gypsy whose parents died in a fire way back in 1862. Such interesting stories. Very imaginative.
She took another sip of tea.
Wasn't she scared, a young and attractive woman like her, to live in a place like that, all by herself? They all wanted to know.
She smiled pleasantly and then stretched, unintentionally — perhaps — revealing a taut and slender figure beneath a loose tunic that embodied the very essence of everything sleek and sensual.
Scared? No, of course not. Why should she be scared? She laughed. Such a beautiful location, and such a beautiful old house — or it would be once she furnished it. And, as they could all clearly see, it wasn't as if she lived there alone.
The children bobbed their heads, completely entranced by this once barely imaginable fantasy suddenly there among them in the flesh.
The men gulped nervously and made a conscious effort to hold their bladders.
She thanked them for the tea and stood, causing the men to step back hastily and give her — or rather them — plenty of room.
What was it the Sage had said? Very very dangerous.
Jesus God, yes.
What would she do down there all by herself? one of the women asked.
Well, she wasn't sure just yet. Keep the restaurant open, if it wasn't too much trouble, and perhaps hold seances and tell fortunes when she wasn't busy being the local postmistress and speaking her mind about the sorry state of the government.
She was only fluent in two foreign languages, she admitted apologetically, smiling that warm, charming, and seductive smile one last time. But that was all right.
Her cat would provide the third.
The group parted, and the strange and beautiful creature glided away.
She and the sleek, muscular, and terribly dangerous animal that never moved far from her side.
Chapter Seven
At ten-fifteen that Sunday morning, while the uniformly bruised, muddy, and exhausted federal wildlife agents of Bravo and Charlie Teams worked to dismantle the practical exercise props and untangle their emotions, Deputy Special Ops Chief Freddy Moore entered the building assigned to the Fish and Wildlife Service at the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center, walked down the long hallway, and stood in the doorway to the conference room.
'Well?' David Halahan looked up inquisitively.
Freddy Moore handed his boss the instructor evaluation sheets.
'Pretty much what we expected on the individual batteries,' Moore reported as Halahan scanned the pencil- marked pages, 'which isn't that surprising seeing as how we handpicked Charlie Team from the last two agent classes. Youthful enthusiasm coupled with superior endurance, speed, hand-eye skills, reaction times, education, and training. You can see the effects all through the combined event scores. The only agent on Bravo Team who even came close to keeping up with these kids on the skill events was Lightstone on the Hogan's Alley and hand- to-hand drills. And he was damned lucky Wu didn't put him into the infirmary with one of those flying-kick combinations,' Moore concluded reflectively.
'What about the rest of them?'
Freddy Moore glanced at his notes. 'Let's see. Stoner and Riley maxed out on the bench weights as usual, but Stoner lost a lot of time on the agility phase. They both have the upper bodies of a couple of damned gorillas, but Stoner's eyes are getting worse and his lateral mobility's near zero — I think his knees are basically held together with pins and wire. And, speaking of limited movement, Paxton's got so much scar tissue on both arms now, he can't even pass the flight physical to maintain his pilot's license. Fact is, it's about all he can do to hold a pistol steady enough to qualify. Probably ought to retire or deactivate both of them on medicals for their own good. And Takahara's at least six months behind on the latest electronic surveillance and security techniques. He tripped two sensors on one of the entries and never did spot the phone tap in the kitchen.'
Halahan raised an eyebrow.
'How'd that happen?'
His deputy shrugged. 'Not necessarily his fault. The transmitter was molded into the base receiver with its own shielded power source, so there wasn't any line drop. One of our electronic engineers at the forensics lab put it together for us. Takahara had never seen anything like it before — mostly because he missed the last tech-agent in-service class — and there was no way he could've detected it with the gear he had with him during the exercise.'
'Even so, I would've expected him to know about the new technology, and be prepared for the unexpected,' Halahan commented.
'That's pretty much what he said, too, although he wasn't that polite,' Moore agreed. 'And as for Woeshack… well, I'm still of the opinion that he shouldn't be allowed anywhere near any federal government motorized vehicle, much less a goddamned airplane. All things considered, I find it truly amazing that he's still alive.'
'He claims he comes from a long line of Eskimo shamans who provide the necessary spiritual guidance when he flies,' Halahan explained. 'OAS just recertified him, so maybe there's something to it.'
'You mean like Paxton's poor black sharecropper ancestors who used to practice voodoo on the plantation?'
'No, that's pure Paxton bullshit.' Halahan smiled for the first time that morning. 'So what's your take on what happened out there?'
'You mean why does older, slower, half-crippled, and otherwise handicapped Bravo Team take the flag every time, no matter how we stack the deck?' Moore shrugged. 'The obvious, I suppose. They watch out for each other. Play off their obvious strengths. Cover their known weaknesses. Continually adapt to the situation at hand. Refuse to give up. And, of course, they cheat.'
'You mean the septic tank?'
'One of many examples, as I recall.' Moore resisted the urge to chuckle. 'In fact, looking back over the past week, I think the only thing they haven't cheated on is the restriction on live ammo.'
'I thought you said you were going to compensate for the cheating — put more emphasis on the fundamentals?' Halahan reminded him.
'I thought I had.' Moore grinned apologetically. 'Hell, I even designed this last exercise myself, based on some input I got from Boggs.'
'Wilbur Boggs?'
'Yeah. He called a few days ago to bullshit and bat around a couple of ideas for a project. He didn't say so directly, but I got the feeling he's hoping to borrow one of the teams for something he's got going out in Oregon.'
Halahan's eyebrows rose as he recalled the details of the training scenario he'd just witnessed. 'Something involving a congressman?'
'That's the way I read it,' Moore acknowledged. 'Don't you?'
'What did you tell him?' Halahan stopped leafing through the evaluations and observed his deputy expectantly.
'That I'd get back to him later after we finished in-service.'
'Good answer.' Halahan nodded his head approvingly. 'So tell me more about this exercise that Boggs helped you design.'
'Yeah, well, the basic idea was that Lightstone and Paxton would make the contact at the campsite, recognize the congressman and his girlfriend, spot the payoff situation and the illegal dough, then handle the situation in a diplomatic manner that might actually result in a decent case with admissible evidence and a minimum number of follow-up Congressionals.'
'And presumably without getting themselves or their partners killed in the process,' Halahan suggested
