By Anne Fraser and Barbara Zuchegna
With assistance from Sharon Pickrel and Jean Lamb
Copyright 1999

Chapter Six

Mr. Armitrage had managed the Four Seasons Hotel for some years now, with great success. Before taking this position, he had managed similar four-star establishments in Paris and in London, so he was a man who was very much at ease in both his work and his worldview.

The hallmark of a great hotel, Mr. Armitrage believed, was service. The unfortunate realities of the modern world dictated that there were few guests who understood fully what this meant, but that was, in Mr. Armitrage's view, no reason to slack off from what should most certainly be available to the rare guest who appreciated service when he found it. Mr. Plantagenet, whom Mr. Armitrage could well imagine as a direct descendent of the luminaries of that name, was just such a guest. After too many motion picture actors, rock and roll musicians, nouveau riche corporate raiders and politicians, Mr. Armitrage took great personal pleasure from attending to the needs of a true gentleman.

A gentleman did not give orders. He made his wishes known. A gentleman did not press gratuities upon bellmen and waiters. He trusted to the management to allow for these in his accounting. A gentleman did not deal with lower echelon employees for his needs. He discussed these with Mr. Armitrage and expected the staff to be instructed properly for what he wished. It was Mr. Armitrage's particular delight to assure that this would be so. Mr. Plantagenet was a guest who made up for months and even years of submitting the sterling services of the Four Seasons to ... celebrities and tourists.

But on this particular morning, Mr. Plantagenet's wishes had momentarily nonplussed even Mr. Armitrage. He stood before his impatient guest, hesitating only briefly, before finding, in the welter of information stored in his neatly compartmentalized mind, a possible solution to the problem. "I do know a gentleman in Ottawa," he said, "who might well be able to provide what you wish. It may take a small amount of time..."

"Time," Mr. Plantagenet said, not ungraciously, "is a commodity of which I have little to spare."

"I fully understand," Mr. Armitrage assured him, bowing. "I'll attend to the matter immediately, then."

That was at eight o'clock. At nine-thirty, when Jake walked into Richard's suite at the hotel, he found Richard fully immersed in a tableful of books, magazines and newspapers. Richard read, Jake found, as he did everything else ... with great impatience. He stood by the table, coffee cup in hand, turning pages and scanning them with intense concentration, before pushing one book aside to open another.

Jake was a bit disappointed. He had deliberately come late, to demonstrate that when Richard told him to jump he wasn't about to ask "how high." He might jump, but it would be in his own goddamned time. But Richard didn't seem to notice. He waved his hand toward the wheeled cart covered with serving dishes and suggested that Jake get something to eat, or serve himself with coffee, and went back to his reading.

Jake should have known it wasn't going to be that easy. He had no sooner settled at the dining table, his plate full of the exotic goodies from the Four Seasons’ kitchens, when Richard came over, slapped a notebook and a pen in front of him, and said, "You must list everything you will need to safely transport Adrian from here to Iran and back."

Jake stared at him, unsure of what he'd just heard. "Transport ... why would Adrian want to go to Iran?"

"Because that is where his friend ... and yours, I am told, is located. And she has called for his help."

"T'beth?" Jake was having trouble imagining what kind of trouble T'beth might be in that she honestly thought could be helped by Adrian Talbot. Did she expect him to act somebody to death?

Well, that wasn't exactly fair. Jake knew perfectly well that Adrian, when the spirit took him, could be very dangerous indeed. But T'beth gave off an aura of almost overwhelming, and far more dangerous, competence, and Jake had trouble imagining her needing anyone's help.

"She sent a message," Richard explained. "She has asked for Adrian to come, and he cannot go alone. We are going with him."

"We!?!" Jake almost choked on his first sip of coffee. Surely this lunatic wasn't suggesting that Jake was supposed to go flying off to Iran, of all places...

"Jake," Richard said patiently, in a tone that allowed no argument, "I will help Adrian in any way that I can. But you are much more familiar than I with his needs ... and those of T'beth. We will be traveling in rough country, in unsettled lands, and I need to know what we will require in the way of protection for both Adrian and T'beth from the sunlight that can damage or kill them. I am leaving this in your hands, and you must understand that either or both of them may well die if your arrangements are not adequate."

