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"That's enough for now. She wanted a new ID, and not to carve ten years off her age."
"If you do a bit more math, you see that she would have been exactly the same age as Charlotte Rowan when Apollo headquarters was destroyed."
"I've already done the math, thanks."
"Since I followed your avenue here, I took it a bit farther."
"Farther where?"
"Some may disagree," he said with a long look at her, "but people in intimate relationships generally have some common ground and a general knowledge of each other's ambitions and activities."
Guilt fizzed back into her chest. "Look, Roarke—"
"Shut up, Eve." He said it so pleasantly, she did. "Since it appears Clarissa may have close ties with Rowan and Apollo, I did some back-checking on B. Donald. Nothing in particular there, except for a number of large and perhaps questionable contributions to the Artemis Society."
"Another Greek god?"
"Yes, and Apollo's twin. I doubt we'll find any data on it in the banks. However, looking a generation back, I found that E. Francis Branson, B. D.'s father, contributed large amounts to this same organization. He was also—according to CIA files—briefly an operative. He not only knew James Rowan but worked with him."
"Which closed the link between the Bransons and the Rowans. Branson grew up with Apollo; so did Clarissa. They hooked up and kept heading down the same path. We are loyal." She let out a breath. "Thanks."
"You're welcome. Eve, how much of a risk are you about to take?"
"I'll have backup."
"That wasn't my question."
"Nothing I can't handle. I appreciate the help."
"Any time."
Words, many of them foolish, bubbled into her throat. And Feeney stuck his head in the door. "We have to move, Dallas."
"Yeah, right. I'm there. Time to saddle up," she said with a half smile at Roarke. "See you tonight."
"Take care of what's mine, Lieutenant."
She smiled again as she slipped the 'link away. She knew he hadn't meant the bonds.
• • •
Having backup and a tracker didn't stop her from feeling alone and exposed as she moved through the crushing crowd in Grand Central. She spotted some cops whose faces she knew. Her eyes passed over them, and theirs over hers, without interest.
The speakers droned overhead, announcing incoming and outgoing transports. Flocks of commuters lined the public 'links, calling home, calling lovers, calling their bookies.
Eve strode past them. In the surveillance van two blocks away, Feeney noted her heartbeat was smooth and steady.
She saw the vagrants who'd come in from the cold and would soon be rousted out again by security. Vendors sold the news, on paper, on disc, as well as cheap souvenirs, hot drinks, and cold beer.
She took the stairs rather than the glide and moved down to check point. Lifting her arm as if to push at her hair, she muttered into her wrist unit.
"Leaving main level for check point. No contact yet."
She felt the floor tremble, heard the whining scream as a bullet train tore out of the station.
She stood on the platform, one hand firm on the suitcase, the other in plain view. If they were going to take her out, they would do it here, fast, taking advantage of the crowd waiting for their transport. One takes her out, another snags the case, and they're lost in the confusion.
That's what she would do. Eve thought. That's how she'd play the game.
