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"Hello, María," McCaskey said.

María was breathing slowly. Her thick eyebrows formed a hard, rigid line like a bulwark. Her pale, sensuously arched lips formed another. "I prayed that I would never see you again," she said. Her accent, like her voice, was thick and deep.

McCaskey's own expression hardened. "I guess you didn't pray hard enough."

"Maybe not," she replied. "I was too busy crying."

This time McCaskey did not respond.

María's eyes ranged over him. Other than that, her features didn't change. It seemed to Aideen that the woman was looking for something. A man she once loved, memories to soften the hate? Or was she searching for something different? Something to revitalize her anger. The sight of arms, a chest, thighs, and hands she had once held and caressed.

After a moment María turned and walked back to her bicycle. She snatched her grip from the basket behind the seat.

"Keep this for me, Luis," she said, indicating the bicycle. She walked over to Aideen and offered her hand. "I apologize for my rudeness, Ms. Marley. I'm María Corneja."

Aideen accepted her hand. "Call me Aideen."

"I'm glad to know you, Aideen," María said. She looked at Luis. "Is there anything else I need to know?"

Luis shook his head. "You know the codes. If something comes up, I'll call on your cellular phone."

María nodded and looked at Aideen. "Let's go," she said and started toward the helicopter. She made a point of not looking at McCaskey again.

Aideen slung her own backpack over a shoulder and scurried after her.

"Good luck to both of you," McCaskey said to the women as they passed.

Aideen was the only one who turned and thanked him.

The Kawasaki chopper revved up as the women approached. Though they wouldn't have been able to hear one another over the din, Aideen found the bitter silence awkward. She also felt torn. As McCaskey's colleague she felt she should say something on his behalf. But as a woman she felt like she should have ignored him too-and, while she was at it, used her own eyes to curse all men. Curse her father for having been an abusive alcoholic. Curse the drug dealers who ruined lives and families and made widows and orphans in Mexico. Curse the occasional gentleman caller in her own life who was only a gentleman for as long as it took to become an intimate.

They climbed on board and were airborne in less than a minute. They sat close beside each other in the small, noisy cockpit, the silence continuing until Aideen finally had had enough of it.

"I understand you were out of the police business for a while," she said. "What did you do?"

"I managed a small legitimate theater in Barcelona," she said. "For excitement I took up skydiving. For even more excitement I acted in some of the plays. I've always loved acting, which is why I loved undercover work." Her tone was personable, her eyes unguarded. Whatever memories had troubled her back at the airfield were passing.

"That was your specialty?" Aideen asked.

María nodded. "It's very theatrical and that's what I enjoy." She tapped her duffelbag. "Even the codes are from plays. Luis uses numbers which refer to acts, scenes, lines, and words. When I work out of town he phones them. When I work in town he often leaves slips of papers under rocks. Sometimes he even writes them in the open as graffiti. He once left me-what do you call them? Good-time numbers on a telephone booth."

"That's what they call 'em in the States," Aideen said.

María smiled a little for the first time. With it, the last traces of her anger appeared to vanish. Aideen smiled back.

"You've had a terrible day," María said. "How are you feeling?"

"Still pretty shell-shocked," Aideen replied. "All of this hasn't really sunk in yet."

"I know that feeling," María said. "For all its finality death never seems quite real. Did you know Martha Mackall well?"

"Not very," Aideen replied. "I'd only worked with her a couple of months. She wasn't a very easy woman to get to know."

"That's true," María said. "I met her several times when I lived in Washington. She was intelligent but she was