Dammit. Jake was at least entitled to bitch about it for a while, but Richard was already going back to his books. Jake thought about it for a moment. He needn't have bothered. He was gonna take this out of Talbot's hide, but he pretty much had to make sure Talbot still had a hide to take it out of. Sighing, he opened the notebook and picked up the pen. Iran. Rough country. Hmmmm...

At a little after ten o'clock, Mr. Armitrage reappeared, accompanied by an elegantly-dressed man who was introduced to Richard, but not to Jake, as "Mr. Putney, who has the contacts and the information to supply what you wish." Mr. Putney was tall and very thin, and looked like one of those guys in the Schweppes commercials. He did not offer to shake Richard's hand, but inclined his head slightly. He also gave the distinct impression that he had almost clicked his heels. Richard drew him over to the book-covered table and the two of them settled into a discussion Jake couldn't hear ... and didn't particularly want to. Mr. Putney, he noticed, took notes. Half an hour later, he bowed and almost-clicked again, and departed. Richard went back to his books.

Richard sat down with Jake around noon, to go over what Jake had come up with ... and he pointed out a number of problems he foresaw that Jake hadn't thought of. Jake scratched things out and added things. When they came to the matter of costume, Richard's eyebrows had raised a bit, but he understood at once the wisdom of the idea and made no comment.

When the list was finalized, Richard got on the phone to the hotel manager again. A quick conversation followed, after which he turned to Jake and said, "The hotel's car will convey you to suitable establishments where the items we've settled on can be found. Payment arrangements have already been made. You should secure, as well, any personal items you may need for the trip."

Jake gathered he was supposed to go. Richard's expression said he was supposed to go at once. Talbot was gonna hear about this. But Jake went.

When he returned at around three o'clock, there was another man with Richard. He was introduced, briefly, as Mr. Perry. "Mr. Perry," Richard said, "will be going with us. He is aware of Adrian's allergy to sunlight, and will make our travel arrangements accordingly."

Allergy? Well, that was a neat enough description of something that would cause Adrian to fry like a bug on a hotplate. But Jake understood that Richard was warning him that Mr. Perry did not need to know about vampires and other unnecessary details.

"Were you able to acquire all that was needed?" Richard asked.

Jake nodded. "Everything is packed. I saw to it personally." This last had been at Richard's insistence. The best merchants, he said, could make mistakes. They could not afford mistakes, and it was Jake's job to make sure there were none. "The hotel is seeing to having everything sent on to the airport. Except this." He held up a small black case. "This is the stuff Adrian will need before we get there."

"Excellent." Richard went back to his discussions with Mr. Perry, and left Jake to rummage through a new cart from room service. Lunch, even without waiters, was nicely extravagant.

Mr. Perry was a worn-looking guy, forty-ish or so, who had abundant salt-and-pepper hair and a tan George Hamilton would have killed for. His skin was the color of saddle leather, almost, and the hairs of his eyebrows and eyelashes had been bleached to an almost total absence of color. His pale blue eyes were sunk in the kind of wrinkles that came from staring into very bright light for a very long time, and there was a quiet, unexcited competence about him. He had brought with him a briefcase, from which he took, one by one, thick sheaves of documents over which he and Richard pored with subdued conversation Jake wasn't invited to join. At one point, he began spreading out maps he'd pulled from the briefcase, and Richard examined these avidly. From across the room, Jake could make out, on one of them, the shapes of the Indian ocean and the land masses above and to either side of it. Perry was using a pen to trace on this, while Richard watched.

Throughout the afternoon, there were frequent breaks while either Richard or Perry used the telephone. Jake gathered that they were getting a lot done, and both of them seemed satisfied with the way things were going. A light dinner appeared, around six-thirty, followed very shortly by the reappearance of Mr. Putney, accompanied by a small, ancient man who looked like he had just stepped off the boat from some impoverished Eastern European country. He wore thick glasses and peered through them with squinting concentration, and spoke with an accent Jake couldn't identify. "This," Mr. Putney told Richard, "is Saul Eisenberg. He's the best." Eisenberg was carrying a large, soft-sided bag. Putney was carrying a larger, hard-bodied case of some kind.

