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worried about: something that you did on your own to keep the nation’s secrets from falling into unfriendly hands. If you did go to jail for a while—what would you get for an unsuccessful burglary, six months?—if that did happen, there would be a magnificent bonus at the end of the time.”
    “How much?” Hart asked bluntly.
    “Say, two million a year, prorated for lesser amounts of time,” Corbeil said.
    Hart looked at Benson, then turned back to Corbeil.“So we look at her house. Actually, there’s an opportunity coming up.”
    Corbeil’s eyebrows went up, and when Hart explained, Corbeil smiled with pleasure. “I so like working with you, William,” he said.
    B enson spoke up for the first time. “You know what I don’t like, Mr. Corbeil? I think we’re really okay with this Morrison character, and his sister. I don’t think he sent anything. We caught on too quick, and he was relying on Lighter to take care of the problem. But what I see . . .”
    Corbeil was made impatient by the preface: “Yes?”
    “I’m worried about Woods. Ever since Morrison was killed, he’s been walking around with this doggy face. I think he knows something happened. They used to hang out a little.”
    Corbeil nodded, and said, “All right, Les. That’s a legitimate concern. You know Tom Woods is a friend of mine, an old confidant who came over with me from the factory. And a mathematical genius, to boot.”
    “I know that, sir, but . . .”
    Corbeil raised one hand: “If he becomes a problem, I will take care of it. I promise. But we already have two deaths that are too closely connected. A third one, if it becomes necessary to remove Lane Ward, would almost certainly draw attention. If Tom Woods had died in the interim . . . Well.”
    Hart said, “Unless Tom was the architect of it all.”
    Corbeil said, “You took the thought right out of myhead, William. We can perhaps begin to prepare some documents. . . . So: you travel to San Francisco.”
    Hart nodded. “Tomorrow. We’ll call back. After we see what we’ve got, we can make a call on the Ward chick. Take her out or leave her.”
    Corbeil said, “Mmm,” and smiled.

 6 
    T he plane touched down in San Francisco a little after three in the morning, taking a turn out to sea, then landing across the stem of highway lights between the ocean and the bay. When we touched down, a tight wire in my spine suddenly relaxed. Whatever happened now, we could fake it. In Dallas, where the cops could look at us, where they could see the burns, we were in trouble.
    A purely selfish reaction: because Lane hurt. I’d found some Solarcaine in a drugstore, and she’d smeared it on the burns, and she’d taken a half-dozen ibuprofen, though we weren’t sure they’d help much. That was about the best we could do before we left for the airport.
    At the check-in counter, Lane hung back, the shy Little Woman in a long-sleeved blouse, head down, while I handled the tickets. On the plane, she sat on the aisle, and got up twice to go to the bathroom, to lather on more of the Solarcaine.
    “You okay?” I asked after the second trip.
    “I’ll make it,” she said through her teeth.
    “The ibuprofen . . .”
    “Didn’t help much,” she said. “I hope I don’t scar.”
    “It doesn’t look that bad,” I said. “I . . .”
    She held up the bottom side of her arm, and showed me a half-dozen blisters the size of quarters.
    “I’m afraid to lance them, ’cause of infection,” she said.
    “Ah, Jesus . . .”
    Halfway through the flight, I half-stood and looked around. The woman in the seat in front of Lane was asleep, her mouth hanging open. There was nobody behind us, and the guy across the aisle had spread across two seats, and had his head propped uncomfortably against a window shade.
    “You know,” I said quietly, “the police know we left Dallas this evening and the house burned down before we left. They’re gonna want to talk to