The interior of the Gulfstream G550 corporate jet was custom finished in Italian leather and Brazilian mahogany. Gryphus sat at a glass table gazing out the window at a bloody sunset. Far below, the Pacific Ocean glittered like dragon scales.

He usually celebrated a successful mission with a glass of sparkling Krug. He chose a bottle of mineral water instead. Breaking the paper seal, he popped the ceramic lid and took a long swig, washing down a handful of pills, non-adrenergic stimulants custom-made by company chemists.

Drawing his finger over the platen glass of the table, he lowered the cabin's temperature by two degrees Celsius. Then he tapped at an incoming message. Two surveillance photos materialized just above the glass surface. One showed Peter Barshman ascending the steps of Suzzallo Library on the University of Washington campus. The other showed a young woman, small, sleek, athletic, with short black hair and olive skin. She wore blue jeans and a white blouse—hardly the type to neutralize trained assassins. He zoomed in on her face, beautiful, Hellenic, treacherous. Familiar. Impossible.

Still, the memories flared, that final night in Munich, the last of his youth. He was strolling home with a bag of candy for his baby sister when he smelled the acrid stench. Up went the night sky, tenements flickering with orange hell-light. Down rained the sirens. Rounding the final corner, he sprinted toward a wall of flame. But gloved hands held him back, a feuerwehrmann, a silver-skinned monster with a rectangular mirror instead of a face. The monster spun him around and lifted him up, the candy scattering on the pavement, melting where it lay. He kicked and screamed and beat the monster's breast with his little fists. But it carried him away, the flames forever framed in that little mirror.

Now, a chime announced an imminent message from the cockpit.

"Sir," the copilot said over the intercom. "We're about to begin our descent into Boeing Field. There's an inversion layer down there, so I suggest you strap in for this one. We'll have you on the ground in nineteen minutes."

Gryphus disabled the intercom, typed a series of codes into the table's virtual keyboard, and donned a wireless headset. "This is Factotum," he said into the microphone.

An encrypted voice rumbled in his ear like thunder. "What is the Milky Way?"

"Smoke from earth's altar," answered Gryphus.

"Situation report."

"The target in Melbourne is down. No living first-degree male relatives. But someone tried to warn him, someone on the inside. I have a name. It's . . . Sophea Pha. She appears to be a technician in the gene-sequencing group."

"We'll take care of it at this end." There was a click. "And what about our remaining target in Seattle?"

"There was a complication."

"Elaborate."

"We tracked him to eastern Oregon, then back to Seattle. But by then, I was already in Melbourne."

"So you contracted out."

"Affirmative."

"Do not make that mistake again, not with this assignment. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, sir."

"Go on."

"The target evaded our ground assets."

"By himself?"

Gryphus looked down at the image floating above the glass, that beautiful and treacherous face. "Negative. He had help." He swiped away the images, and tapped a series of commands. "I'm uploading the photos now."

"Received." There was another click, followed by a burst of static. "Find out who she is, and who she works for."

"I may already know," said Gryphus. "I'll update you as soon as I can. Is that all?"

"One more thing. Where exactly in eastern Oregon did you track the target?"

Gryphus fetched the data from the glass console. "Credit card receipts indicate a place called Frenchglen."

"Frenchglen?"

"Does it mean something, sir?"

"Maybe. Before you take him down, find out what he was doing there."

"Yes, sir. I'll be on the ground in fifteen minutes."

A late model European sedan waited for Gryphus at the back of the hangar. He got in, slammed the door, started the motor, and stepped on the gas, tires squealing.

Peter Barshman had a four-hour lead.

At 9:55 p.m., his credit card had been used to withdraw eight hundred dollars from an ATM in Seattle's University District. At 10:22 p.m., the same card was used to purchase a ticket for the overnight bus to San Francisco. However, CCTV footage failed to show Barshman, or anyone remotely resembling him, boarding the bus. Barshman's little ruse was confirmed shortly after midnight, when his card was pinged again at a motel in Sumas, Washington, a mile shy of Canada.