Richard shook hands with Eisenberg, as did Perry. Jake noticed that Perry and Putney merely nodded to each other, so apparently they were already acquainted. Putney was carrying a large manila envelope, which he opened now and dumped onto the maps. Jake saw folded white papers and smaller, jacketed booklets. The last, he recognized. Canadian passports. Perry and Eisenberg went through these quickly, and nodded with satisfaction, and Eisenberg gathered them up and stuffed them back in the envelope. "There is a place," he said, "where the equipment can be set up?" Richard nodded toward a bedroom, and Putney and Eisenberg headed that way with no more discussion.

Richard came over to Jake. "In a few moments, you will be asked to sit for a photograph," he said. "I would appreciate it if you would cooperate as quickly as possible. Mr. Eisenberg has a great deal of work to do, and little time to do it."

"Richard, are those fake passports he's got?" The idea bothered Jake, who had a perfectly good passport of his own.

Richard's expression was perfectly bland. "It would be best if none of us traveled under our true identities. But the passports are quite real. They are simply ... unsanctioned." He turned and went back to Perry.

Unsanctioned. Jake had to admire it. He didn't think he'd ever heard a nicer term for "illegal."

Within the next hour, both Richard and Jake had submitted to being photographed in the bedroom, and Mr. Eisenberg had developed the prints in the darkroom he had made of a roomy closet. Jake spent a fascinated hour watching the little man write, with an assortment of pens and inks and an incredible variety of pressures and scripts, on the passports and the white papers ... which turned out to be fully-stamped blank authorizations for Pakistani visas. Pakistani? Jake thought about it while he watched Mr. Eisenberg applying odd-smelling chemicals with a fine-haired brush to the documents. Before his eyes, ink faded and paper colored, and the things took on the unmistakable appearance of legitimate and indeterminate age. Nothing looked exactly old; they just no longer looked new.

"Jake." Richard was standing in the doorway. "I think Mr. Eisenberg has had all of your assistance he requires. And there is very little time left. If there is anything you wanted to bring from your home, the hotel car will take you there and bring you back."

Jake glanced at his watch. It was a quarter to eight. He had wanted to be here when Adrian arrived, but Richard was right. If they were leaving tonight, he would have to do a bit of packing. He was, therefore, gone from the suite when Adrian arrived at eight-thirty, as were Putney, Perry, and Eisenberg. Putney's work was done; Perry and Eisenberg had gone ahead to the airport.

"Jake should be here very soon," Richard told him, after Adrian was seated. "He had this outfitted for you earlier today." He handed Adrian the small black bag Jake had brought back from his shopping trip. Adrian looked inside and found an elaborate selection of stage makeup and hair extensions that matched the blue-black of his own hair. "I understand there is a difficulty with photographs," Richard was saying, and Jake assures me that, with this, you will be able to sit for a passport image." Among the other things, Adrian found contact lenses that would cover the entire surface of his eyes. With all of this stuff, he could make the invisible man photograph beautifully. But he was a bit puzzled by the hair extensions.

Not for long. When Jake finally appeared, the first item on his agenda, after yelling, was treating himself to Adrian's reaction to his planned debut as Mrs. Plantagenet. Adrian had known already that he wasn't going to enjoy this trip. Now he was beginning to realize just exactly how much he was going to hate it.

"We are waiting," Richard said, "for a ... friend of mine, who should be here shortly. We can leave for the airport as soon as he arrives."

Richard had gone back to his books, pacing back and forth beside the table on which they were scattered, when the doorknocker was discreetly tapped. "I'll go," Adrian said, since he was closest.

But the woman who was ushered in by the wide-eyed night manager was definitely no "he." Alexis Colby, looking absolutely dazzling in sable and deep blue glitter, swept into the room with a smile of infinite sweetness for Adrian. Richard, standing stock-still now by the table, watched as she blithely loaded Adrian with her outerwear and turned a luminous smile on the entire room. "Well," she said, "would any of you gentlemen care to get a lady a drink?"

Richard came quickly across to her and took her hand in his. Adrian started to make introductions, but Richard cut him off. "I remember the Lady Alexis very well," he said. His eyes had already swept over her from head to foot and were now bent, with particular concentration, on her own. Adrian knew the look. He was a predator, too.

Smiling, he said, "What would you prefer, Alexis? White wine?" He wasn't entirely sure either Alexis or Richard heard him. If Richard's eyes had been hands, Alexis would already be naked.

