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  “I might,” Logan hedged.

  “Malik has a notebook. A book so valuable that if his location were known, several agencies and people would do whatever they could to acquire the notebook for themselves.” Again, Seoc’s unjolly smile. “You know this.”

  Logan’s heart picked up speed. Elias had it right. Cold fusion. Son of a bitch. “I’d heard something…” He shrugged, making it look casual.

  “Agha-Yeh Malik would like to give you his notebook, under certain prearranged and ideal conditions.”

  This time, Logan’s heart thudded against his chest. It hurt. “Why?” he asked and his voice rasped.

  “You represent a strong western power. One that will insist on sharing the notebook with its allies.”

  “Balance of power?” Logan’s mind raced, making connections. “That’s why Malik skipped out of Iran. They wouldn’t share with anyone. But we will.” He looked at Seoc. “What about our enemies?”

  “This is a time of peace.” Seoc spread his hands in a grandiose gesture.

  “Bullshit.”

  “I am just the messenger,” Seoc said gently. “Carrying a once-in-a-lifetime message.”

  “Well, you understand that much, at least,” Logan said dryly. He considered. “Why is he doing this? He must have told you why. I’m not going to take altruism, either.”

  “Alt…” Seoc frowned. “I’m sorry?”

  Seoc’s origins were as much of a legend in the intelligence community as his unique neutral status. People from at least six different world powers who were expert in digging up obscure information had failed to learn exactly where Seoc came from. His first name was archaic Scottish, his features slightly Asian, his flesh the olive tones of an Hispanic, his height remarkable and his slender carriage indicative of no nationality or race. Although he spoke nearly perfect English, it wasn’t quite perfect enough and sometimes he tripped over odd words, like now.

  “Malik isn’t doing this for world peace,” Logan interpreted.

  “Ah…no.” Seoc nodded. “He thought you would want to know why, to help establish his genuine intentions. Agha-Yeh Malik is, at this moment, the only person in the world who knows the contents of that notebook. If he gives you the notebook and you pass it along, then he will no longer be the only one to know. He will be able to move freely in the world once more. Well, with more freedom than he has right now, anyway. He will need assistance with relocation once this matter is done.”

  “Because the Iranians will be even more pissed with him after this,” Logan concluded. He realized he was trembling. Nothing that Seoc had said so far was wrong. This really was going to happen, then. “Okay,” he said roughly. “How and where and why me?”

  Seoc blinked. “Why not you? Are you not reliable? A valued representative of the United States?”

  “That and fifty dollars could buy you a decent steak dinner. There’s others like me, thousands of them, even with most of my skills and experience. Lots of ’em live in the States and some of ’em even here in San Francisco. So why me?”

  Seoc spread his hand again. “I do not know. But I do know that Señor Malik was under the impression that you now live in this city.”

  That had been their intention, Logan thought bitterly. Once his tour of duty finished, they had been going to move back to either Galveston or San Francisco and Micky had been lobbying heavily for Frisco. But Micky’s death had changed all that.

  “So, what’s the plan?” Logan asked, suppressing the sigh that wanted to escape.

  “I am entrusted with messages of small vulnerability only. If there is a plan, Agha-Yeh Malik did not share it with me. I would not have allowed him to. But I have been charged with setting up a communications channel once I have your agreement to do so.”

  “Agreed,” Logan growled. “Next?”

  Seoc inclined his head. “We must meet here again in three hours. I will be able to supply you with more direct communications at that time.”

  Logan looked at his watch. Nodded. “Three hours. I’ll be here.”

  Seoc inclined his head again and backed away. It was a surprisingly regal mannerism. With no more words, he turned and walked away. He didn’t look around for observers. He had no need to. With all sides giving Seoc the freedom to come and go as he pleased to pass along his messages, he had no need to watch his back.