Peter Barshman was running for the border.

At 3:01 a.m., Gryphus rolled into Sumas, a squalid cluster of commercial buildings huddled at the US-Canada border. He parked in an abandoned lot next to the motel and set a briefcase on his lap. Inside was a SIG Sauer P220 pistol equipped with sound suppressor and red laser sight. Donning leather gloves, he holstered the weapon and slipped a little black case into his breast pocket.

He strode into the empty lobby. A clerk sat behind the desk. He was an older man, East-African probably, fattened by an American diet. He looked up from whatever filth he was watching, eyes popping at the SIG Sauer aimed at his chest.

Gryphus lifted a gloved finger to his lips as he pirouetted behind the desk. He leaned close, whispering into the man's ear. "Tell me where Peter Barshman is staying."

The clerk put his hands in the air.

"No, no, no," said Gryphus, gently placing the man's right hand on the computer mouse. "I need a room number. Peter Barshman."

A few shaky clicks brought the answer. "Eight. Ground floor," he quavered

"Make me a key card."

When the clerk had done so, Gryphus pocketed the card and took out a small roll of duct tape and some heavy nylon zip ties. Taping shut the clerk's mouth, he used the zip ties to bind his wrists behind his back. Then he rolled him on his chair into the back room, shutting the door.

Room number eight was dark, the curtains drawn. Gryphus inserted the key card into the slot, and when the light turned green and the solenoid clunked, he turned the handle and pushed inside.

The air was hot and humid, rank with sweat. By the faint light of his laser sight, he could see two people sleeping on the bed beneath a single sheet, their dark hair sprouting out—a man and woman it seemed.

He holstered the SIG Sauer, withdrew the little black case from his breast pocket, and laid it open on the foot of the bed. Inside were four syringes with needles attached. Taking a syringe in each hand, he popped the caps with his thumbs and plunged the needles through the sheet, deep into the sleepers' thighs. They moaned, rolled over, and returned to sleep.

But it was not sleep.

Gryphus strode to the air-conditioning unit and lowered the temperature as far as it would go. Then he flipped on the bedside lamp, his heart quickening. He could only see their hair. The man's was brown and curly, the woman's black and silky.

Taking the sheet in one hand, Gryphus drew his SIG Sauer and aimed where the woman's heart should be, his laser sight trembling. He held his breath, hesitating, the memories flaring up again . . . Munich . . . his little fists beating the breast of a silver-skinned monster . . . his baby sister, his mother, his father.

He ripped back the sheet.

Then he exhaled. Two bodies lay naked and dark against the white mattress cover. He recognized neither of them. The woman was brown-skinned and dumpy, probably Hispanic. The man was lighter-skinned, his beefy shoulders tattooed with Cyrillic script.

The tubocurare was taking full effect now, paralyzing every skeletal muscle in their bodies. If he waited any longer, their respiratory muscles would fail, and they would suffocate. From the black case, he removed a third syringe filled with milky-white liquid, the antidote, neostigmine. He injected the man's deltoid muscle and stepped back.

A few seconds later, the man stirred, first his arms and legs, then the muscles of his face.

Gryphus painted his forehead with the SIG Sauer's laser. "If you want to live, answer every question I ask."

His arms flailed in a feeble attempt to shield his face. "No hurt me. Please," he gasped.

Gryphus reached down, snatched up a dirty pair of jeans, and shook their contents onto the bed. Out fell a wad of twenty-dollar bills, two credit cards, and a driver's license. All belonged to Peter Barshman.

"Where did you get these?"

"I find."

The man's accent was Eastern European, Serbian maybe. Gryphus firmed up his aim. "Answer my question!"

"Bus station. I find in bus station."

"Which bus station? Where?"

"Seattle. Please, take money!"

