Klaus considered the act of love.

It was extremely hard to ignore.

Eyes squeezed shut, body flat and tense, ears (as far as possible) closed, hands rigidly laid open on the bed, he could not avoid dwelling on what Dorian must be doing to produce the sensations coursing through him now.

He could not bear it. He could not stop it. He had never stopped Eroica from doing whatever he pleased; this was no exception.

It was taking a long time.

Slow stroking reached toward his groin…something warm and dry…something warm and wet…and intermittent. The slowly-unfolding variety of sensation was a surprise, as was the delicacy of touch. It didn’t quite tickle, didn’t quite irritate, but definitely aroused.

He was aroused. He couldn’t have described any of it to himself if he’d tried, other than to remember wordlessly the heat and hardness of being ready for sex.

It must have been quite a few minutes now since the sensitive teasing had begun. It was growing more definite; Klaus could feel slick wetness sliding over and around…down…he couldn’t move to avoid it; there was a hand resting lightly on one hip. It pinned him motionless to the bed.

He took a long, slowly measured breath.

Dorian had brought him here, and he’d stayed. The soft wetness slid about, playfully. It was irresistible, unbearable. He sighed once and opened his eyes.

The golden head bent over his groin, over his absurd crimson erection, lapping at it with an expression of concentration…and pleasure…

He slammed his eyes shut again, and felt—with vivid precision—the slow, lascivious descent of the warm mouth around aching nerve endings. Closing his eyes didn’t stop anything from happening. Klaus opened them again, cautiously, and was shocked anew.

Being so shocked—unable to understand anything—was almost enjoyable.

At that unwelcome realization, Klaus let his head fall back flat and watched the ceiling with unfocused eyes. Dorian did something which intensified the urgency in his lower body. He didn’t care to think what it might be.

It was not impossible. Not at all.

He looked down again, and saw the yellow hair lift again. It was a hand touching him now, warm and firm on him. It felt like before…

He must have moved, for Dorian glanced at his face and the pleased expression faded to a question. It wasn’t a question Klaus could answer, or even ask. His body renewed its demands for attention. Dorian could answer that, and did.

Desperate, Klaus lifted a hand to touch the golden hair, just within reach. He didn’t know if it was a plea to stop or continue, or if it was a plea at all. It was the only voluntary sign he could make.

Dorian looked up again, and this time he slithered up to lie next to Klaus, a hand still working, compelling sensations Klaus could not escape. There was a sound, a hissing in his ear. A whisper.

It meant nothing to him. A moment later, the building storm in his groin took control of his world. Right hand flat on the bed, left tangled in Dorian’s warm hair, Klaus felt sensation crest and spend itself, all at Dorian’s direction.

He supposed it wasn’t really impossible. It hadn’t been impossible before.

He stared at the ceiling until he had convinced himself he was calm and in complete control of his own body. Dorian remained curled warmly around him, but even the slow, sliding disengagement from a now overworked bit of flesh stirred no uncontrollable new furies. It was, he hoped, over.

Dorian moved against him, flung an arm across his chest and buried his face in Klaus’s neck. His wordless murmur sounded sleepy, undemanding… Klaus felt it might be safe to sleep now, though Dorian was not quite still, nuzzling under his ear. It wasn’t uncomfortable. It should be no distraction to a man who was short a night’s sleep and who believed no further danger could threaten him. Klaus let himself sink into a drowse.

Dorian moved again. Sharing a bed was overrated, Klaus thought. He had always found it so. He had no intention of being distracted from his goal, and let the drowse deepen.

Dorian was licking his neck.

It could not be ignored. Klaus drew breath for an indignant question, and found himself being kissed before the second syllable escaped him.

It was warm, lazy, a seduction of senses that should be dormant and exhausted. It tasted of Dorian and it was already going from lazy to lascivious. Klaus moved, intending to separate himself from the encroaching body and mouth. Instead, his left arm seemed to draw Dorian closer.

Dorian murmured again—nothing in particular—and went back to licking his neck. Aside from being totally ridiculous, it felt rather pleasant. Klaus wondered if it would be possible to sleep under these conditions. Besieged, he tried yet again to drowse.

There was a noise. A sound he should respond to.

Klaus sat up, abruptly, spilling Dorian to the silk-sheeted mattress, and heard again the knock at the door.

Dorian’s indignant gasp became a swift series of expressions: frustration, dismay, annoyance, determination, disappointment.

