his office and settle comfortably into the leather easy chair he’d had his aide position in front of his desk. He waited for just a bit longer so that his assistant could place a coffee cup at Mrs. Mutumbo’s elbow on the little end table and then make a show of leaving a fresh carafe of the brew on the corner of his desk before speaking. “So,” he began with an inviting smile, “did you enjoy your tour yesterday?”

“I did, Mr. McKenna,” Lula answered immediately, “although some of what I saw brought up more questions than were answered.”

McKenna nodded. “I’m not surprised.”

“And I am wondering,” she continued, allowing her musical accent to weave an aura of confidentiality and cooperation, “whether I will be allowed some of those answers today.”

“That depends,” McKenna told her honestly, “on the questions.”

“Well,” Lula began, “for one… I suppose I’d like to know just what differentiates your Foundation from other similar firms – firms like The Centre?”

McKenna sniffed derisively. “Financial stability is the most obvious difference between the Foundation and The Centre. We don’t over-extend…”

“The Centre has been financially sound for decades,” Lula stated haughtily, defending the official Triumvirate line.

“It’s been sound only because your consortium has been picking up the tab for decades,” McKenna fired back. “My Foundation hasn’t needed to depend on anybody else for either project funding or to sell its products and research for us.”

“And yet you were interested in talking to me when I approached you,” Lula reminded him archly. “You are not so sound that having a serious investor would be unwelcome, however.”

“No TRUE businessman is going to turn down the offer of a substantial capital investment in his business,” McKenna chuckled, granting the point to her. “Your consortium has quite a… reputation… for its assistance. Of course I’m not going to sneeze at a chance to experience some of that largesse firsthand.” His smile grew predatory. “And knowing that the Centre’s financial woes are only destined to grow larger would seem to make moving investments from a failing enterprise to a more healthy one a logic choice for YOU.”

Lula’s eyes bore holes into his. “What makes you think that the Centre is going to get into a worse financial position?”

McKenna wiggled his forefinger at her and settled back into his comfortable desk chair with his coffee mug in hand. “Ah, ah, ah... I’m not giving away my sources of information. So ignore the free tidbit of information, if you wish…” He took a long sip of coffee and seemed to come to a decision. “Time to lay our cards on the table. you’ve seen the facilities – gotten a taste of what we do and how we do it – so do you want to invest money with my firm – or no?”

The woman’s eyes widened. “It isn’t that simple, Mr. McKenna…”

“Actually, Mrs. Mutumbo, it IS,” he declared frankly. “Either you like what you saw yesterday, in which case this meeting should be and will become an ironing out some of the major details of our new business relationship – or you were disappointed in what you saw and by withholding your decision, you are wasting both my time and yours.”

Lula had to admire the simple audacity of the Foundation’s Chairman. Ultimately he was right – it all boiled down to whether or not she had seen enough to assure herself that investing with his firm was what she wanted to do. “Let’s say for argument’s sake that I’m inclined to want to invest heavily in your firm,” she admitted in a very neutral voice. “It’s your turn to be frank - what would the Triumvirate be getting for its money?”

McKenna’s lower lip protruded for a moment, and then he smiled. “Inside information on on-going projects that promise high yield profits – and for those projects whose funding comes primarily from your consortium, a percentage of any and all profits made from those projects. Personnel and resources to carry out projects originating from within your consortium can be put at your disposal at a vast discount.”

“How much authority will we be given over Foundation personnel?”

“As much as I deem proper in any particular situation,” was the prompt reply. “But at no time will the Triumvirate be in a position to overrule ME. It will be free to withdraw its investment, but it will never be in control here.”

“How much right will we have to inquire into the nature of Foundation policies and activities?”

“Again, you will be told as much as I deem is reasonable to give to any investor. Mrs. Mutumbo,” McKenna said with slightly narrowed eyes, “ there is no way in Hell that you’re going to exert the same kind of influence on the Foundation as you have at the Centre – mostly because you’ll never be put in a position where you’ll feel it necessary. We do not make it a policy to become over-extended fiscally – nor do we indulge in highly risky and questionable projects. Our projects have proven money-generating potential from the very beginning, and so even failure results in the kind of research that can be sold to firm following similar lines of inquiry.”