Maybe, Adrian thought, this trip just might turn out to be entertaining after all.

Alexis smiled as Adrian bowed over her hand and kissed it. Richard rapidly followed suit. She recognized that look in a man's eye! Well, His Grace would just have to wait. Possibly forever. "Why, of course white wine would be nice," she replied. Especially after she noticed the label on the bottle. Catch her turning down Montrachet! She spotted poor Jake, obviously out of his depth and sinking fast; she gave him a swift glance and an eyelash bat just to watch him quiver.

Jake's hand shook just a teensy bit as he poured her drink. There were advantages to being a ghost, or her hand would have shaken just as much accepting it, with Richard watching. "How lovely," she purred, referring to the drink, the room, and its occupants. Adrian Talbot was a dear, but despite his attractiveness he was a great deal too much like her son Stephen -- who could have had any woman in the world he wished, but usually didn't wish -- and she suspected that Talbot's trouble with Toni had been the same one Stephen had had with Sammy Jo.

No, His Grace definitely drew the eyes of any woman who listened to her nose rather than just to her eyes. Dark as Adrian was, and with those damned impossible night-black eyes of his, she quite understood both Liliana and Giulana. If she had been mortal, she might have forgotten her Number One rule as well. No married men or men who are obviously on the rebound from others, she reminded herself.

"And what have we done to deserve the honor of your presence?" Adrian teased. His Grace was still rather silent, though Alexis was quite certain she noticed steam coming out of the former king's ears.

She seated herself and tilted her head back. "Because you need me to come along with you," she said. "I can watch out either night or day, I can change my form when necessary to someone who won't be noticed, I don't use up valuable rations, and I know somebody in that part of the world whose help you will need if you ever want to get over the Pakistan-Afghan border. I know that we should likely have several escape routes, not just one. They'll be looking for us, no doubt, heading either directly west or east, but I also know people currently setting up shop in Baku on the Caspian, where they're talking pipeline. I'd rather not go that way unless we must, but it's nice to have the option if we need it."

Richard was looking rather startled, but Adrian was looking amused. A good combination, she thought.

"And why should a gentle lady such as yourself wish to accompany us?" His Grace, clearly blindsided by her managing style.

"Because it's my fight too," she snapped. "'When Adam delved/and Eve span/Who was then/the Gentleman?'" she quoted. Richard's eyes widened at hearing the Lollard creed. "Just because I'm rich and comfortable I should let my sisters suffer at the hands of these lunatics?" She smiled, thinking of the ColbyCo money putatively going into wildcatting in Mongolia that was actually ending up in the hands of a female regiment being formed and trained to fight against the Taliban. Sammy Jo clearly thought the same way. Of course, any new government in Afghanistan might show some gratitude when it came time for handing out leases and whatnot, or even pipeline easements. Alexis was glad her successor was just as opportunistic and bloody-minded as she was.

"And I am far less vulnerable than any of you, including Adrian," she said. She partially dematerialized, being careful to set her drink down first. "I am a ghost, after all. Thanks to darling Jason and C.C., I also have a great deal more control over my condition than I had before. And with a less idiotic government in Afghanistan, I can concentrate on efforts to clean up that mess in Iran. I have a bit of a personal grudge there, sir, and one that I suspect you would understand. But a lady does not mention those sorts of details to her hosts."

She solidified and took another sip. "You really need me, you know. Who are you going to get to talk to any of the ladies to find T'Beth? Adrian may be wearing a chador, but when it comes to ladies' only situations where such coverings come off, that won't be much help. Even though she may be held captive, someone's got to do the scutwork and in an Islamic country, that someone is quite likely to be female."

Richard came across the room and took a seat facing Alexis Colby. The woman was unsettling, for reasons more fundamental than her ability to fade from sight and reappear, and while he promised himself to explore in future the possibilities that afforded, at the moment, he had been caught by one thing in particular she had said. "You know someone in Pakistan who might facilitate our journey?" he said, watching her closely. Her eyes, he thought, were magnificent, and she had the nose of a duchess...

She batted those eyes at him now, very aware of the effect of her presence. "I know someone just about everywhere, my dear Richard," she purred, smiling with an utter femininity that could not quite hide that this was a woman who thought like a man. "But as it happens, yes ... I do have a ... close contact in the area who might very well do just that."