"It’ll be important," he said, almost calmly. "I’d better answer that." He was off the bed a moment later, belting on a flowered robe that was probably in better taste than it looked. Klaus hoped.

"Are you sure?"

"It will be very important," said Dorian. "My staff has its orders."

Klaus thought about that as Dorian disappeared into the outer room. He didn’t really like the conclusions it led to; he didn’t like the whole situation. How did Eroica get him into this?

The bedroom’s furnishings included a rosewood wardrobe with a second robe hung out for use. Mercifully, it was a plain, sedate dark blue, and the Major appropriated it without hesitation. It was, he observed, pristinely new. The cigarettes on the end table were not Dorian’s. He sat, moodily, on a Danish-designed state-of-the-art loveseat and smoked until Dorian might return, thinking.

The act of love…could not be described or predicted. It was not logical. He could not, in conscience, approve of it.

If Dorian had his way, it would happen again.

The door clicked and Dorian strode back into the room, alone but for the embroidered cherry blossoms frothing on black silk. He smiled at Klaus, took a cigarette of his own from a box, lit it and sat on the other half of the loveseat. Klaus did not bother to edge away. "Well?" He jerked his head at the door.

"It was important. I’m afraid I shall have to leave in a few moments, on urgent business. Please stay here as long as you want to."

Klaus didn’t know what he wanted of Eroica. "Your servants know I’m here."

Dorian shrugged. "They could hardly avoid knowing it."

It occurred to the Major that his uniform was lying somewhere in the outer room. "Is there any hope they can be discreet?"

Dorian tsk’d. "They’re my staff…part of Eroica’s team. You can bet they’re bloody discreet."

"I see. So you trust them?"

"Yes. That’s how it is." A smile lit the fair English face as Eroica stubbed out his cigarette. "They’ll do as I say. Don’t worry, Quinquin." He rose, ignoring Klaus’s answering mutter. "I suppose I’d best look respectable."

Klaus lit another cigarette and managed not to look surprised. "How? And why?" Dorian, respectable?

"But not too respectable…" murmured the amused voice in answer, as Dorian threw open mirrored rosewood doors and surveyed the wardrobe’s colorful contents. "The carnation, I think. With the navy." He pulled out neatly arrayed, revoltingly gaudy garments.

Klaus, dazed with unfamiliar languor, could not make himself get up from the seat or even comment on Dorian’s unexpected efficiency in assembling a costume. He could only watch, not really thinking. The wardrobe mirrors reflected the tumbled bed and the smoothly pressed clothing in momentary silence, until Dorian emerged from the steaming bathroom and began to dress.

"What is it you have to do?" asked Klaus, not curious but vaguely aware that he should be. Dorian could be up to something. Dorian was always up to something. Did it matter what?

"Have to see a man about…oh, this and that." The tone was a bit too airy.

"It’s that team of yours. The ones that were away. They’re in trouble," said Klaus, realizing.

"They’re in Customs and Immigration. Under quarantine," said Dorian. "I’ll have to fetch them out."

"Won’t that be difficult?" inquired Klaus. He looked up from the process of lighting another cigarette and winced at the sight of Dorian attired in a modishly-cut suit which barely constrained a blinding pink shirt, accented by an equally pink carnation. He closed his eyes.

"Just expensive," said Dorian, leafing rather idly through a massive stack of paper won, and another of dollars.

"Oh? Oh." Oh. Klaus was sure he’d be happier not knowing too much about it, but a stray thought snagged his attention. "I thought there was a limit to the cash you could carry out of England."

"I hope that’s not a personal question."

"It wasn’t, but now that you mention it…" It would be Klaus’s business if the fool got himself arrested, and possibly NATO business as well. Klaus exhaled smoke and cleared his throat.

"I do have sources of income outside Britain, you know."

Klaus gave a noncommittal grunt. He knew all too well.

"It’s some banking transaction that gets it here, or wherever." Dorian gave a too-casual wave. "Mr. James arranges it." Then he grinned. "Frequently under protest."

"Oh. Where is James?" inquired the Major, idly.

"I gave him permission to go play at the Tokyo Stock Exchange. He’ll probably come back with a few billion yen and some hot stock options. You know James."

"Not really." The Major smoked, and watched Dorian brush his hair. "I’m not surprised the little dishrag isn’t part of your thieving gang."