  Three hours. “What takes three hours to set up?” Logan complained. There was no answer because he wasn’t wearing an earpiece. Had he been, Elias would no doubt have told him to come in. But the idea of sitting in a dark van—of sitting at all, after all the travelling he’d done, made him shudder. “I’m going to take a long walk and get some breakfast,” he said, dropping his chin so that the lapel pin would pick up his words with crystal clarity. “I’ll check in with you later.” He unclipped the pin and disconnected it with a careful half turn of his thumbnail. Nelson would skin him alive if he broke it. He stuffed the electronic gizmo into his jacket pocket and very deliberately headed in the opposite direct to Seoc, heading almost directly south. The guy deserved that much space, at least.

  But it was going to be a very long three hours.

  Chapter Four

  Sahara stepped out from under an awning onto sun-soaked sidewalk and blinked up at the blazing sun. It was going to be a hot day and that felt all wrong. It should be raining, with thick black clouds overhead.

  She hugged her arms to herself, cold despite the sunlight. She’d have to cross Noriega soon. She could see her store from here.

  Surf Connection was one of a number of small stores lining this part of the block. Most of them catered to the surfing trade, like hers. Some of them served the local residents or the occasional tourist.

  Normally when she saw the palm fronds that lined the awning over her storefront, she felt a swell of pride and comfort. Her apartment was located over the shop, so this was home for her.

  Six months….

  She saw the traffic lights at the intersection ahead turn green and oncoming traffic taking off. She wouldn’t make the intersection in time, so she cut through a pair of cars parked along the sidewalk and jogged over to the median strip. She made the wide concrete divider easily and looked to her right to check for breaks in the steady stream of oncoming cars.

  That was when a powerful hand yanked on her elbow. “Damn it, Micky, I said wait up!” a strong, low male voice growled.

  She was spun around to face the opposite direction. The man with his hand on her arm was taller than her by a good six inches and she wasn’t short.

  She looked up, annoyed by the handling but not yet alarmed. She knew a lot of people in this area and any one of them would jump to help her if she called. “Who the hell are you?” she demanded. The snap in her voice surprised even her. Until that moment, she hadn’t realized how raw Howard’s news had chafed her.

  The man’s Arctic blue eyes drilled into hers. He was completely unmoved by her coldness. “Quit the act, Micky. I’d know you anywhere, even with that strawberry blonde disguise. Did you really think you’d get away with it?”

  She stared at him, now honestly lost for words. He had black hair, which looked like it might have once been cut neatly but needed a trim now. A lock hung over his forehead, shading the astonishing blue eyes, which were glaring at her impatiently. There was a fine, faded scar under his right eye, shaped like an elongated check mark.

  “You’re kidding me,” she said at last. “This close up and I still look like your friend?”

  He blinked and let go of her elbow. He took a step back away from her. “You’re not Micky.”

  Sahara wasn’t sure if he was asking a question or stating the fact but didn’t care much, either. “Bravo, Sherlock.”

  He was wearing a soft, ancient white cotton shirt and faded jeans. She watched him push his hands into the pockets of the jeans, making his shoulders bunch inside the shirt, round and hard.

  He’d tucked his hands away the same way she had, when she had been trying to hide
her reaction to Howard’s bad news only a few moments before.

  The parallel told her that this man was not as cool as she had thought and Sahara’s irritation was instantly gone. She held out a hand to him. “Hey, I’m sorry,” she said softly, feeling like the world’s biggest heel. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “I’m not upset.”

  He’s lying. She knew it as surely as she knew the rips and tides of Ocean Beach. “She was important to you, your friend Micky?”

  This time, the emotion in his eyes was unmistakable. Pure rage. “I hated her,” he said simply.

  “She left you,” Sahara guessed.

  He took another step back away from her and gave a smile that had no humour in it. “She died.”

  Sahara bit back the automatic “I’m sorry” that tried to emerge. She knew the man in front of her wouldn’t appreciate it. But now she was finally able to understand why he had grabbed her arm in the first place. “You thought she had faked her death and was living here on Ocean Beach?”

  “She wanted to live in San Francisco so bad….” He looked up at the sky and gave a wretched laugh, like this was a cosmic joke. “Sorry I grabbed your arm.” He was backing away now and she knew he was going to turn around and leave.

