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"Roman nose? Gold nose ring?"
"Yes. Why?"
Now out on the street, I glanced left and right then ran across the road to my car. "Because Nasia Whitby has just been assassinated in a St. Kilda restaurant."
There was a long silence, then he said, very softly, "Fuck."
"Precisely. I caught the killer - he was a black thing with suckered fingers."
"Spirit lizards, he calls them. The creature would have killed himself."
"He was disintegrating, but I offered him a quick death in exchange for the reason Nasia was killed. Your master is apparently chopping off the limbs to save the head."
"Then he knows the Directorate is closing in."
"But why kill everyone?"
"You don't yet know the location of the other lab. The only people who do know are myself, Nasia, and Rupert."
"Rupert being the man who played Mrs. Hunt?" The man Quinn was currently questioning? "And the man I'd known briefly as Benito Verdi?"
"Yes."
I glanced in the side mirror, then drove out of the parking space and did a quick U-turn in front of the oncoming traffic. Ignoring the ensuing blast of horns, I planted my foot on the accelerator and headed for the city.
"How come you're saying his name now, and not before?"
"My office is psi-shielded, and as an extra precaution, I'm also wearing a psi-shield. He can't get to me here."
"He can still shoot you. Keep away from the fucking windows."
"Riley - you care."
"Of course I care - you're my only source of information."
He chuckled softly. "You're on your way here?"
"Yes."
"I shall tell security to let you in."
"You'd better tell them to be extra vigilant. He's coming after you, Misha."
"I'm safe in this fortress."
"I'm sure there's many a dead man who thought the same."
"They probably didn't have the security layout I have."
But the man in charge probably knew the layout - after all, he apparently had free access to Misha's mind.
"I'll be there in five."
I hung up, then sent Jack another message, asking him to get people to Misha's office building as soon as he could, then concentrated on not crashing the car as I wove in and out of traffic. Misha's office building was at the Paris end of Collins Street. It was one of those gorgeous old buildings that was almost cathedrallike in design, the windows and doors soaring, archlike structures that allowed plenty of light but offered absolutely no protection when it came to bullets. At least modern buildings used plasti-glass, which, while designed primarily to withstand the onslaught of severe storms and flying debris, could also take the force of two gunshots before it shattered. Two shots gave targets time to run or hide.
I parked in a bus zone, grabbed the backpack, then jumped out of the car and ran across the road.
Two stern-faced security men were standing, arms crossed, at the door. "Riley Jensen?" one asked.