Dorian raised an eyebrow at him in the mirror. "On occasion he is," he said mildly. "He’s very loyal. He’s also a financial wizard: keeps the accounts in line, makes it all add up. If he were working for himself, he’d be richer than I am."

"How do you know he isn’t?" asked the Major.

"I know James," said the Earl. "I wouldn’t care if he were, but I know he isn’t. Think about Mr. James." He shrugged.

Klaus didn’t even bother to nod. Dorian, colorful and serene, smiled at him and bent to kiss him good-bye, casually but with meaning. Klaus permitted it without conscious decision, surrounded by the rose-scented limbo of Dorian’s bedroom. "Stay here and get some sleep, love," Dorian urged. "You do look tired."

Klaus managed a glare. Before he could speak, Dorian extended a finger to touch his mouth and smiled again when Klaus could not summon an outburst of rage. "Tais-toi, Quinquin. I’ll be back before you know it."

"Quinquin? Is that some despicable French insult?"

Dorian withdrew his finger. "Not quite."

"I can’t stay either. I have duties to go back to this afternoon."

"Oh?"

"I’ll be at the Arts Hall," said the Major neutrally. "While I’m on duty."

* * * * *

When he was able to move, Klaus dressed in the seemingly-deserted suite. He found his clothes creaseless and neatly hung on a clothesrack (which hadn’t been in the sitting room earlier), with a tray of coffee and rolls and an excellent omelet waiting for him, steaming fresh, along with more cigarettes. His brand.

Klaus wondered what he was doing here, and then remembered that his last food had been a cup of cold, gluey coffee at dawn. He ate the meal and left for his own hotel room, two floors down. It was not a penthouse suite, but luxurious enough; he was no more dependent on his NATO salary or living allowance than Dorian was. Perhaps less so. Eroica, on the occasions NATO hired him, was a very expensive specialist. The rest of the time he was merely an expensive nuisance.

Klaus had to use too much of his sleep-deprived consciousness to remain aware of his surroundings on the walk through the Palace of Seoul’s thickly-carpeted halls, so that his remaining thoughts, uncontrolled, speculated on what Eroica’s latest coup, the seduction of a previously-trustworthy Intelligence officer, would cost NATO. He suspected that it would prove no less expensive than Eroica’s usual capers.

Why, Klaus wondered, had he allowed it? It wasn’t as if he liked the man. A memory twitched…the act of love…He hastily slammed a door on it. That couldn’t have anything to do with the case. Nothing whatever. The episode was unaccountable. It made no sense, had no purpose, filled no need. He couldn’t waste time thinking about it. He had a job to do.

His hotel room, its bed unused for the past two days, invited him to sleep, but the tiny red light on the telephone signalled a message awaiting him. He couldn’t rest yet. Klaus sighed, sat down in weary exhaustion in the Palace of Seoul’s Danish-designed chair and punched for a replay, grateful for state-of-the-art electronics. He didn’t think he could bear a hotel operator at this hour. Was it still morning? He glanced at the clock. Afternoon. What day was it? How long since he’d slept…not counting time spent with Eroica. Had he slept then?

If so, it hadn’t done any good.

The message, from a cautious Mr. A, merely said that his attention was needed for some problem. There was no code-tag for emergency, but Mr. A’s voice was worried. From A, whom Klaus trusted as far as any subordinate, that was significant.

He took a few deep, revivifying breaths, thought about another cup of coffee, lit a cigarette from the pack in his pocket, and punched for Mr. A’s line at the Arts Hall.

"Arts Hall Security." The crisp greeting annoyed Klaus, but at this point anything at all would annoy him; he ignored it.

"Major Eberbach," said Klaus, unnecessarily, but routine was routine. "Checking in for progress reports."

"Yes, sir." A’s relief was obvious. "I’ve had a message that your last delivery failed to connect with the intended recipient. Sorry, sir."

Failed? Klaus jogged his brain into gear. The…Turkish courier. There had been no doubt of the courier’s recognition code. There was something else…

The situation did require immediate attention. How could the exchange in the Tsetse street bar have gone wrong? The Turk had left before Eroica showed up.

"I’ve received new information just recently," added A. "We’ll have to follow it up."

Gerechter Gott. "I’ll have to see you about it," said Klaus. "Will an hour from now be soon enough?"

Mr. A’s tone went totally neutral. "Yes, sir. I’ll expect you then."