“That sounds so very high-minded, Mr. McKenna – but you’d have to admit that The Centre operated in very much the same way until only very recently…”

“Nonsense.” McKenna’s voice was flat and almost adversarial. “The Centre under Charles Parker began having its expenses outrun its income more than forty years ago – a cost overrun that has only gotten worse and worse, especially in the last twenty years or so. The only thing that has kept it afloat for years is the fact that your consortium hasn’t figured out that it is a sinking ship yet and keeps bailing it out.”

Lula rose to her feet quickly. Although Jake McKenna wasn’t saying anything that she hadn’t said in closed Council session, to hear it thrown AT her in such a fashion was insulting. “If you wish to spend your time insulting The Centre and, by insinuation, the Triumvirate, then perhaps I AM wasting my time and yours…”

McKenna was on his feet in a flash, hand outstretched. “I’m sorry. When the subject of the Centre arises, my mood always tanks. Please…” He waited.

Slowly Lula allowed the appearance of rethinking her decision to leave, and she finally sank back into her chair and reached for her coffee cup. “Then let us get down to business, Mr. McKenna.”

McKenna sat down as well, a cat-swallowing-the-canary smile on his face. “Does that mean that you intend to establish a working relationship between the Foundation and the Triumvirate?”

“I will have to run my findings past our Council – and the decision to invest more than just a few million must be unanimous – but at the moment, I’m inclined to say that we sit on the cusp of a very profitable relationship.”

“I’m so glad you agree!” McKenna quipped as he picked up the phone and punched the button that summoned his secretary. “Bring in the latest expense ledger – and an income statement for the same amount of time, Cheryl. Make that two copies of each, please.” He reached out for his coffee cup as well and raised it. “A toast, Mrs. Mutumbo – to our new partnership.”

“Indeed!” Lula raised her cup, smiling contentedly both outwardly and inwardly. Despite the fact that she was getting a whole lot less deference than thirty years’ worth of experience with the Centre had made the Triumvirate accustomed to, she liked Jake McKenna. He was as hard-nosed and independent as they came – and as willing to throw the whole deal into the trash if it didn’t suit his fancy as she was. In him she saw a kindred spirit – one who had clawed his way to where he was now, and who would do anything to keep that upward movement going.

The Centre and the Eire Foundation – they were two very different corporate entities indeed. Chances were that if this latest boondoggle with the Centre turned out to be nothing but smoke and mirrors, her nailing down an extremely profitable connection with the Foundation would keep the investment return capital flowing at rates expected by the other consortium members. What was more, single-handedly closing a contract with a new and extremely profitable investment property could very well mean that the consortium at large would rethink its decision as to the structure of the Council and appoint HER to the President’s seat. In fact, she thought quickly, it might even be in her best interests if she commissioned a little work on the side and made SURE that the Centre’s last-ditch effort failed.