Gryphus flung the jeans aside. The man was telling the truth. He had found the credit cards and ID in the Seattle bus terminal, right where Peter Barshman dumped them. Kudos. It was back to square one, back to Seattle, the last place Barshman had been seen.

Gryphus turned to leave.

"Please," said the man, trying to wake the woman beside him.

Gryphus took the last syringe of antidote and tossed it casually onto the bed. Then he walked out the door.

A little after sunrise, Gryphus parked the dark-brown delivery truck near the target address in Seattle's University District. He wore the standard uniform of brown cargo shorts, brown short-sleeved shirt, and black work boots. Taking his touchpad and a small package, he hopped down to the sidewalk and hurried toward the alleyway.

He sprang up the steps, rang the bell, and balanced on his toes as he waited. The door opened to a blond white girl wearing a T-shirt and sweatpants, her feet bare, toenails painted electric blue.

"Sign here," said Gryphus, handing over the touchpad.

As she signed, he peered over her shoulder into the apartment's interior. A lone pair of sneakers lay on the floor next to the mat.

"My birthday's coming up," she said, handing back the touchpad.

Gryphus reached into his back pocket and squeezed the dry sponge until the reservoir popped. Icy liquid dribbled over his fingers—fast-acting fentanyl derivative, another gift from the company chemists.

The girl frowned at the package's return address. "Hey," she said, looking up. "I didn't—"

Dropping the touchpad, Gryphus lunged. With one hand he grabbed the back of her head, and with the other, he clamped the soaked sponge to her mouth and nose. She dropped the package, stumbling back into the apartment and tripping over the floor mat. Her back struck the floor with a thud.

Gryphus came down on her chest, knocking the wind from her. With his elbows, he pinned her arms to the floor, rivulets of fentanyl streaming down her cheeks, her muffled screams dying in the cup of his hand. She kicked her legs, but Gryphus had been careful to get his knees between hers. He lifted his body a little, just enough to let her take in a breath. Her eyes went wide, the lids fluttering briefly before she lost consciousness.

Gryphus kicked shut the front door and whipped out a set of nylon zip ties. He was just about to bind the girl's wrists when he paused. Her skin was turning blue. She had stopped breathing.

Damn the company chemists. They had assured him it was the proper dose of fentanyl derivative. He leaned forward and felt the girl's neck for a pulse; it was thready and weak. Hastily, he rolled her on her side and bound her wrists behind her. Who knew how she would react to the naloxone. Taking the bottle from his pocket, he sprayed a dose into her nostril.

Nothing.

Her skin was fading to an ashy gray. He gave her a second dose and felt for a pulse.

She had gone into cardiac arrest.

Cursing, Gryphus stood and looked down at the girl, so pale against the dirty carpet. What a pity. What a waste. There was no chance of reviving her now. Even if he could, nothing useful would remain in her oxygen-starved brain.

He cut the zip ties loose and pocketed them. Then he began searching the apartment. In the kitchen, he found a slice of half-eaten chocolate cake and a sticky fork. A handbag lay on the wobbly table. He fished out a bottle of pills—phenytoin, a powerful anti-seizure medicine. That explained the girl's unfortunate reaction to the fentanyl derivative. He emptied the remaining contents onto the table.

Among the expected items were two cell phones, both powered down. Gryphus took out a small jeweler's lens with a short, blunt pin jutting from to the top. With the pin, he ejected the first phone's SIM card and flipped it over. With the lens, he read the miniscule IMEI number, which he entered into a custom app on his own phone. A moment later, he had the information: the phone belonged to Anna Jankowsky, the dead girl lying on the floor.

The second phone belonged to Peter Barshman. Using the same custom app, Gryphus downloaded the call log. It listed just four incoming calls over the last three days, two from Daniel Barshman and two from an unregistered local number.

Gryphus entered the unregistered number into his phone and held it to his ear. No one answered. But with each ring tone, he thought he heard a second sound, like an echo. It was coming from the living room.

He rushed over and cocked his head at the couch. Something was buzzing from beneath the cushions.

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