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Part 1

Ephram Taff depressed the security switch beneath his desk in response to the light rap on the studded, metal-banded doors of heartwood mahogany, breathing out a soft sigh as he did so. No one beat a tattoo quite like Georgia did.

The locks disengaged with a soft, well-oiled snick and she approached his desk like an actress on the red carpet, as poised as though a thousand eyes were on her with a dozen cameras capturing her every angle, her every move. Ephram watched her come. Well, she was right about the cameras; he’d monitored her ever since she entered the building, thirty-one stories below.

He waited for her to come to a stop before the massive desk where he sat silently studying her, one finger pressed to his lips. A minute passed but Georgia never flinched beneath his regard, displaying her characteristic preternatural composure. He spoke at last. “You know what I want.”

“Yes.” She had never been disposed to call him ‘sir’, but Ephram knew the connotation was there and it was enough for him. On the whole he preferred to allow her to keep her pride and some notions of independence, but they both knew who was boss — he had only had to make that clear to her once. He hadn’t quite broken her then — a woman without spirit was useless to him, but sharp, unexpected consequences tended to make lasting impressions. Thankfully Georgia was a bright girl who caught on quickly, and a second lesson had never been necessary.

“Good.” He opened the wooden case sitting on the desk before himself, lifted the small vial nestled within and her smoky green eyes went to it, the glint in them professional, calculating. “This is a specially designed barbiturate with a pheromone booster and an unpleasant... kick at the end. A unique ‘truth serum’. Formulated specifically for our dear Agent; it’s extremely potent. Don’t lose it.”

The woman took the capsule from Ephram delicately, inserted it into a carefully concealed compartment in her belt, then returned her cool gaze to the lean man sitting before her, waiting.

Ephram continued, ignoring the sultry heat the woman exuded. Just looking at her was enough to melt the wedding ring off a preacher standing next to his wife on a Sunday, but Taff worked with Georgia and women like her often enough that he was immune to the honey trap she represented — when he chose to be. “It will make him tell you anything — do anything for you. Pendergast is a formidable man, more so than most, and he may try to resist until it is too late for him. You will do whatever it takes — in addition to the capsule I want you to use your considerable charms. Just to be sure.”

“If a man needs any sort of drug with me,” Georgia scoffed, “then he’s no man at all.”

Taff narrowed his eyes on her, unamused.

The beautiful ones were always the worst. Not that they lacked brains, no, but in the end they tended to fall in love with themselves; inevitably they got lazy and got themselves killed, or worse, caught. Thank goodness they were a dime a dozen and these days what God didn’t provide, plastic surgery could enhance. Still, Georgia would be difficult to replace. He gritted his teeth. She had lasted longer than most, but the signs were all there; this was probably going to be her last useful mission. “Use the drug,” he said softly, “or you may find yourself in a predicament your beauty can’t save you from. I want no mistakes. Do I make myself clear? You have less than an hour. By that time you must have extracted every detail from him. Do you understand?” he repeated.

“Yes,” she sulked. “I understand.”

Understanding the mission, but not the very real threat. Taff sighed. “Good. He’s scheduled to be at the opening of the new gallery tonight. You should require no more than a few minutes alone with him to obtain the information I need. The first stages of the drug will last for at least half an hour, during which time he will be pliable and conscious; whatever you choose to do with him in the remaining time is up to you. Just don’t allow yourself to get caught.”

She smiled at his standard epitaph. “You know me, Boss.”



Margo watched the late-comers arrive at the gala opening of the latest Museum exhibit with something approaching amusement. Among some circles, “fashionably late” had developed into an art form worthy of anthropologic study. Many of the attendees had taken years to perfect the prime moment to appear, and it was mildly entertaining to watch the well-dressed, the powerful, and the self-assured craning anxiously to see what the latest murmur arising from the entrance was about, followed by the rippling, almost viciously-whispered comments on jewels, dresses, young companions...

Margo half smiled. While the emerald at her throat was genuine, beside the least of the other precious ornaments in the room the stone itself would appear practically worthless beneath a jeweler’s loupe. All the same, it had been given to her great-grandmother as an engagement present nearly a hundred years before, and while it may have paled in monetary value by comparison she wouldn’t trade it for any of the multi-carated wonders on display, nestled against pampered flesh. Some of the jewels in the room even had Names. Still smiling, Margo wandered past where the musicians had set up, pausing to refresh her drink.