It would be an extreme pleasure to wipe the smiles off of her colleagues’ faces as her words of warning proved true – and the consortium members rewarded her diligence to the Triumvirate accordingly. She smoothed her hand down the multicolored woolen scarf that draped her right shoulder as a Council member, fancying being finally able to move it to her left shoulder and rule the entire Triumvirate world properly! And under her leadership, the Triumvirate would not repeat the mistakes of her husband. No – she would guide the consortium into an age of untold riches and profit, making it a global power to be reckoned with.

~~~~~~~~*

Jarod finished entering all of the pertinent data and hit the print key to send the latest expense reports to the printer. So much of the work that he’d ostensibly been hired to do was mind-numbing numbers crunching – the head of the Nano-Technology Department had been very sloppy in his attempt to hide places where he’d been quietly skimming money from the discretionary fund. Jarod was finding that he was doing the work that would take most accountants and auditors the better part of a day in under three hours – leaving more than enough time to do his mainframe search.

Bob Rogers, the man whose murder had set him on his path into the Foundation’s inner workings, had been far more than a psychologist, it now seemed. He’d also been on the advisory council for a very shadowy project called Purloined – and that he’d been firing off extremely concerned memos to Jake McKenna and the head of the Psychological Research Department right and left up until the very day that he’d died. It had taken Jarod speed-reading nearly a hundred memos before he’d uncovered the project name the night before.

With a contented sigh, Jarod rose and reclaimed the expense reports from his printer, inserted them into an inter-office envelope with the proper routing information already entered on it. That done, he placed the envelope in the slot labeled “Out” that dumped it into a collection bin for all outgoing mail from the Accounting Department. The day’s work was now finished – and once more, it was time to sink his teeth into the mystery that continued to grow around Bob Rogers and the circumstances of his death.

But first…

A glance at his watch told him that it would be within the realm of reason for him to be taking his lunch break at about this time – which MIGHT account for his wandering out of his designated lair and into other, more interesting, parts of the Foundation facility. After all, he had the word of the workers on the elevator that somewhere here was being prepared a Sim Lab – or something that sounded all too much like the location in a Centre Sub-Level where he’d spent the greater share of his adult life. He HAD to see – he HAD to know if it were true!

Armed with a wad of ledger books and several balance sheets for cover that he’d hastily compiled from a file cabinet, Jarod exited his office. Looking preoccupied by what he carried, he then joined the quiet flow of employees walking in the same general direction as the two men had come from as evidenced by their position when they’d been waiting for the elevator. His badge listed his clearance level as 5, and he found himself surprised when he came upon a set of locked double doors bearing a warning that no one with a clearance of under 6 was allowed.

He tried to look nonchalant as he paused in front of the doors and peered through the window. Beyond it seemed to be another hallway – this one filled with construction workers finishing the job of laying carpet and hanging doors. While he watched, a single white-coated man emerged from a side room in the company of Jake McKenna – both men looking serious and determined.

Jarod quickly took a glance around and then moved along down the hallway in order to avoid calling attention to the fact of his preoccupation with what lay beyond those locked doors. Somewhere, somehow, he was going to have to score a level 6 clearance ID badge and make a duplicate – for these locked doors worked on a barcode scan that wouldn’t be difficult to break. He wasn’t too worried – he’d managed harder things before.

But for now, he’d seen enough to know that his next physical search of the facility would take him down that newly carpeted corridor. He hastened along down the corridor, eventually ending up in the Accounting Department lounge to snag a cup of their reasonably smooth coffee and one of the almost-stale donuts that had been left over from that morning’s offering. From there, he headed back to his office and, putting the ledger books and balance sheets back where he’d found them, settled down at the desk again.

Quickly he typed in the keystrokes that got him behind the user interface and logger for the mainframe and brought up the basic search utility he’d written a long time ago for hacking the Centre mainframe in search of information without tripping over one of Broots’ alarms. He typed in the word “Purloined” and hit enter and sat back to sip on his coffee while he waited for the computer to sort through the millions of documents it had stored for any mention of that word.

While he waited, his mind spun. Like the Centre, most of the Foundation project names had meaning relating directly to the project itself – having to do with what the research itself hoped for, or some oblique reference to something related. Given that, what would a project named “Purloined” refer to?

To purloin meant to steal – so did that mean that the Foundation was intending to STEAL research from another firm?

Jarod leaned his head back and closed his eyes in order to concentrate. He ran through the meat of any number of memos Bob Rogers had written in relation to this project – and noted that many of them had complained bitterly of the ethics of the research itself. Bob Rogers, for all his willingness to work for a firm that dealt with weapons R&D and the inevitable arms dealing that would result, had evidently had an ethical limit to what he could tolerate without complaint. Evidently he hadn’t bothered to worry about the fact that the research might have been stolen.

OK. So what did he have? A verbal description of a Sim Lab, a psychologist murdered while talking to an FBI agent about other matters of concern, that FBI agent now dead as well, while also consulting on a research project that was possibly stolen from somewhere else and …

Jarod sat up straight all of a sudden, his eyes wide. What if…

At that moment, the computer chose to chime gently to announce the end of its search. Jarod blinked and leaned forward to study the file entries offered and then bring up the first document on the list. As he read, the coffee he’d drank roiled sourly in his stomach.

It was even worse than he’d dreamed.

~~~~~~~~*

Ugo N’Deka made himself comfortable in the easy chair that had been placed behind the mirrored glass window into this new and improved Sim Lab. On the other side of the glass, the young man known as Cancer was absorbed in reading the material dealing with the subsidence of the airport in Japan that had been built on top of an artificial island off-shore. Triumvirate money had been heavily invested in the designing of that airport – and now it seemed that the entire enterprise would only survive for a few years more before weight, vibration and wave action rendered the entire facility useless.

The documents Raines had sent to Africa regarding Duplicity and Cancer specifically after the Council had agreed to test this new Pretender had stated that he was most highly trained in physics and engineering and aerodynamics – physical sciences. With this looming as a possible fiscal disaster for both the Japanese government and the Triumvirate, having potentially Pretender-quality consulting on the problem had been agreed as an appropriate test of the new Pretender’s ability.