Richard looked thoughtful. Then he said, "Among the problems still to be solved are the difficulty of transporting Adrian from the plane to the train we must take to continue our journey, once on the ground in that country. Mr. Perry, who will accompany us, has been able to make arrangements that will serve to get us from the train and across the border into Iran. But his contacts are among the Baluchi people of the mountains, and he has been unable to assist in dealing with the Pakistani officials we may encounter on our entry. Is it possible that your ... contact there might do this?"

Alexis gave it a moment's thought. Dex, she was quite sure, would have kept himself informed as to where all the local bodies were buried. And he always, always, availed himself of whatever hidden information on the local bureaucrats might be obtained with a generous outlay of gold. Dex would undoubtedly have a Pakistani politico or two in his pocket by now. She reached out with one beautifully manicured finger to touch, lightly, the back of Richard's hand. "I'm sure," she said, "that can be managed."

He did not draw his hand away. His smile was very self-assured. Adrian, watching all this, wondered which of them was going to pull the first knife.

"In that case," Richard said warmly, "I can think of nothing more delightful than to enjoy your presence on our journey. It will be necessary to arrange travel documents for you, but we will have people on the plane ready to do this."

Alexis laughed, a marvelous, light, crystalline sound intended, and quite able, to cause shivers down the spine of any man. Richard did not bother to pretend that he was impervious. "My dear man," she said, "I can, I assure you, make my own travel arrangements. And it will probably be best if I go on ahead to make quite sure that the ... services you need are in place before your arrival." She set her glass down and stood, and Richard quickly did the same. Adrian did not. He was enjoying just watching.

Richard did not step back, and his body, only inches from hers, blocked Alexis from moving toward the door. She could dematerialize, or wait him out. She decided on the latter. Looking down at her, smiling, Richard said in a very different voice, "I regret, then, that I will not have the opportunity to enjoy your company on the plane."

It was not her company he was thinking of, as Alexis knew very well. She said, "Well, of course, there will be so many more opportunities, won't there?" It wasn't a promise; she didn't make promises she didn't intend to keep. Let him make of it what he chose.

His eyes left very little doubt of what that was. "I look forward," he said, "to them all." But he stepped back, allowing her now to move past him.

Jake was standing closest to the door, and it was fairly obvious that neither Richard nor Adrian was going to jump to get there first. He reached out to open it for her and Alexis sailed past him, hesitating only briefly to pick up her things that Adrian had left on the table there. In the doorway, she turned and smiled back at them all. "Until Pakistan, then, gentlemen," she said sweetly, and left.

Richard turned to look down at a smiling Adrian. "You neglected to mention that the lady would be joining us, my friend," he said without expression.

Adrian's smile was innocence itself. "What would life be without the element of surprise?"

"Predictable," Richard said. "And in this particular case, I find I prefer predictability. Have you any other surprises in store for me?"

"No. And quite honestly, Richard, I wasn't certain Alexis would be joining us. She means well ... and she has quite an astonishing range of contacts."

"Uh ... Richard?" Jake's voice drew their attention to the doorway, where Alexis Colby's slender form had been replaced by something far, far larger. "I think," Jake said, "that the mountain has just come to Mohammed."

"Will!" Richard came quickly across the room to reach up and seize the upper arms of the huge newcomer with obvious affection. "Thank you for coming."

Will Scrope looked embarrassed by his king's enthusiasm. "I'm pleased to see Your Grace looking well," he said. His voice was deep enough to set Jake's teeth vibrating.

Actually, Richard looked tired, and knew it. And he saw the concern in Will's eyes. He had wanted Will along on this trip because he wanted someone he could trust absolutely to care for Adrian during the daylight hours, and he wasn't sure of Jake yet. The downside of having Will along was that he would certainly be trying to care for Richard as well.

"Were you able to accomplish all that I asked?" Richard asked. He had sent extensive instructions with the limousine that picked Will up at the airport almost an hour and a half ago.

Will nodded solemnly. "I saw to the packing myself, and the hotel is seeing to sending everything on ahead. The store manager said to tell you that it was fortunate that you had called so early in the day; there were items requested that he had to send out for, but he managed, in the end, to secure all that you ordered."

