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A black speeder with the insignia of the Galactic Empire pulled up. Imperial Head of State Jagged Fel was clearly not attempting to hide his appearance. He also was driving his own speeder, and stepped out briskly, his military bearing obvious. His dark head with its distinctive white streak, a continuation of the scar that ran across his face, was bare, but he wore an elegant cloak, scarf, and gloves in concession to the chill of the altitude. He, too, handed his vessel off to a valet, then stood and waited, his breath puffing in the chill air.

A few moments later the little red speeder appeared. Jaina Solo stepped out, smiling at Jag as he assisted her courteously. He kissed her cheek, drew her arm through his, and together they entered the restaurant.

Tyrr followed, keeping a discreet distance. He was certain he had not been observed. But it wouldn’t matter if he had been spotted by the two: As a journalist of repute, he would not arouse suspicion by choosing to dine at this establishment. He lingered as they were led off by the maître d’ and then told the young female Ortolan who approached him, “I’d like to be close to those two.”

He subtly flashed a credcard and winked.

“I’ll get you as close as I can, sir,” she said, taking the card in her large, stubby hands, running it, and returning it to him just as discreetly. He followed her as she led him through the dining room, and wondered if her dark blue skin had been an asset during the hiring process at a place called the Indigo Tower. The carpet was thick and plush; over in the corner, a musical trio—a Bith, another Ortolan, and a human—was playing a soft tune. A sultry-voiced Pa’lowick stepped up to the microphone and began to sing.

The Ortolan led him to an area where secluded booths extended into corners and the blue light made everything look mysterious and cool. He watched Jag and Jaina, her arm still through his, their heads bent close together as they spoke quietly.

And then the maître d’ opened a door, and they disappeared.

“Here you are, sir,” the Ortolan said blithely. “This is the closest table to our private rooms.”

He stared at her.

* * *

“I’D HAVE GIVEN A LOT TO SEE THE LOOK ON TYRR’S FACE,” JAINA SAID.

“We must, alas, content ourselves with imagining it,” Jag said.

“Anything else I can do for you, sir? Madam?” the maître d’ inquired politely.

“Not at the moment. Just keep up the façade. Open the doors from time to time to let him have a look,” Jag said.

“Of course, sir. You’ll have five minutes before the waiter comes in with the wine list.” He went to the door and waited for everyone to take their positions.

Sitting at the cozy, romantic, candlelit table for two were two humans who at first glance—and probably second—looked exactly like Jaina and Jag. Jag had first given Jaina the idea when Darkmeld had gone after Seff Hellin. “Like all sensible Chiefs of State, I have a double, hard at work pretending to be me back in my quarters,” he had said after they’d successfully brought down the troubled Jedi.

Leia hadn’t used a double, as Jaina had pointed out to Jag, but she would. It was just too useful an idea.

Jag’s double, Karn Valanti—code-named “Carved” for the decoy he was—was positively uncanny, Jaina thought. It wasn’t so much the looks, although he did strongly resemble Jag, especially around the eyes, but the man had gotten his movements down pat. She wasn’t so sure hers would pass close inspection, but everyone else assured her that Lina Zev—code-named “Curved,” not for her figure but for a fishing hook—had captured Jaina to perfection.

“Wait till you see her demonstrate your trademark annoyed scowl,” Jag had said once. Jaina had frowned at him. “That’s the one. She’s nailed it.”

Now the two doubles were helping Jag out of his outfit and Jaina into hers. Jag had worn a close-fitting, dark, nondescript tunic and pants beneath his formal wear, and Karn was now draping a hooded cloak over Jag’s broad shoulders. Jaina had shucked the high-heeled shoes and slipped a pair of trousers