Still, N’Deka had his doubts. The young man, while easily far more docile than Jarod had ever been the few times he’d seen the original Pretender at work, was still as curious and as persistent as his progenitor. If the young man’s intellectual capacity was anything near that of the original Pretender, one of the recommendations N’Deka intended to make was to move the young man and his keeper directly to Africa as a condition of renewed referrals and investment. The project prospectus listed a total of ten up and coming Pretender candidates – the cost of having the Triumvirate not bringing the Centre down by calling in debts could easily be the complete control of one of those ten.

He glanced to his right and saw that Solo Indala was doing much the same thing he was doing – observing both the boy and everyone else in the room beyond the glass. Indala was a sharp man – his skills of observation and deduction had been of immense service to the Triumvirate many times over the years. It was why N’Deka had wanted him here in Montana. If there was a flaw to be found – a weakness in the process as a whole – Indala would find it and explain it to him in terms that made it easy to see and understand.

“I saw some of the others,” Indala whispered, leaning close to his Triumvirate boss.

“Others?” N’Deka repeated with a slight frown.

“The other boys,” was the immediate explanation. “The resemblence is uncanny.”

“To Jarod?” Indala nodded his answer – and N’Deka nodded in response. “It is to be expected. Raines’ information stated that these youngsters are more of the same project that yielded Gemini – they are clones.”

“We never had a chance to test Gemini.”

“No,” N’Deka admitted ruefully, “we didn’t. But isn’t it comforting to know that while Jarod may have set the program back a few years, he didn’t destroy it completely?”