"Good." Richard turned and went back to the table where all the books and maps had been spread out. He folded a couple of the maps and picked up several books, which he promptly divided between Jake and Will. "On the plane," he said, "it would be a good idea to familiarize yourselves with the area and the people we will be dealing with. The appropriate passages are marked." He turned toward Adrian. "If you're ready, the car is waiting."

Adrian stood and picked up his bag and the makeup kit. Richard, he noticed, didn't seem to have anything to carry. Very probably, the hotel had taken care of that, too. The hotel, he was beginning to think, would blithely have provided a nuclear war if Richard had made it known that he wanted one. "Lead on, my liege," he said, with a half-bow. "Into the teeth of whatever danger you choose to attack, your loyal troops will bravely follow."

"I think," Richard said sourly, "I am beginning to prefer the vampire to the actor."

But he opened the door himself and walked out, and as Adrian had said, everyone else bravely followed.

Jake Fowler had been to the airport a number of times before, but never like this. The hotel limo had no sooner turned into the drive leading to the main terminal than it was flagged down by several people in airport security uniforms and one who wore a discreetly dark suit. After a brief confab with the chauffeur, inaudible in the back on the limo, the suited individual got into the car beside the chauffeur and started giving directions, talking busily on a cell phone all the while.

They were taken off to an area where there was little or no lighting and through a wide electric gate ... opened only after the suited guy conferred with more security guards. There was even less light in the area this took them into, but from up ahead Jake could see the brilliant lights of one of the runways, so this must be some kind of hangar area. There were certainly enough planes sitting around ... usually of the slightly battered, freighter type.

The plane they came to a stop beside was no freighter. Jake stared at it. When Adrian said Richard had chartered a plane, Jake had something a bit more prosaic in mind. This thing might not have been a 747, but it was no Piper Cub either. On the high tail section, along with the plane's call letters, was the discreetly lettered word, "Interair," which was probably the name of the company that owned the damned thing. It looked, Jake decided, like one of those corporate jets, the kind that ferried whole parties of executives to Bahama hoohaws without their wives. On the tarmac beside it, a crew of five...all male and smartly uniformed, stood waiting. In the open doorway of the plane, Ed Perry appeared and came running lightly down the waiting steps.

Everyone exited the limo. The man who had been giving directions to the chauffeur conferred briefly with Richard and with Ed Perry, examined documents, shook hands all around, and walked away. Richard and Perry talked for a moment with the crew, which quickly ascended the steps and disappeared into the plane. Richard came back over to where Adrian, Jake and Will waited. "Everything is ready," he said. "We can board now. We'll be leaving in a few moments." Perry had already gone back aboard.

The interior of the plane bore out Jake's impression of a very wealthy corporation's favorite toy. It looked more like a lounge than a plane. Seats were not arranged in rows, but scattered about ... individual chairs and couches, and although they were bolted in place and provided with seatbelts, they still looked a hell of a lot more comfortable than any airplane seat Jake had ever seen. Small tables littered the area, adjacent to every seat, and at a quick count, Jake figured the plane could have carried twenty or more people. It left a lot of room to stretch out.

Two of the crewmen were cabin stewards, who were busy getting everyone seated and belted in. The other three had disappeared ... into the cockpit, very likely. Jake saw the old man, Saul Eisenberg, come from the back of the plane, past what was clearly an extensive galley, and allow himself to be strapped into a chair by one of the Stewards. He smiled encouragingly at Jake.

Jake found himself sitting on one of the couches, with Will Scrope taking up most of the rest of the thing and struggling to fit a seatbelt around him. One of the stewards hurried over to help. Richard and Adrian had taken adjoining seats further forward and appeared to be in some sort of deep discussion already over some of the papers Ed Perry had just given Richard. Perry sat off by himself, looking solemnly out a window into the Canadian night. He looked, Jake thought, profoundly bored.

As soon as everyone was secured in place, one of the stewards took a microphone from a wall hook and spoke briefly into it. From outside came the familiar growling whine of jet engines firing up and building to a deafening crescendo. Even within the well-insulated cabin, it was uncomfortably loud. The stewards took seats in the rear and belted themselves in, and a moment later, the plane began to roll.

As soon as they were airborne, Richard was there, bending over Will. "Mr. Eisenberg has set up his equipment in the rear, Will, and will need to take a photograph of you. You will also have to sign some documents for him."