"Do so. Eberbach off." What A meant, was that the matter might…he was beyond second-guessing his subordinate; if the matter were so urgent, the agent would have insisted. Klaus all but fell onto the bed for a carefully rationed nap.

* * * * *

Mr. A in person was more informative and less reassuring. "Ambassador Ulkut has become perturbed, sir. He has called several times wishing to speak to the courier in charge of the delivery."

Ulkut, until now, had been Mr. A’s problem; the Major’s job was moving a packet from point A to point B. If point B had suddenly shifted ground, the Major would have to shift with it or know the reason why. He was responsible for the transfer. "Will he come to a secure area for a personal meeting?" demanded Klaus.

"He will refuse," said Mr. A. "Then he’ll change his mind. Then he’ll change his mind again, and after that he’ll arrive half an hour late. Do you want to use the interview room on this floor?" The Arts Hall had not been an idle choice of venue; anyone in Seoul could visit it without exciting comment.

"You’ve talked to him." Mr. A nodded, sighing. "What does he say is the problem, what does he think is the problem, and what do you think is the problem?"

Mr. A grinned briefly. "His problem is that he didn’t receive the packet. He thinks it’s because we’re double-crossing him. I think he’s a paranoid idiot. Sir."

The Ambassador had received…no, his mistress had…if he could believe Eroica. Could he? What evidence did he have? The Major wished he’d had more sleep. "Ulkut may be an idiot, but do you trust him? To stay bought, as they say? A Turkish man with the right password did take the packet."

"Up until this delivery," said Mr. A carefully, "he’s been quite straightforward. You might call him a one-track mind."

Klaus laughed in a bark. "You don’t think he’s smart enough to double-cross NATO."

"Not and get away with it, sir."

"All right. What about the courier? And are you aware that the Ambassador has a mistress?"

"Yes, sir," said A, straight-faced. "Katya Delannes. French-born of Italian ancestry." He coughed. "She’s well-known in some circles as, er, companion of high-ranking officials. She’s been with the Ambassador for two years or so. She’s 30 years old, looks younger and," he coughed again, "apt for the role."

"Meaning?" snapped the Major.

"Gorgeous, sir. There’s a photo of her, if you want to see."

"Not unless it’s necessary."

"Eh, no, sir."

"And?"

"Sir?"

"You coughed twice. What did you mean the first time?"

"Oh, yes. She’s supposed to be the illegitimate daughter of a prominent Roman cleric. Hearsay, of course…"

"Skip the nonsense. Is she in the Ambassador’s confidence?"

"She’s his mistress," said A patiently.

"Does she have access to his papers? Or his couriers?"

"It’s possible."

"I’ll have to talk with this one-track idiot. Will he believe his courier or me?"

"I can’t say, sir."

* * * * *

"I must say, without wishing to cast aspersions upon your character, that I do not believe you understand all the factors," said Ilhan Ulkut in his overprecise English. The Turkish Ambassador to Korea stood slightly taller than Klaus and took pains to sit taller than him as well. They were sitting now, secure in a sterile and electronic-free chamber with a couple of well-padded chairs and a pot of strong, honey-syrupy Turkish coffee. Klaus drank it gladly, syrup or no, and didn’t dare sit back in his chair.

He set down his too-small coffee cup. "I can only repeat that I personally put the packet we speak of into your courier’s hands." The Major wondered if he should bother to keep his temper. Mr. A had been right; the man was an idiot. "What other factors should I take into account?"

"I am sure you repose utmost confidence in my underlings, as I do in yours," said Ulkut. "However, the continuing absence of this one item puzzles me greatly."

"And me," said Klaus, pouring himself another tiny cupful of the muddy coffee after only the briefest glance of inquiry at the Ambassador. "Even the most trustworthy underling may find himself detained, or robbed, through no fault of his own. Did your messenger return safely to you?"

The Ambassador’s eyes moved uncertainly, then he pushed his cup to the Major’s side of the intervening table. "I fear that you may be right, for he has not returned. I am concerned indeed, if you cannot shed light on this mystery."

No wonder the Ambassador was uneasy—if he was being truthful. The Major filled the cup for him and watched him gulp his coffee. Yes, the Ambassador was stewing in a very blockheaded, diplomatic panic. He might not trust the Major, or NATO, but he didn’t know what to do about it. He was, probably, sincere. That made it the Major’s move. And the only move Klaus could think of…

"I share your concern," he said. All the diplomatic politeness was making his sinuses hurt. "I shall do everything in my power to resolve the problem, of course. Have you any…" suspicions "…information about the man which might help us to trace his movements?" Are you even bright enough to suspect your mistress, you inane piece of pomposity?