Indala’s gaze rested heavily on the young man who had risen from his seat, some of the documents in hand, and had walked over to the white board and started filling the surface with virtually incomprehensible mathematic scribblings. “Only if this one proves to be as capable as Jarod was in his day,” the younger man commented skeptically. “And that remains to be seen.”

~~~~~~~~*

Broots reached out for his coffee mug and took a sip, then grimace and put the mug back down again next to his monitor. That was right – he’d gotten that cup nearly an hour earlier, and by that time, the Computer Technologies lounge had added its third helping of coffee grounds to the maker, resulting in a sludge that only visually resembled the normally bracing brew.

He’d been running down recent references to Jarod for the entire day – and it was beginning to get boring. All of the references he’d read dealt with either speculations about whereabouts or musings about the abilities of the escaped Pretender to have tackled this problem or that. There had even been a statement from Raines to Lyle, threatening the younger man with violence if he harmed Jarod the next time the Pretender landed in Centre control. All in all, there was nothing new – and he was going to have to report to Miss Parker that he’d found nothing…

Wait a moment…

He was staring at a small invoice – a very old transfer invoice for moving genetic material from the vault in Biogenics to somewhere in Alaska. The file came with an attached memo window that linked this invoice to another that, upon investigation, showed the same material had been moved to somewhere in Montana about six years earlier. Broots scratched his head as he studied the reference numbers on the genetic material vials that had been moved and wondered why a search for Jarod would have brought up THIS – until it hit him. THESE were the numbers that he and Sydney had discovered pertained to Jarod’s genetic material – material that Sydney hadn’t ever realized had been collected from his protégé – that had resulted in Gemini. All information regarding the Pretender Project had been included in the Boolean search criteria he’d given the mainframe – including the bio-storage referral numbers.

Oh man!

Broots read both transfer document very carefully, and then did a search of the mainframe for memos originating with Mr. Raines within a week’s date before and after the date on the most recent invoice. He’d read fourteen memos before he found the one he was looking for – and then he printed both the memo and the invoice. Paper in hand, he was about to bolt for Miss Parker’s office, knowing she’d want to see this right away – when he threw the door of his office open to discover both Sydney and Sam standing, preparing to knock.

“Just the man we wanted to see,” Sam stated firmly, moving forward as if invited.

“I need to get this to…”

“Broots.” Sydney’s soft accent in such a firm tone told him he wasn’t going to get away as quickly as he wanted. “We have to talk to you.”

“Can’t it wait?” the tech sputtered. “I just found…” Man! What about when Sydney found out… “Syd…”

“Sit down,” Sam told him in no uncertain terms. “What you have will have to wait a bit.”

Broots knew, as both men pressed inexorably through his door, that he was trapped. He stepped backwards, found his chair with the back of his knees, and sat down again, folding the papers in half and then in thirds as if to mail them. “What?”

“You sent me to talk to Sam,” Sydney explained patiently, making Broots blush slightly.

“Yeah, well…” He glanced up at the sweeper and was gratified to see that the man wasn’t angry. “Sorry, Sam.”

“And Sam told me quite a story,” Sydney continued, pulling Broots’ attention to him again. “I have agreed that you need to hear it – so that you’ll know what’s going on.”

Broots looked back up at Sam in assessment this time. The man still looked as if the only thing keeping him awake was the amount of caffeine in his system – but he at least looked groomed and in control of his wits. “What story?”

Sam leaned forward, his blue eyes glittering with intensity. “You remember the anniversary celebration a few weeks ago?”

Broots rolled his eyes. “Do I?! I had to rent a tuxedo for the thing, remember? A whole seventy-five dollars just to look like a pengui…”

“I heard something that night – that there is going to be an attempt to take the Centre down permanently, and take out Miss Parker if she even begins to think about digging in the wrong place and uncover it.” Sam straightened and leaned his backside against the right front corner of Broots’ desk. “It seems that the folks in charge of this little adventure feel that she’s the biggest threat the Centre can mount against them – and that taking her out before taking out the Centre itself is a reasonable option.”

“T… take her out?”

“Kill her, Broots,” Sydney explained patiently. “Sam’s been trying to keep an eye on all the avenues of investigation that have sprung up recently, in order to minimize that threat, but…”

“You think O'Brien’s death is part of this?” Broots asked, his mind making a leap of logic.

Sam nodded slowly. “I have a sneaky suspicion it is – especially since Miss Parker’s brother has been…”

Broots gaped. “Someone threatened Evan?”

“Not threatened – not directly, at any rate,” Sam answered grimly. “Just let Miss Parker know that all was not right in the world where he was concerned.”

The computer tech looked back and forth from one man to another. “And…”

Sam dropped his intense look and reverted to a rather careworn expression. “So I’ve been watching her house at night – just in case…”

Broots’ eyes widened. “And THAT’S why you look like something the cat dragged in – I get it now!”

Sydney sighed. “That isn’t all of it, Broots. We need you to help us keep this from Miss Parker – for her own good…”

The balding head was shaking vehemently. “C’mon Sydney, you know better than that. How can Miss Parker defend herself if we deliberately keep her in the dark?”

The old psychiatrist now leaned forward. “It’s life and death, Broots – HER life and death. I want her to survive this latest crisis – don’t you?”

Broots face mirrored his shock, and then his slowly fading into thoughtful consideration. “Sydney – you know her as well as anybody here. If we do this – IF, that is,” he raised a warning finger that showed that he wasn’t convinced yet, “...what will she do when she finally finds out what we’ve done?”

Sam sniffed. “Probably tear us all limb from limb,” he offered darkly. “And then she’ll start to get really nasty.”

“At least she’d be alive to do it!” Sydney snapped. “I thought this was what you wanted!”

“I do!” Sam protested. “I just have no illusions…”

“And just how do you two intend to keep her from figuring out that we’re blind-siding her?” Broots asked, his tone sarcastic.

Now it was Sydney’s turn to sag. “We haven’t quite figured that out yet, but…”

“And what do we intend to do about the investigation that we’re running now? She’s going to know something’s up if we just suddenly stop thinking about O'Brien or those fake receipts...”

Sydney shrugged. “We’re going to have to come up with some way to distract her – God help me, right now I wish Jarod would pull us off into another futile cross-country jaunt…”

“As if worrying about her brother won’t be distraction enough,” Sam offered.

Broots ran his hand across the sparse and extremely soft stubble that substituted for hair on the top of his head. “You’re sure she’s in danger?” he asked a little more softly and insecurely.

“The men I heard talking were very open about the kind of consequences for looking in the wrong direction,” Sam assured him tiredly.

“Any ideas who they were?”

Sam shook his head sadly. “I’m working on it – I’m fairly sure one of them had to be one of the “friends and colleagues” invited in from the outside. The other I’m pretty sure works here – somewhere…”

“That’s not good…”

“From the sounds of the way they were talking, the Centre’s on its last legs – and they’re just biding time until it falls in, although they’re helping the process along as much as they can.” Sam sighed. “But I don’t really give a damn about the Centre – a job is a job is a job. It’s the people I worry about – and Miss Parker…”

Broots put up a hand. “You don’t have to convince me, Sam. I’m in.”

“Thank God!” Sydney relaxed visibly.

“So… what do we do?”

Sam glanced at Sydney. “Well, for one thing, you and the Doc here get to take turns doing the midnight watch now – so I can rest and be able to protect her better again…”

Broots sighed and nodded. “That will be fun explaining to Debbie…”

Sydney shook his head. “Better she not know anything, Broots. The less people know, the safer for Miss Parker.”

“I’ll have to tell her SOMEthing…”

“You’ll figure something out,” Sam announced with a confidence he wasn’t sure he felt.

Broots rolled his eyes and shrugged his shoulders. “Thanks a lot, guys…” He then looked hard at Sam. “So we’re going to continue her investigation – just keep her from some of the more… explosive… results?”

“We’re going to try,” Sydney nodded.

“And you say we’re going to need a distraction?”

Sam nodded. “Although for the life of me…”

“I’ve got it.” Broots unfolded the papers that had remained tightly clutched in his hand. “Take a look at this.”

Sam took the papers from him, read the top on and then handed it to Sydney while he purrused the other. “So DNA was moved from Blue Cove to Alaska and from there to Montana. Big…”

“I found these while doing the mainframe search for references to Jarod,” Broots told his colleagues conspiratorially. “I used every fact I knew about Jarod in the search criteria – including the inventory number of his DNA sample in the Bodily Fluids Vault…”

“These were the samples that were used to make Gemini!” Sydney exclaimed suddenly. “I heard mention of a laboratory in Alaska when I was working with Gemini – before Jarod…”

“Yeah, Sydney, but this invoice doesn’t mention Donoterase at all! Yet the genetic material was forwarded on to Montana…”

Sam looked at Sydney questioningly. “Does the Centre have facilities in Montana?”

Sydney shook his head with wide eyes. “Not that I know of…”

“I think this qualifies as the kind of puzzle that Miss Parker would enjoy unravelling – and one that will keep her away from the wrong kind of questions – don’t you?” Broots pointed out triumphantly.

“When were you going to show her this?” Sydney asked.

“I was just on my way…”

“We’ll come with you,” Sam urged, pulling the slight computer whiz from his seat. “Let’s go.”

