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"Thanks, Chief, I'll damned well try."

Cynthia knew that Ellis had told him to take care of himself.

Whittaker hung the phone up again.

"You were asking?" he said, meeting her eyes.

"Are you afraid?"

"I'll tell you what I'm afraid of," he said seriously, after a pause.

"I'm afraid I'll answer that dumb question the wrong way, and that'll give you your excuse to throw me out of here."

"Are you afraid. Jimmy?" Cynthia asked.

"This is probably the wrong answer, but fuck it. Truth time. No, I'm not.

I'm good at this sort of thing. There's a thrill, Cynthia. It's even better than flying."

She looked at him first in disbelief, then in astonishment when she realized he was telling the truth.

"The wrong answer, I gather?" he asked dryly.

"It wasn't the answer I expected," she said.

"Do I get to stay?"

She felt her face flush. She felt faint. There was a contraction at the base of her stomach.

She forced herself to look at him.

"If you like," she said very softly.

And then, more quickly than she would have thought possible, he erupted from the couch and came to her.

Embarrassed, she averted her face.

His hand came up, and the balls of his fingers touched her cheek and gently turned her face to his. She met his eyes.

His fingers moved down her cheek, and down her neck, and onto her shoulders. He buried his face in her hair. She felt his arms around her, pressing her to him, and then felt his body shudder.

And then he picked her up and carried her into the bedroom.

[THREE]

St. Gertrud's Municipal Prison

There was just barely room enough for the Tatra diesel dump truck to pass through the tunnel to the courtyard of St. Gertrud's. Scrape marks on the granite walls of the tunnel and on the fenders of the truck testified that the drivers didn't always make it through on the first try.

The Tatra pulled into the courtyard and, with a great clashing of gears and bursts of sooty diesel exhaust, backed up to within ten feet of an interior door.

The heavy wooden door opened inward and three guards came out. They were middle-aged men in gray uniforms and black boots. Carrying billy clubs and small.32-caliber automatic pistols in closed-top holsters, two of them took up positions facing each other between the truck and the door. The third, holding a clipboard in gray woolen gloved hands, stood to one side by the door. As the prisoners came out of the door and started to climb onto the truck, he checked their names off on a roster.

The prisoners, of various ages and sizes, wore loose-fitting black duck jackets and trousers over whatever clothing they had been wearing when they were arrested. On their heads were black cotton caps with brims, universally too large. These covered their ears as well as the tops of their heads. There were more than thirty of them, more than the Tatra's dump body could comfortably accommodate sitting down. It was necessary for them to line the three walls of the truck bed (the rear wall of the dump truck was slanted) standing up and hanging on to the wall and each other.

It was just after six in the morning, and they had just been fed. Breakfast had been a hunk of dark bread and a veal, potato, and cabbage soup. It was hearty fare and tasty. The intention of the prison authorities was obviously to provide adequate nutrition for the prisoners. There would be a second meal, bread and lard, and a third at night, always a gulyas (stew). This sometimes had paprika, making the traditional Hungarian stew, and sometimes just chunks of meat floating in a rich broth with potatoes and cabbage.

When all the prisoners had climbed onto the Tatra truck, the guard with t