"I can have his dossier sent to you," said the Ambassador, with no more hesitation than his English required. Was he serious? Or too clever?

"That will be very useful," agreed the Major. "Perhaps you will be good enough to ask your office to inquire of his immediate associates, whether his whereabouts are known to them. It would be less…" Coffee could take one only so far. Disgustingly sweet coffee took one only a little further. Klaus restrained himself from shouting and found the good, equivocating word. "…difficult, less confusing, if he is found in that way."

The Ambassador, looking concerned, nodded agreement.

If a blockhead offered his courier’s file—even, as would no doubt be the case, an abbreviated, open-to-the-public file—without even thinking about it, then he had nothing to hide. If he wasn’t a blockhead, then the courier was meant to be the dupe, and the file provided would incriminate him. If they were lucky, it would be too obvious.

Klaus himself had no difficulty believing his first evaluation, which did not comfort him. Ulkut very likely didn’t know the first thing about his mistress’s desk safe, or his mistress’s plans. The courier was Delannes’ creature, of course. Klaus was vaguely curious as to whether the Embassy’s open file on a sub-assistant junior secretary would mention anything that suggested the connection.

In either case, recovering the document was the obvious, only course of action. Klaus tried not to wince visibly as his heart sank. He kept his voice level:

"I feel sure my office can find…" It wouldn’t do to sound too certain; Ulkut already blamed NATO for his problems. "…some evidence of the reason for his disappearance."

Never mind Ulkut. NATO needed the packet back. The Chief had been most specific: It was to go to Ulkut, whose faction had a suitable use for the information—whatever it was, which was none of Klaus’s business, and none of Eroica’s either—and it was to be kept from any other faction’s representative. Under the circumstances, the Major suspected Katya Delannes of the worst, and he could hardly trust the Ambassador. There was only one thing to be done.

Unfortunately, it required Eroica.

* * * * *

Rigid with lack of sleep and sheer annoyance, the Major stalked his way back to the Palace of Seoul penthouse. No one stopped him as he stalked into the sitting room which smelled so strongly of roses. There were vases of them in the corners of the room; there hadn’t been, earlier.

This time there were bodies on every chair and sofa in the large room. Half a dozen men, whose patent exhaustion could not disguise their universal good looks, sprawled over the exquisite furniture. This, then, was Eroica’s active team. Klaus took some satisfaction in observing that they looked at least as worn out as he felt.

Eroica himself was not immediately to be seen, but a well-remembered drawl floated from a side door, soon followed by the swirling yellow curls and Eroica himself, fresh as ever in his carnation shirtsleeves. "Peters, have you heard from…"

Klaus stood, straight and still, in the middle of the room. "Eroica."

Dorian stopped dead for an instant, then resumed graceful motion. "Major, how nice to see you again so soon. You honor my abode."

"A moment with you. Now." Klaus was uncomfortably aware of curious eyes in the tired faces all around him.

Eroica’s smile grew from welcoming to eager. "Right in here." He stepped toward the bedroom. "Oh, Peters, take care of Bonham’s people."

Half a dozen highly interested faces were, mercifully, closed out by the bedroom door. Eroica turned and waited.

Klaus stayed just inside the door, carefully not leaning against its tempting support. Dorian, with total self-possession, sat down on the bed and leaned back on one arm. "Well?"

"An operation has developed in which you can be useful."

"Oh, yes?" Dorian’s tone invited him.

Klaus tried to ignore it. "An operation for you in your…professional capacity."

Dorian grinned and sat up from the seductive pose. "What a disappointment."

"Dorian." Klaus was too tired to refute the impudence with the scorn it deserved. "Just listen for a moment. You’ve done this once before, so I’m sure you’re able to handle it."

"Repeat myself? How dull."

"The packet you stole from the mistress of the Turkish Ambassador. Did you return it?"

"Of course."

"Can you," said the Major carefully, "retrieve it for me again?"

Only an instant of surprise marred Eroica’s composure. To his credit, he did not comment, question, or show so much as a flicker of recrimination. "Yes." He added, "If it is still there."

"Now?"

"Any time. Now."

"Will you?"

Dorian started to nod, then paused, a light of calculation in his eyes. "For the usual NATO compensation? Can you authorize it?"