~~~~~~~~*

Lyle slowly rose through the darkness that had overwhelmed his mind to find that his body was still screaming in excruciating pain. In fact, he hurt so badly in so many places that his mind couldn’t cope – hopping from one sensation to the other as he remembered the brutality. His left hand was now also missing a thumb, his kneecaps had both been shattered by expertly-administered blows from what was probably the Japanese equivalent of a black-jack, and just the act of breathing moved ribs that were broken and threatened to puncture lungs. He tried to open his eyes but couldn’t, and soon the ache in his face told him that they were most likely swollen shut from the first beating that had taken place only a few hours after he’d landed in Yakuza care.

They were going to kill him, he just knew it. And they were going to do it slowly and as painfully as they could possibly manage without killing him outright first.

He must have uttered an involuntary whimper, for rough hands had hold of his aching jaw and a deep, gravelly voice was barking incomprehensively at him – probably asking him if he was awake. The movement of rough fingers at his face caused another moan that escaped before he could control it.

Another voice sounded – a smoother, more civilized voice that spoke at length. Lyle found himself almost wishing for death as the words rippled over him without any meaning at all. Then…

“Tanaka-sama wishes to tell you that we know who you are – what you are. We know what you have done.”

Lyle moaned again. What could they be talking about?

“Raines-san was very kind to provide information about your tastes in women…”

Oh God!

“Contrary to popular opinion, Yakuza philosophy is very high on principle of honor. But you have no honor, Lyle-san. You are worse than barbarian.”

Lyle couldn’t help the whimper that shuddered through his throat as he felt the first touch at the buttons of his shirt – the waistband of his trousers – as the smooth Japanese voice spoke further, and then was translated.

“Yakuza is also very concerned with justice. So you must know that justice demands that you pay for the actions you have done – with your body, with your sanity, and finally with your life. And if Karma is true, you will pay in your afterlife too – over and over again.”

Trouser legs slipping roughly over broken knees brought forth a cry – as did a hand with a now-missing thumb dragged roughly through a sleeve. Lyle was systematically and efficiently undressed until he lay on whatever cushion they’d given him as naked as the day he’d been born. There was a silence while he became aware that the room was not at all warm, and he began to shiver – making his worst injuries hurt only that much more. He would have tried to pull himself into a fetal position, but even thinking of moving his legs was more than he could stand.