Will nodded, wordlessly, and got up to follow the little Eisenberg toward the rear of the plane. Richard's eyes fell on the books lying unopened beside Jake. "The more you know about the place to which we are going, and about the people among whom we must move," he said, "the less likely you are to make mistakes."

He didn't wait for an answer, but turned and went back to sit beside Adrian. Jake wanted to glare at him. But the cabin steward, offering drinks, was in the way. It didn't seem dignified to crane his neck around the steward to glare. So he took a beer from the offered tray and sulked. Richard was becoming damned annoying. Adrian always had been.

Will came back a little while later, settled serenely into his seat and picked up one of the books. He smiled encouragingly at Jake, who figured he might as well glare at Will, since nobody else was paying any attention to him. Will looked mildly surprised but not at all offended, and opened his book.

Saul Eisenberg reappeared a moment later. "The other one, nu?" he said, and Richard looked pointedly at Adrian.

Jake was gratified to see Adrian heave a very long sigh as he stood up. Carrying the makeup bag, he walked past Eisenberg toward the head, pausing beside Jake for a moment to say, "You'll be gratified to know, I'm sure, that my moment is upon me."

"Think of it," Jake said, "as practice. Just imagine how it will go down when you sashay down Jarvis Street ... or better yet, at your next fling at the Savage Garden."

Adrian's eyes had taken on a definite reddish tinge as he walked away. Will's eyes followed him speculatively. To Jake, he said, "I find it difficult to understand ... to be a friend to a vampire." There was nothing but polite curiosity in his eyes.

"Oh ... well, it has its downside, at that," Jake said. "Can't be all that much more difficult than being friends with a dead king, can it?"

Will thought about it for a moment. "Of course," he said finally, " the King's Grace is not dead, although he was. But I can see that there would be similarities."

If looks could kill...

Jake would have been a draped form on the coroner's table, with a toe tag.

But he had stopped taunting Adrian at least; that one look from Richard had promised mayhem if the teasing continued. So Jake was busy reading up on the Baluchi tribesmen and on Iranian customs while Adrian examined the contents of the black case. He sighed.

"Oh, pray, let me not play a woman," he murmured to himself. "I have a beard coming." Despite the lines from Midsummer Night's Dream, he was not growing a beard, something a vampire could do only with difficulty. But he still had a faint five o'clock shadow. He set about correcting this with a razor, then with depilatory cream. His skilled hands sorted through the various makeup choices, mixing a few, and he began applying them. A line softened here, the cheekbones skillfully altered, the nose a little broadened, the eyebrows thinned. His skin tone darkened. He studied the results critically in the mirror in the head, ignoring easily with four centuries of familiarity the monster's reflection.

Yes, he looked more feminine. It helped to be too beautiful to be really masculine in the first place, he thought with a mental snort. That beauty was a curse ... he shook away the thoughts, leading as they did to an existence of being used for his looks, and picked up the hair extensions. He wove them into his own hair, extending the fall of those raven tresses to halfway down his back. Then the contact lenses ... he fitted those into his eyes, blinking at the unfamiliarity of them. He studied the mirror again, amazed. Jake had done well, there was no hint of red in the reflection. The fangs were still a problem ... ah. There was a mouth guard, a thin plastic shield meant for some sports. Adrian slid it in and it hid the reflection of fangs.

He put everything he hadn't used back into the black case. He'd need it later, no doubt, as well as some of the other things Jake had thought of -- sunscreen, sunglasses, and other protections from the deadly desert sunlight.

He made his way to where Mr. Eisenberg, the trip's forger/photographer, sat on the plane.

"I'm ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille," he announced.

(Norma Desmond never looked like this...)

She was finally getting the hang of this instant transport business, Alexis thought. Karachi, Karachi, where the bleep is Karachi? she wondered as she hovered over the Pakistani landscape from high above, counting the passing satellites as she hung in low orbit.

Ah! That must be it! Of course, it helped that she was able to tap one of the satellites for the proper information. Fortunately the GPS people had a very distinctive logo, and its onboard computer was really quite cooperative.

She floated down to the city. Bustling as ever, she noticed. Alexis kept in 'ghost' mode as she drifted through the streets to the warehouses. Dex often preferred to set up shop in slightly illegal portions of town, and used 'trade' as his cover more often than not. Given that Islamic officials were just as apt to collect 'taxes' as others, this usually meant he was left alone.