An expensive thief. And a professional, in all senses and with unique advantages. As a thief. Klaus stood at parade rest and felt himself lose his temper. "I can," he said in a tired parody of his Iron Klaus shout, "authorize anything I deem necessary for this verdammter operation. Is that clear?"

"But will you?" insisted Dorian gently. "My team, as you have seen, are exhausted, and a job at just this moment will require extra effort from them."

"Not them. Just you."

A corner of Eroica’s mouth curled up but he made no further impertinence. Klaus let it go.

"Professionally," said Eroica, "I am head of a team. Do you want to hire us?"

"This is extortion."

"Just good business," said the lazy voice. "The team does research, preliminary work, backup distractions, all that, even when you don’t see them at the site. They’re essential." He rearranged a curl. "Deal? The one-job fee, plus expenses—that’s all."

"I can authorize your fee. Expenses will be allowed through NATO, as usual. Satisfied?"

The thief smiled, with a hint of twinkle. "I think that will do. No extra conditions this time, Major. Deutschmarks are acceptable."

"Noted." Klaus realized that his best efforts toward fury were producing only a damp sort of growl. "I shall accompany you, to take immediate custody of the packet."

"I didn’t expect anything else." Eroica got up from the bed and stood backlit by the warm glow of the setting sun, reminding Klaus of the last time—two days ago? Only two?—he’d seen the sun set from this window. "I’m ready now, but do you want my professional opinion on the best timing?"

Klaus stayed with his back to the closed door. "Yes." Eroica, damn him, was an expert.

"You’re in no better shape than my people, and I’m sure you’ll want to be awake. Sit down a moment." He went on without waiting for Klaus to refuse. "The job would go better in full darkness. Midnight is best. Would you like to wait here?"

"No." He knew all those curious, suspicious eyes were waiting for him to come back out of the bedroom door. He had to get out of here as soon as possible. "I’ll be in my hotel room. 803."

"I’ll wake you personally," promised the Earl.

The Major could think of no suitable retort for Eroica’s tone, so he merely growled again, executed an about-face and retreated with all his dignity into the penthouse sitting room. The underlings, at least, could be shown that Iron Klaus was still in command.

The sitting room, however, was empty, except for roses and someone’s crumpled jacket draped over the top of an armchair. Klaus growled again and stalked out to find his own room and, if possible, sleep.

* * * * *

A telephone chime brought him out of dreamless, exhausted slumber. "It’s nearly time to go, Major," said the Earl’s cheerful voice, when he picked up the instrument. "I’ll be at your room in a few minutes. Dress for breaking and entering."

The Major said something unprintable in German and returned the receiver, none too gently, to its cradle. Not many minutes later he exited the room to wait for Dorian in the impersonal safety of the corridor.

Eroica was there already, waiting for him. The dark jumpsuit almost succeeded in being unobtrusive, but his hair spoiled the effect. The thief tossed a pair of keys in one hand. "Ready? Good. I’ll drive."

"And where," asked Klaus, "will your indispensable backup team be?"

"Behind us, keeping quiet. If we don’t need them, all the better."

Klaus gave a curt nod and glanced impatiently up and down the corridor.

"This way." As he’d expected, Eroica led the way toward the stairs rather than elevator, then down and down into the parking garage’s anonymous concrete sublevel full of shadows and neatly ranked cars.

Klaus, who had thought he was awake, shook his head irritably when the Earl halted. It didn’t change anything: two gaudy blue, open-topped cars still gleamed at him, perfectly identical and side by side.

"It would be inconvenient to be unable to drive to the Games every other day," said Eroica blandly. "Mere spectators’ vehicles must match the date as even- or odd-numbered. So one has two."

"I see." The two license plates were one digit different. The useful possibilities of the twinned car were obvious to Klaus; he said nothing more.

"This one," said Eroica, "tonight." He opened the passenger door for Klaus.

As they rode out of the garage, two more black-clad men approached the second car and unlocked it. The Major thought he recognized Bonham.

Klaus spent the drive out of Seoul in observation and thought. The second blue car did not follow them, though a third, more sedate, car did. "The black sedan is mine, too," said Eroica, at his third backward glance. "Don’t be so twitchy, Major. I told you my team would be covering me."

"Gut."

"You’re welcome."

