adjustments are your specialty, gentlemen. Assassination's mine.'
There was a soft knock at the door. For the second time that day, Andre panicked. She was not normally given to that emotion, but her emotions had been strained to the breaking point. Earlier that day, there had been another knock at the door to the apartments and her heart was in her mouth as she answered it. It was only a messenger from the tailor shop, delivering her clothes. She had been able to keep him out of the apartment, but she had been afraid that the boy would still sense that something was amiss. Hunter's body had been lying in the bedroom for two days. There had been no chance to get rid of it, no way of removing it without being discovered. It had been all that she could do to keep the maids out of the room. The lie was that 'Monsieur Laporte' was very ill and could not be disturbed.
For two days, she had been in something like a state of shock. Who had killed him? Why? Nothing had been stolen. Had Hunter enemies in Paris, in this time? If so, why had he not warned her? Or perhaps he had, when he told her to remain in the hotel unless he accompanied her. What had happened? And worse than the shock of finding him dead, worse than not knowing why he had been killed or by whom, was the realization that she was now entirely alone, trapped in an unfamiliar city, in an unfamiliar time, with no way of escape. She literally had no place to go.
Cautiously, her nerves ragged, she went up to the door.
'Who is it?' Her voice seemed shrill to her. She swallowed hard, trying to calm herself.
'Doctor Jacques Benoit,' came the soft reply, 'to see Monsieur Laporte.'
She leaned against the door with relief. It was a name she knew. Jacques Benoit-Jack Bennett-Hunter's friend. The man who was the reason for their journey to this time. Surely, he'd know what to do. She had no one else to turn to. Quickly, she opened the door and pulled him inside.
The old man looked confused. He had come to see an old friend and he now found himself facing an extremely agitated young woman dressed in nothing save her undergarments. His eyes took in the harried look that spoke of little, if any, sleep. He noticed the uncharacteristically short blonde hair, worn in a male fashion, the flushed cheeks, the nervous perspiration on her forehead. Then his professional senses took over and he saw deeper, or rather, he observed more closely. He noticed the woman's bearing, her unusual muscular development, her slightly bowlegged stance that spoke of years spent in the saddle. He saw her hands, which were not the hands of a pampered Parisienne, but the hands of one who worked at hard and possibly brutal labor. The calluses and scars told a tale of violence and survival.
She, in turn, saw a withered, kindly, avuncular old man with gray hair and crow's feet, wrinkled skin, and slightly stooped posture and her heart sank. How could this grandfatherly old man be of any help to her? Then her years of soldiering took over and she saw something else, which the casual observer might miss. His eyes. They were alert, sharp, distressingly blue, and deeply observant. He was taking her measure even as she took his.
'What is it?' said Jack Bennett. 'Where is he?' He spoke in English.
She shut the door quickly, locked it, then jerked her head toward the bedroom. Before he reached the door, the old man knew. The knowledge stopped him in his tracks like a hammerblow.
'Oh, my God,' he said, softly. 'How long?'
'Two days.'
'Sweet Jesus.' He pulled back the sheet and his eyes became filled with pain at the sight. 'It was because of me,' he said, his voice hollow. 'It was all my fault. He couldn't have known.'
'He couldn't have known what?' said Andre.
'He was in the wrong place at the wrong time,' said Bennett. 'And they killed him for it. Because of me.'
'Who killed him? Why? What had you to do with it? Speak, and be quick about it!'
Bennett turned and saw her standing in the door, a rapier in her hand. Under other circumstances, it might have been a comical or maybe even an erotic sight, a striking-looking woman in her underclothing, standing in the doorway to the bedroom with a sword in her right hand. But it was neither funny nor erotic. The soldier in Jack Bennett, though he had not fought in years, knew at once that this woman was extremely dangerous.
'Who are you?' he said, gently.
'Andre de la Croix.'
'You speak English very well, but it's not your native language. And your French, from the little I heard, is less than perfect. Are you underground?'
She frowned for a moment, then remembered. 'That was the purpose for our journey here. Hunter came to seek you out.'
'You're a recent deserter, then. I thought as much.'
'You thought wrong,' she said. 'I was never a part of the armies of the future. I am a Basque whose time is over four hundred years distant.'
'Good Lord. You're a D.P.,' said Bennett, astonished.
'What?'
'A displaced person. And Hunter brought you here to join the underground, to receive an implant?'
She nodded.
'You must be an extraordinary young woman,' Bennett said. 'I can imagine what you must have been going through these past two days.'
'I need your help,' she said.
'You have it. It's the very least that I can do. God. Poor Hunter.'
'Who did this?' Andre said. 'Why was he killed? You say it was on your account?'
'I'm afraid so,' Bennett said. 'It must have been an accident. A horrible misunderstanding. There was no way he could have known. They must have thought that he was someone else. Yes, there could be no other explanation. They-'
'Who?' shouted Andre. 'What kind of misunderstanding could have led to this? What could he not have known? Tell me, this instant!'
Bennett stared at her. 'Yes, I'll tell you. I can't condone it any longer. They've gone too far. I've made a terrible mistake and now my friend of many years has paid for it. I'll tell you, but I don't know what in God's name we can do about it now.'
'Precious little, I'm afraid,' said another voice. Andre saw Bennett's eyes widen even before the man spoke and she was already spinning around to face the threat, but she was too late. She felt a sharp blow to her side and she fell into the bedroom, off balance and carried by the momentum of the kick to land at Bennett's feet. The rapier fell from her hand and clattered to the floor. She lunged for it, but Bennett stopped her.
'Don't!' he said, stepping on the sword with his foot.
'Are you mad?'
'I'd listen to the good doctor if I were you,' the man said. She saw the little tube in his right hand. It was a weapon, one she didn't understand, but she knew what it could do. Hunter had shown her once. A deadly light that could cut through steel. The same light that had burned through the lock on her door could burn through her flesh as easily as a hot knife passing through fresh butter.
'A good thing Adrian decided to keep tabs on you, Doc,' the terrorist said. 'Seems like your commitment's slipping. We can't have that.'
'Let the woman go, Silvera,' Bennett said. 'She doesn't know anything.'
'But you were about to fix that, weren't you?' said Silvera. 'No, you're expendable, Doc, but I'm afraid she's not. I got her partner, but Adrian's going to want this lady alive. We need to find out how many more of them there are, and where they are, and what they know.'
'She's not an agent!' Bennett said.
'You'll have to do better than that, Doc.'
'She's not, I tell you! And neither was he,' he said, pointing at Hunter's body. 'He was a friend of mine! He was in the underground!'
Silvera nodded. 'That's what he kept saying. It makes for a good cover, doesn't it? He was good, I'll give him that. He didn't talk. But I think the lady will. Adrian's a little better at persuasion than I am.'
'Silvera, listen to me! You're making a mistake, I swear it! Kill me, if you must, but let her go. She doesn't know a thing, she's a D.P., she's harmless to you!'
'Then why were you going to tell her everything?' Silvera said. 'If she's not an agent, what good would it have
