The Archimedes Effect

doing.”

“Really?”

“It’s a coming thing. Been around for years, started out for rehab on show animals, or dogs entered in athletic competitions—catching Frisbees or agility competitions and the like—and once people started seeing how well it worked, they started bringing in the regular critters who were just ordinary door-blockers, like Sheila.”

“I had no idea.” Thorn shook his head. “And there is one of these places out here in the Georgia boonies?”

“My second cousin runs it,” she said. “She got trained in it out in Raleigh Hills, Oregon, by a woman vet named Helfer, who had flyball dogs. Cousin Louella has enough customers so she keeps busy, even out here.”

“I guess I need to get out more.”

“That’s for sure, Tommy. You are woefully lacking in general knowledge about the world. All those years as a computer geek. I’ll shape you up, though, don’t worry.”

He smiled. “Yes, ma’am.”

They heard the sound of an approaching vehicle. Thorn moved to the window and looked out. An old, dark green Ford pickup truck arrived. A tall and fit-looking black man alighted, reached back into the truck, and collected a large, short-haired, black and tan dog. Thorn didn’t recognize the variety. The man—that would be Marissa’s grandfather, Amos—squatted and set the dog gently onto the ground. She wagged her tail and headed for the front door, favoring her right rear leg.

Marissa said, “Let’s go down and let you meet Grampa and Sheila. If the dog bites you, you and I will have to rethink our relationship.”

Thorn grinned. For a second, Marissa kept her face serious. Just when he was getting worried that she was serious, she cracked a smile. “You’re funny,” he said.

“I am. Try and keep up. Nobody likes a slow white boy, even if you are cute.”

13

New Orleans, Louisiana

Lewis had elected to meet the potential buyer, Mishari Aziz, in New Orleans this time. It was much cooler here than in Miami, downright chilly, temperature maybe forty, with gray skies and a turn-your-head-around wind blowing. Even in the cold, the place smelled damp. When her plane had come in for a landing the first time, a couple days earlier, she’d halfway expected to look down at the swamps surrounding the airport and see dinosaurs lumbering around.

Assuming, of course, that they all hadn’t drowned in the most recent flood. New Orleans was still right in the middle of Hurricane Alley, and a deluge was always lurking to fill the bowl that was the city.

No dinosaurs down there today, either—if you didn’t count Aziz and his hidebound antifemale attitude.

She drove her rented car to the FedEx place at the airport and collected the package she had sent to herself before leaving the District. Back in the rental car, she tore open the box and removed her little gun—an S&W Chief snub-nose in .38 Special. Packing a gun for air travel was still possible, of course, but you had to declare it, and several of the airlines would put a big tag on the suitcase with “GUN” to identify it, and she didn’t need that connection. Plus, there were thieves at the baggage carousel who hung around waiting for such tidbits. People who thought their checked luggage was safe on an airliner were wrong.

She slipped the revolver into her jacket pocket, then fished out the Walther .380 PPK, which she had gift- wrapped to look like a birthday present.

She hadn’t seen Carruth yet, but he was supposed to have gotten to the airport three hours before she arrived, and he was no doubt following her. Playing it cute by staying hidden, but that was the point.

She pulled a cell phone from her belt and thumbed the button for the programmed number.

“At your service, ma’am,” Carruth said.

“Where are you?”

“Other end of the FedEx lot, in the white van with the magnetic sign on the door.”

She looked. Saw the van. The sign on the passenger door said SPEEDY COURIER SERVICE.

“All right, let’s do it.”

“I’m on my way. Give me forty-five minutes’ head start so I can get set up.”

“Go,” she said.

She tried to sound calm, but the truth was, she was nervous. This was where the rubber would meet the road. Up to now, Aziz had been playing it cautious, maybe not as sure of her as to believe she really could deliver the goods. The more he became convinced of that, the more dangerous the game became.

And while it shouldn’t matter, she had embarrassed him in Miami by losing the surveillance team he’d sicced on her. A reasonable, rational man in the game would accept that and move on; of course, a reasonable, rational man wouldn’t want to do what Aziz wanted.

There was a chance that once he believed she could give him the keys to the armory he lusted after, he would think he could just take them instead of paying for them.

She didn’t know how smart he really was and, unfortunately, the only way to find out was to put herself in a somewhat risky position. She didn’t trust the man as far as she could walk on water, but at least she could keep the risk minimal.

Proper planning prevents piss-poor performance. She grinned at the memory. Her father had told her that—but failed to pay attention to his own advice, in the end. Still, as these things went, she had done just about everything she could to set it up properly. She had scouted the location, made the arrangements, gone over it in her head a dozen times. No battle plan ever survived first contact with the enemy, of course, but she was willing to bet she was better prepared than Aziz, who would have been informed of the specific meeting place only about the time Carruth got there.

The meeting was set for Woldenberg Riverfront Park, a twenty-acre green space right on the Mississippi River, near the French Market. There would be tourists there, even in this cold weather—there was something called “The Moonwalk,” which let you hike right down to the edge of the river. You could see the big bridge from there, and the Toulouse Street Wharf. There was an old riverboat ferry moored just up the river. Very public.

New Orleans was not a good town to drive in, at least not down in the French Quarter, that part having been built long before big automobiles were the normal means of transportation. Narrow streets and a lot of traffic made for slow going, and if you had to leave in a hurry, you might find yourself in trouble. Plus there were cameras on every other corner these days—the barely controlled riot that was Mardi Gras came every year, and being able to keep an eye on things, with a filmed record to go along with that, made the local police happier.

There weren’t any cameras where she was to meet Aziz, at least not any official ones. She had checked there, the day before yesterday.

The drive from the airport took a while, but she was in no hurry, and when she finally found a parking place and alighted, it was mid-afternoon. The cold wind blew off the river, which was passing wide at this point.

She carried the wrapped Walther in her gloved left hand, and kept her right hand in her Windbreaker’s pocket, fingers curled around the butt of the Smith & Wesson. The fastest draw, she’d been taught, was to have the gun in your hand when trouble began. If it came to that, she’d be ready.

She spotted the white van as she headed down the path toward the river to the appointed meeting place. A man in that van with a scoped rifle would have a clear field of fire, which was what she wanted.

There was some kind of weedy smell in the air, maybe some dead fish mixed in. Not the same as you’d get at the seashore, no salt in it, but definitely not a pleasant odor. She had her hair tucked under a baseball cap, and her clothes were baggy. From a distance, she might pass for a slightly built man or maybe a teenaged boy.

Aziz was already waiting for her. He was dressed for the weather, wearing a long jacket over wool trousers, a hat with earmuffs, and leather gloves. He still looked cold.

He saw her approaching, and couldn’t stop himself from glancing to his right quickly.

Might as well point that way and announce it: Hey, my backup man is hiding right there. . . .