They parked in a strategic shadow and Eroica led him to a pretty metal gate, and after a moment swung it open. Silently. No alarms sounded or blinked. "Enter and be welcome, visitor to this house," said the thief.

Klaus gave him a hard look in the dim wash of light from one lamp. "That’s not your right."

"It’s my privilege to welcome you, Major." Eroica’s sidelong glance spoke intimate volumes and his lashes fluttered once, but then he turned and led the way briskly up a paved path that branched and curved through Italianate hedged gardens. It was the work of minutes to open a ground-floor window: Eroica was clearly able to make the security system here do his bidding, as he compelled so much else that was, or should have been, well guarded. Klaus held to silence as his only defense.

The room they entered was an exquisite, but businesslike, study. "Quiet now," said Eroica in an undertone, treading soundlessly toward the huge central desk. "Undoing the safe will be tricky. Keep watch, if you need something to do."

"Is the house occupied?" The Major realized that he had left this crucial detail entirely in Eroica’s care, and was horrified.

"No idea."

"Eroi—!" Klaus chopped off his intense whisper before it rose too high.

Dorian smiled back at him. "You’re so tense. Joke. There’s a caretaker, who lives in the far wing and who is forbidden to use this room. The owner is residing at the Turkish Ambassador’s establishment; she left this house earlier today. Aren’t you glad I have a good research team?"

"Oh." Klaus let his eyes narrow at Eroica’s half-turned head of curls, gold even in the dim torchlight. "How much of that is the truth?"

"Every word. Let’s get on with the job. Quiet, please."

The Major kept quiet. Presently, the desk safe swung open under Dorian’s hands, revealing a stack of papers. Dorian’s breath hissed out; then he ran a thin-gloved finger down the stack, up, and down again slowly. In a flat, still voice, he said, "It’s not here."

"Not…!?"

"I’ve seen this safe twice before. Go through the things here yourself, if you like. Don’t touch the doorframe, but the inner shelves are okay."

Klaus satisfied himself that none of the papers included the manila envelope he remembered too well, and none of the documents in the safe were likely to have been the material contained in it.

"You’ve seen the thing," he hissed at Eroica. "Are you sure it’s missing?" If he couldn’t retrieve the packet…if it went on to the wrong hands…

"None of these are it. Do you want a description now?"

"No," said the Major grimly. Eroica was now his best, and perhaps last, link to the packet, or to what might have happened to it. If he had to keep Eroica available to attest to the packet’s location, then Eroica’s unauthorized knowledge was safest—if such a word could be applied— inside Eroica’s head. "Have you any other ideas on where it might be, here? Anywhere, now?"

Eroica, kneeling beside the safe, looked up at him with wide and entirely serious eyes. "No."

"…then I’ve failed the mission," finished Klaus. He was quite calm. This was disaster. What was the next thing to do? "You say that Delannes was at this house today?" She’d got in ahead of him, that was all. Where was she now? Could he stop her? Who—or what—was she working for? Or with?

"Katya Delannes, yes. I see you have your own sources." Eroica sat back. "Yes, she’d have been able to take it away. Aren’t you missing a possibility?"

"What?"

"I might be lying."

"What about?"

"About where I got the packet. About whether I put it back. I could have given it to someone else instead, couldn’t I?"

Eroica’s head was cocked to one side, watching Klaus, a contemplative smile on his wide, handsome mouth. Klaus felt the floor waver hollowly under his feet for a moment, but only for a moment.

"But you didn’t," he said. "Did you?" It was not a question. Dorian and another conversation in a sunset-lit room flickered through his thoughts. Irrational certainty about only one person had led him to this imbroglio, and the irrational certainty persisted even now.

Dorian was watching him closely. "For someone so bent on total suspicion of your fellow man, you have a curious blind spot."

The Major glared at him, incapable of speech. Dorian smiled back.

"You don’t want me to trust you—but I do, Major. You don’t want to trust me, but…you have. Unfortunately, you’re right. I saw your envelope here and returned it here, and now it’s gone. What are we going to do? I see that it’s very important, to you."

Klaus nodded, a jerk of his head. "To NATO. I have no reason to trust you. I must act on your information in the absence of any better."

"Do you mean I’ve outdistanced all those alphabetical agents of yours?"

"The responsibility is mine, not theirs. Come with me, back to the Arts Hall headquarters. Now."

"Shall I drive?" asked Dorian, holding Klaus’s eyes as he rose and dusted himself off. "I have the car."

END