Finally the voice spoke again – and in a moment, the translator imparted his fate.

“We have thought long and hard about the proper way to administer justice to you, Lyle-san, once Raines-san agreed to the transaction. And we have spared no expense in finding the appropriate individual to be responsible for that. His name is Kinjiro – if you choose to cry out a name. He will be as thorough with you as you have been with any of your… conquests.”

Lyle worked his mouth hard, and finally squawked, “Mercy!” in a hoarse, swollen-lipped whisper.

“In Yakuza justice, there is no mercy, Lyle-san,” the translator said, bending close. “Your betrayal of Tanaka-sama resulted in the death of our esteemed leader – for which you have yet to pay. Your abominable taste for human flesh has made you into a monster. Justice demands that you receive exactly what you have done to others before you enter the afterlife. Know that, like your victims, you too will eventually be released from your pain – although perhaps not quite so quickly or painlessly. After all, you have caused a great deal of pain and dishonor in your time…”

“Nooooooo…” Lyle whimpered as he heard the footsteps move away from where he lay, and then the soft click of a secure door being closed. Worse, he then heard soft footsteps come closer – and then felt a hand land on his side, forcing him to roll over until he was prone.

He had no idea how far his screams would carry as rough hands began to touch him – and the first stroke of an incredibly sharp knife sliced open first one buttock and then the other. But when the cushion dipped with the weight of his attacker and Lyle felt the brush of naked skin on naked skin, his screams went up several octaves. The horror of what awaited him – of the atrocities that would be visited on him just as he’d visited them on others – was almost too much to bear.

Outside the door, two stoic guards simply ignored any evidence of what was happening beyond their post – as they had done many times before. They were elite – chosen for this duty as reward for service to the Yakuza – and it was an honor to be party to the revenge. The man who had been locked inside with the traitor was an expert at drawing out the death experience of those the Yakuza deemed deserved the full exercise of justice – it would be days before they would be called in to clean up the mess. The construction firm preparing to lay the foundation of the new Sumimoto Bank building in downtown San Francisco had been very well paid to wait until its very special cement load was fully ready to be used.