She got occasional glances from the more-than-usually psychically gifted, but she suspected that a Westernized woman in the height of fashion was not the sort of ghost they were used to seeing.

Aha! She 'felt' Dex's presence, and that of a rather powerful computer (some of them were ... almost alive, any more) right down this street. She wafted into the building and tripped no alarms save a yowl from a scrawny cat, who purred as soon as Alexis 'petted' it. She entered Dex's office, then waited till her former love was alone.

Dexter 'Michaels' was tall, dark-haired (she did have quite the taste for dark-haired men, now that she looked back), though he was going gray. And why shouldn't he? He was past sixty, too. Once his latest visitor was gone, he peered around, clearly feeling her presence.

She gambled that his heart would stand up to the shock and rematerialized.

"Damn!" he swore, "I hate seeing ghosts!"

"Really, Dex? Even me?"

"Oh hell. I must be going crazy."

"No more than usual," she said tartly. "Why not enjoy it, if you are?" she added in a softer tone, then melted in his arms (well, not literally. She had some sense!).

A few moments later, he came up for air (being a ghost had some advantages, she noticed, kisses could last much longer this way). "Alexis, damn you, just when I think you're dead you pull this on me! What are you up to this time? Why didn't you tell me you were still alive?"

"Oh, darling, you were right the first time. I really am dead," she said with a small sigh. "But I need your help."

"I thought I was finally over you," he said, a dangerous glint coming into his eyes.

"And I thought I was finally over you, too," she replied. A few moments later they both finally came up for air. Or something. "I'd love to spend more time reminiscing, but there really is business," she said apologetically. "I'm involved with a group that needs to extract a hostage from eastern Iran or parts thereabouts. I've been told she's originally nomadic, so she might be held over the border in Afghanistan as well."

His eyes snapped back from dreaminess back into practicality. That's one thing Alexis had always loved about Dex -- he knew when party time needed to be interrupted. "That's a rough one, Alex. Do they have any professionals with them?"

"Mmm, sort of. One of them is skilled in combat and crisis situations. One has some ... unique abilities in nightfighting. One is a devoted outdoorsman, and is probably good at the camp end of things, while one I didn't see but heard described, is twice your size and knows what to do with it. He's been a professional bodyguard, I believe. They've got Perry to advise them – you still remember him from Chechnya, don't you? -- and old Saul for the paper. So they're going first class all the way. Their nightfighter is allergic to sun, so he'll be traveling in a chador. They can get here quite nicely, but they'll need help getting west. I believe they'll be rug merchants this time, and are already obtaining the licenses."

He rocked back and forth on his heels, considering. "I worked with an albino once. How good a shape is yours in physically?"

"Well, he's not really albino, but has some of the same problems in that respect. But he's quite strong and fit. Unusually so, I suspect. You know the old stories about vampires? Well, he gets teased quite a bit that he must be one. You won't know the tactical expert, but once you get a look at him you won't have any doubts, believe me. Not a psycho, but he has left a few bodies behind him. It was one of those 'where he grew up' things."

"IRA or Palestinian?"

"Ummm, more likely IRA, though he's really a Brit. Probably contra-Provo, though he'll deny it, of course. Really, you know that once Saul gets through with him that his paper will be just fine. And I suspect his team will be quite effective. He's using the name Plantagenet."

"Well, if Perry's coming, I owe him a favor anyway. And besides, have you ever know me to deny you anything you wanted?"

Alexis smiled and kissed him again, though in heart she knew he lied. Had she not asked faithfulness of him once?

Then they worked together on scheduling the pickup from the plane, the train tickets, and the other requirements, including a fully-stocked medical kit. Fortunately Perry was known to have some emergency medical training. Dex caviled a moment when Alexis indicated that she was going as a Westernized woman, but he relaxed once she admitted she'd be wearing a chador herself once over the border, and would be dropping the old papers into the loo as soon as possible. Alexis smiled. She didn't really need any of this, but decided not to worry him too much with her ghostly abilities. And all those extra little accounts she'd stashed around the globe would come in handy.

Once business was over, Dex cancelled the rest of his appointments for the day. After all, work was work -- and play was play. Alexis didn't mind. Dex had earned this last farewell.