  She held out her hand again. “Don’t go. My store is just over there—let me buy you a cold drink, something to help you—” She chose her phrase carefully. “Back to normal,” she finished.

  He glanced at the row of shop fronts. “Which one?” he asked, with barely a glimmer of curiosity.

  “Surf Connection. The one with the palm leaves, there.”

  He looked and his eyes narrowed. “Surfing store?”

  “Everything but the surfboards. They’re sold next door. If you’re interested, I know the owners. I’ll make sure they do a good deal for you.”

  He smiled and the tiny laugh lines around the corners of his remarkable eyes deepened. She guessed that the smile was a rare thing for him—at least lately. Was that this mysterious Micky’s fault?

  “I don’t surf,” he said. “But thanks.” Another step backward. He’d be gone in a few seconds.

  “Whatever she did, let it go,” Sahara said quickly.

  He paused and studied her. “Move on and enjoy life, huh? Is that part of your surfers’ creed?”

  “It’s common sense,” she said tartly. “You’re hanging on to it. Even I can see that. You keep hanging on to it and it’ll kill you.”

  An expression crossed his face too swiftly for her to analyze but she glimpsed a hint of regret and wry amusement. “You’re more right than you know,” he said, his voice very low. It seemed to curl right through her, to stroke her heart and make it pound.

  She swallowed on a throat gone dry. All the words she might have spoken jammed up in a painful lump.

  He pointed to the sidewalk on the other side of Noriega. “Traffic’s clear,” he said.

  She nodded and stepped over to the other edge of the traffic island.

  His hand on her arm this time was gentle.

  She looked up one last time at the blue eyes staring into hers.

  “Thanks,” he said softly.

  “You’re welcome,” she murmured and crossed the road, digging into her pocket for her keys.

  * * * * *

  Business was brisk, which thrilled Sahara. She hadn’t had a Saturday like this one for a long time. The traffic and the sales made Howard’s forecast of doom hard to believe. As the day progressed, as she scurried to help people wandering around her store and as the man with the blue eyes stole more and more of her idle moments, Howard’s prediction slipped further from her mind.

  The best part of the brisk trade was that a lot of her customers were old friends—the old friends whom Howard had dismissed as freeloaders. She was very glad to see them, especially so early in the summer season. The Ocean Beach classic wasn’t until late August. She had thought that most of her friends were still down in Mexico or over in Hawaii, competing there.

  The best surprise of all was around three p.m. when she had one of her busiest rushes. Sahara slipped a sarong into a plastic bag for her customer—this one a stranger—and came back around the counter to look after the lady with the pitch black hair who she could see just over the top of the incense stand, looking at all the herbal soaps in the corner by the candles. When she got around the stand, Sahara came to a halt, her jaw dropping.

  “Oh my God, Tiffany!”

  Tiffany dropped the soap she was looking at back onto the stack and brushed her hands carefully. “Soaps now, Sahara? Where’s it going to end?”

  Sahara clutched her chest, her heart hammering. “Tiff, you’re early. Honey, I’m so pleased to see you!”

  Tiffany broke into a huge big smile then and held out her arms. “Surprise!”

  They hugged hard, holding onto each other and enjoying the moment. The last time Sahara had seen Tiffany was nearly a year ago, for Tiffany was a world class surfer and followed the global schedule of competitions. When she was in California over summer, she helped Sahara out in the store. It was a custom going back eight years.

  Sahara stepped back and tugged down her tee shirt, looking at her best friend. Tiffany stood and let herself be examined. She was a tall girl, with the athletic build that came from days spent in the water. She wore a denim skirt made out of old jeans and a surfer’s tee shirt that declared seven days without waves makes one week, with the second “e” in “week” crossed out and replaced with an “a”.

  She was lightly suntanned and radiated good health. Her hair was as black as velvet and curled around her nape.

  “You’ve changed your hair again.”

