Soft Targets

and yawned. Everett noticed the highly developed calf muscles swelling above slender ankles, and remembered something else as she arose. 'You used to have differ­ent hair, didn't you?'

'Still do,' she said, tugging at a brunette curl. 'It's under here. You can pile a lot of hair under a wig.' A throaty laugh: 'I even have a gray one. One of my mannnny dis-guis-es,' she said, without elaboration.

Everett snorted good-naturedly. 'You wouldn't fool a leg man at two hundred paces.'

It seemed that Gina had two laughs; this one was a whoop, unabashed and piercing. She promised to wear knickers with the gray wig and readied herself to leave.

Engels strolled companionably with them toward the closet. 'One thing more, Gina: what sort of martial arts training have you had?'

She broke off a sentence to say, lightly, 'Noth­ing, really, until the past few weeks. I'm going twice a week now—'

'Horseshit. I mean before you met Wallace Conklin.'

Something came into the yellow-green eyes that did not affect the voice or smile. 'I told you. Oh, I picked up a few tricks from a friend in Tempe, back in college.'

Engels was not smiling. 'Horseshit,' he re­peated.

She shrugged, expressionless, and reached for her coat.

'We've both seen videotapes of you taking that kid with the Schmeisser, Gina,' Engels said to break the silence. 'Those were killing techniques; black belt stuff.'

She continued with the coat, calm with her buttons and collar. She reached for her bag, then turned. Her face was still noncommittal, the voice calm and pleasant. 'Wallace Conklin thinks of me as a brilliant opportunist, Mr. Commissioner David Engels. He would not like to think of me as a deadly weapon. Help me keep it that way.' She came to some decision as her shoulders dropped. 'All right. You won't be satisfied until I give you a motive. So.

'When I was fourteen, I was raped. He was a friend of my father's, an old army buddy on a visit. Bob was very macho, very old-shoe. I guess he was what he was all the way through. I knew it would destroy an important friendship with my dad if I said anything. So I didn't say anything. Six months later, Bob came to visit again.' The voice was edged with obsidian now. 'And raped me again.'

'Oh, Christ,' Everett whispered. 'Hey, forget it, I understand why you'd want to gloss over it.'

'You don't understand shit,' said Gina Ver­cours. 'The next morning I started looking for an academy. It made me scrimp and lie about going to the library, but it was worth it. Good of Bob paid us another visit a year later.'

Engels was smiling now, expectant. 'Took him fair and square?'

'I bushwhacked the sonofabitch,' she said, 'after I kissed him, the first time we were alone. He could've taken me or made it a standoff, I know that now. But he had it coming. And he got it, collapsed cheekbone and all. My dad never understood how Bob could've taken such a beat­ing on a little flight of stairs.'

She reached for the outer door, opened it, still speaking to Engels. 'To my knowledge, Bob never came around again. But you can't appreciate—and I didn't want to tell you—how much I enjoyed going through it in my mind twice a week at the academy for the next two years. I still enjoy it. I don't like you very much, you know. I mean you, collectively. Actually you two are okay, and that has affected my judgment. I'm still willing to be your escort if you ever need it, Maury.'

'You mustn't ever lie to me again,' Engels said, making it avuncular.

'And if I ever do, you mustn^'t pick me up on it because it'll be something I figure is none of your Goddamned business. I've done research on you, too. Sorry for the outburst,' she said, raised her free hand in a wave, then pulled the door shut behind her.

For perhaps twenty seconds the two men stood motionless, listening to the long stride as it faded. Then an exchange of sheepish grins. 'So much for the ineffable power of our federal gov­ernment,' Engels grumbled, and swigged his toddy.

'She's her own man, by God,' Everett said. He nodded absently as if testing his phrase and find­ing it apt. They shuffled back to the conversation pit to be near the fire, Engels beginning to chuckle, Everett taking it up. When they had finished, the Engels rasp and the Everett boom still hanging in the air, they made fresh drinks.

'I don't know why that was so funny,' Everett admitted. 'Charlie George's friend Althouse could probably tell me, the little fart is as sharp as a broken bottle.'

Engels gestured toward the blank TV set in one corner. 'All this stuff I'm seeing on terrorists and charlies is his idea, you said?'

A nod. 'But will it have any effect?'

'Oh, it'll have one. Dear God only knows what it'll be in the end, Maury. And old Lasswell might have a guess. What'd he call it when you get some media effect you didn't expect?'

'Latent function,' Everett grunted. 'And when your media brainstorm turns around and chews your ass off, that's dysfunction.' He leaned back on his couch, rubbing his temples. 'Lord, don't I know it! Dave, you think I should get a permit for a gun?'

Shrugging: 'Depends on how much time you'd put in with it. You can't walk around casually holding a blunderbuss; might cause talk. And if you're not reasonably good with it, a concealed piece is murder. Yours. You take Gina Vercours, now—'

'A perfectly appalling idea,' Everett staged a shudder.

'But she goes heeled with Conklin, according to my source. A Beretta in a videotape cassette, which she uses once a week. Like I said: she takes it seriously.'

Everett whistled. 'That lady has more balls than a bowling alley,' he rumbled. 'I like her.'

'That could be a problem.'

'No, I mean I like the idea, because I don't like her. Wait, I'll get it right in a minute. Yeah, Dave, sure I like her, butch or no butch. But better still, I like knowing there's no chance of a personal attachment. Like parts in a machine: we link up, do our jobs, and disengage again. I can dig it.'

Engels studied his mug, his thoughts survey­ing engagements of another day. He had seen some unlikely relationships develop between agents working closely together under pressure. Unrelenting pressure was the lens that gathered and focused emotions to white heat. It could leave permanent scars. So could a Schmeisser. 'Well, you're a big boy, Zebulon Pike,' he said, and drained his mug. 'Are you going to use Vercours for the NAB convention in Reno?'

Everett yawned and banked the fire for the night, talking as he worked. 'I thought about it. No, I guess not. Things haven't come to that point and I really don't think they will. You want to share a room at the Mapes or somewhere?'

'I won't be there,' Engels smiled. 'I'd rather see pornography than hear you drone on about it. And speaking of pornography, how would you rate Vercours's legs on a scale of one to ten?'

'Cut it out, Dave, I need to sleep, not sweat. But how does ten-point-five strike you?'

'That's what I thought,' Engels chuckled, walking toward the guest bedroom. He turned at the doorway. 'Parts in a machine, hm? Sure, you can dig it.' Then David Engels turned in. He knew Everett too well to push it.

WEDNESDAY, 26 NOVEMBER, 1980:

As long as the National Association of Broadcasters wanted to hold a convention during Thanksgiving holidays, Everett admitted, it was nice that Reno was its choice. He wandered among the manufacturer's exhibits in the hotel foyer, grudgingly accepting some responsibility for the presence of so many new security devices. The Oracle Microelectronics display drew his attention briefly before he moved on. You could say what you liked about media men, their self-interest was intelligent. Cassette systems shared display space with microwave alarms. One import drew his admiration: an outgrowth of the English medical Thermovision system, it could display so small a mass of metal as coins in a pocket unless they were at body heat, no more, no less.

A voice behind him said, 'Neat. Any charlie who sneaks his forty-five past that rig will have to carry it as a suppository,' and Everett wheeled to face Rhone Althouse.

Everett's delight was real, though brief. 'It's nice to see somebody I can ask questions of, instead of just answering 'em,' he said.

'I heard your speech on porn,' was the reply, 'and I can't believe you have any answers. Seri­ously, I did want to—well, uh, actually Charlie George, ah—oh, shit.' He cocked his head to one side. 'The fact is, our little Palm