And until then, they could appreciate and enjoy the screams.

~~~~~~~~*

“Is she in?”

Green eyes lifted from the computer screen to look at the three men arrayed in front of the secretary’s desk. “All of you?” she asked in surprise.

“It’s important,” Sydney stated firmly. The implications of the transfer invoice – and the files Broots had subsequently uncovered while he and Sam had watched over his shoulder were immense. So many of the details were missing – but it explained so much. In a way, he was glad now that he no longer had contact with Jarod – this news would devastate his former protégé easy as much, if not worse, than the discovery of the genetic experimentation that had resulted in a clone had years before.

“Miss Parker,” the otherwise mousy secretary was speaking into the receiver, “Doctor Sydney, Mr. Broots and Sam are asking to see you.” She listened, and then hung up. “Go in,” she told them and, with a blink, went back to her typing.

Miss Parker was gazing evenly at the door as the three walked through. “All of you at once?” she asked in some surprise. “What is this, a convention?”

“Miss Parker,” Broots began.

“Don’t tell me – you actually found Jarod in the mainframe?” she quipped, watching the expressions on their faces carefully.

“Not quite,” Broots mumbled – and Sydney winced.

“There’s something you need to see,” Sam announced, deciding to take the lead from the other two. He took the papers from Broots’ hand and walked them up to her desk.

“What’s this?”

“Just read, Parker,” Sydney told her, his accent more obvious as a result of his distress.

“Sydney…”

“Miss Parker,” Broots interrupted. “Please.”

Finally she took the papers from Sam’s outstretched hand and began to read. “What is this?” she asked sarcastically after browsing the first document quickly. “A transfer invoice…”

“Note the location, Miss Parker – as well as the date,” Sydney urged gently.

Finely manicured brows arched high and then slid toward each other as she shook her head. “I’m still not getting it.”

Sydney sighed. “When Broots and I were doing your… genetic background research a few years ago,” he started uncomfortably, knowing how much she hated to be reminded of the apparent relationship between herself and Mr. Raines, “we had to sort through the library of reference numbers. We…”

“These came up as the result of that search of the mainframe you’ve been having me do, Miss Parker – the one where any mention of Jarod…”

Storm-grey eyes rose to meet his, stark and stunned. “This receipt has to do with Jarod?”

“His genetic material, to be exact,” Broots confirmed.

She re-read the headers on the invoice. “This first one is almost eighteen years ago…”

“Look at the next one.”

She moved to the next page. “OK – whatever it was, it was transferred again six years ago to Montana…”

“Did you know we had a facility in Montana, Miss Parker?” Sam asked quietly.

The response was a shrug. “There are a lot of Centre-related facilities and businesses that exist, Sam – unless my attention is called to them specifically, I have no reason to bother with them.” She handed the papers back to Sam with a frown. “Now, are you boys going to tell me why you all came busting in here looking like three of the four horsemen of the Apocolypse, or shall I just start chewing asses…”

“Miss Parker,” Sydney sighed – it was going to fall to him to help her see what was so obvious to the rest of them. “Do you remember about seven years ago, a young man housed in a Centre facility known as Donoterase?”

She nodded. “Gemini – the only successful clone…”

“Are we so sure?” Broots asked challengingly. “Once they had the process perfected, what was to stop them from going ahead and keeping on…”

Miss Parker gaped and then simply shook her head in negation. “Broots, that’s…”

“Obscene?” Sydney supplied the description he’d considered appropriate.

“Ridiculous,” she finished her own sentence, shooting Sydney a sour look. “The Centre told Raines to close down the Pretender Project a long time ago, remember? Do you honestly think he’d risk it all in such an audacious…”

“Since when does Mr. Raines ever let the Triumvirate tell him what to do?” Sydney challenged back. “Especially if he held in his hand the possibility of creating any number of individuals with a similar innate intelligence and genetic predisposition for Pretending – do you honestly think the Triumvirate could keep him from exploring his options?”

“You wanted to see everything to do with Jarod that had been ever been hidden in the mainframe,” Broots reminded her. “Well… Here is something we’ve seen before – just not quite like this…”

“Complete with a mystery facility in Montana that nobody’s ever heard about,” Sam added. “If they’re doing more Pretender training, that could put a fair financial burden on the Centre, don’t you think?”

Miss Parker blinked and ran her fingers through her hair to pull it back from her forehead and away from her face. “You think THIS is the underlying cause of our current expense squeeze?”

“A full SIM Lab, psychiatrists and psychologists on staff, a research library, support and security personnel…” Sydney ticked the items off on his fingers. “In its day, the Pretender Project was not only the most lucrative enterprise the Centre had going, but its greatest expense.”

“What if Jerry O'Brien had tripped over THIS?” Broots suggested with a suspicious gleam in his eye. “Would Raines have killed his own watchdog to keep us from finding out?”

Sydney watched Miss Parker’s face – for all she’d learned to handle information and process it without giving away her thoughts, he’d long since learned to read her like an open book. The idea that there were possibly other clones of Jarod being held prisoner in the Centre bothered – that was certain – and the possibility that it all was connected to her own problems with Raines and his cost-cutting was a bait just too great to ignore. She was hooked.

“OK,” she tapped the papers with her forefinger. “Broots – on top of your keeping going through the mainframe for mention of Jarod, I want to know everything you can dig up about this facility in Montana up to and including what color toilet paper they use in the women’s restrooms.”

The computer tech worked hard not to sigh at the expansion of his current workload, but didn’t quite succeed.

She shot him a withering glare. “Suck it up, Scoobie – balls to the wall time. Sydney,” she whirled on the psychiatrist next, “…dig into the Psychogenics Department’s database – find me personnel that live their lives in Montana rather than here in beautiful coastal Delaware. Sam…” She paused as she studied her personal sweeper. “You OK?”

“I had a rough night,” the dark haired man admitted wryly. “But I saw someone to get a handle on the problem.”

It was enough to satisfy her. “Good – because I want that report about Jerry O'Brien’s activities just before his death on my desk by this time tomorrow – as well as a progress report on following the fraud through the Centre accounting system. We can’t afford for you to fall apart on me, do you understand?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Now get out of here and let me get back to work!” She pointed to the door behind her visitors. “We’ll meet tomorrow morning and share our findings.”

Obediently – and unanimously grateful for her new interest – the three turned to go out the door. None was so far away to miss the explosive “Shit!” that she tried to keep under her breath – and all of them understood where the exclamation came from.

The only question was would it be enough to distract her from other, more dangerous, pursuits?

Chapter Index: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33

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