  Tiffany touched it self-consciously. “The salt water just kills it,” she said, “but I do like it this color.”

  Sahara caught a glimpse of glittering metal at Tiffany’s knuckle. She reached for her left hand, her breath catching.

  “No, really? Tyler finally managed to propose to you? Oh, this is fabulous!”

  Tiffany laughed. “I proposed to him, if you want the truth of it. I finally got sick of waiting. Oh, Sahara, it’s so good to be back!” She gave her another hug.

  “So why are you back so early, Tiff? Really? You should be competing in Hawaii around now. Are you injured?”

  “No—”

  “God, pregnant?”

  Tiffany laughed, shaking her head and Sahara felt her stomach drop. Just a little. She tried to tell herself she was way too sensitive right now. It had been a day of high emotion. “What is it?” she asked Tiffany. “You’re holding out on me.”

  Tiffany’s smile faded. “Jesus, how do you do that? It’s like you can read minds.”

  “Why, what is it?” Sahara studied her friend’s face, the way her gaze kept cutting away. The ring. The air of contentedness. “You’re not staying to help me out this summer, are you?” she said, her heart starting to thunder.

  Tiffany tried to smile. Her lips quivered. Then she grimaced. “Jeez, I’m sorry, Sahara. I just can’t. I had to talk and rearrange like crazy just to get here to tell you. The whole summer here…I just can’t, Sah. I just…can’t.” She took a deep breath, let it out. Then just stood there with a miserable look on her face.

  Sahara found herself reaching for Tiffany’s arm. “Hey, it’s okay,” she lied, wanting to wipe away the desolation in her friend’s expression. “You really flew all the way here just to tell me?”

  Tiffany bit her bottom lip. “I figured I owed you that much. I wasn’t going to do it by phone, that’s for sure.” As she spoke, big tears glistened and grew in her eyes, trembled on her lower lashes. One dropped to her shirt and gave the “i” in ‘’without” a second dot.

  “Well, that’s just fine then,” Sahara declared and took a breath. “Dinner tonight then. We’ll catch up all in one evening.”

  Tiffany grimaced again. “I can’t,” she said softly. “I’m on a plane to Britain this afternoon.”

  Sahara couldn’t do anything
else after that except stand and stare at her. “Oh,” she said helplessly. It sounded dumb even to her and she tried again. “I see.” That was even worse. But all she could think about was Howard’s black forecast. Six months. Six months. It wasn’t until this moment that Sahara realized how much she had been counting on Tiffany’s presence over the summer to help bail her out of trouble. And to thumb her nose at Howard’s prediction.

  She could feel her chest constricting, aching with a clamping pain that stole her breath.

  Tiffany bit her lip again. “Hon, don’t look like that. I tried, honestly I did. But Billabong want me in a whole series of contests and public appearances, right across August. And Australia in November. It’s an awesome deal, S’ara. And they want Tyler too. We couldn’t…we couldn’t turn it down.”

  “Of course you couldn’t,” Sahara said stiffly. “I wouldn’t, if it was me.” She tried to breathe and was finally able to draw in fresh air. “Well, can you stay for lunch? Tea? Something?”

  “Anything,” Tiffany said instantly. “Even that disgusting Caro thing you drink instead of coffee, as long as it only takes—” She glanced at the battered waterproof diver’s watch on her wrist. “Eighty minutes.”

  Sahara bit back her response. Her whole summer had just been evaporated down to eighty cramped minutes. Suddenly, the flood of customers seemed like the worst sort of cruel joke. If the trade kept up, she wouldn’t even be able to have a good conversation with her dearest friend in the world.

  She beckoned. “Come on. Caro it is.”

  Tiffany sighed theatrically and dragged her feet behind Sahara as they moved around the racks and display cases to the glass counter, her flip-flops slapping loudly against the painted concrete floor.

  Sahara tried to shrug off the touch of resentment building in her. It wasn’t Tiffany’s fault. But when the cowbell over the front door clanged unmusically as another customer entered, the resentment built even more.