The gallery opening was as well-attended as every museum premiere tended to be, a chance for socialites to preen themselves before one another and mix with academics. For the academics themselves, the chance to make funding contacts in addition to the free food always seemed to ensure that a good number of them turned out. In the end, everyone got what they came for.

Fortunately Margo herself wasn’t involved in this particular opening in anything more than an advisory capacity, and while her presence had been expected she was free to move around and mingle with the beautiful people at will.

She marked the arrival of Special Agent Pendergast and was pleasantly surprised when he approached, making a point to seek her out in the crowd and personally thank her for the invitation, taking her hand with his customary half-bow.

Pendergast smiled at her greeting, and with what could only be described as a twinkle in his eye responded, “Of course I do try to occasionally attend events where no prospect of mayhem is in the offing.” He cocked an eye toward the far end of the hall. “Provided the mayor’s wife remains ignorant of the fact that his mistress is also here,” he drawled, “I anticipate a quiet evening.” His gaze returned to her, and he smiled again. “Though I hardly expect it to be dull.”

He seemed relaxed and at ease in her company, appearing engaged and curious as they walked together and she pointed out some of the highlights of the exhibit to him. They hadn’t gotten very far, however, before her attention was preempted by an old acquaintance from out of town to whom she had promised a personal tour.

Margo apologized to Pendergast and let him go regretfully with a few suggestions of displays he should be sure not to miss. As she showed her friend around the exhibit she caught sight of him again once or twice out of the corner of her eye as he strolled through the gallery hall, pausing at displays as he sipped at a glass of champagne, but by the time she was free to look for him again he was nowhere to be seen.

She suppressed a sense of disappointment over his disappearance, wondering again what had caused the agent to accept her casual invitation to attend the premiere at all, offered in passing the week before. Wondered where he was now. With a sigh she put him from her mind and glanced around the room, deciding it would be a good time to slip up to her office and retrieve some documents she had forgotten earlier in the day. She had plans to study them when she got home later that night and in the rush to leave and get back to the museum for the opening she had neglected to slip them into her bag.

Passing into the well-lit hall that led to her office Margo felt herself relaxing in the cool stillness. It was a relief to escape from the glittering, chattering press of people for a while, the live chamber music and smells of rich food. After a while everyone just seemed to talk louder, laugh louder, and it was a peaceful change to escape the buzz of their champagne-charged voices echoing against glass and marble-clad surfaces.

Before she had taken very many steps down the corridor however she paused, listening, then backtracked to a door she had just passed and tilted her head in the silence. The door was shut but she frowned and moved closer anyway, almost certain she had heard something. She put her hand out and the door knob, which should have been locked for the night, turned easily under her hand. She pushed the door open cautiously, peering within.

“Hello?”

The shadows of two people were just barely visible and Margo froze as the door swung wider. Light from the well-lit hall streamed into the room, casting a stripe across the wall and revealing a sight so incongruous that she almost closed the door again and went on her way, unable to comprehend what her eyes were taking in.

She blinked again, disbelieving, but there was no escaping the sight of the lean, pale agent and the woman, entwined in a most unchaste exchange. Two champagne glasses sat on a desk nearby, discarded and empty.

She felt her face flush. “Pendergast?” She croaked out the word, too stunned as she absorbed the sight to pay heed to her initial reaction of wanting to shut the door and walk away, pretending she had never seen... this.

The woman was tall, a long-haired beauty in a form-hugging, glittering cascade of a dress the color of fresh blood, her voluptuous curves pressed to Pendergast, red nails raking against the crisp white shirt beneath his jacket as she rumpled it into her fist, pulling it free of his pants as she kissed him deeply, with an almost predatory passion. She drew back slightly as the light washed over them and Margo saw her features turned toward the source of the interruption. She was stunningly beautiful and appeared not the least bit embarrassed to have been walked in on.

Margo felt an odd twisting in her, a visceral recoiling at having intruded on such an intimate moment. A personal sickness that felt queerly like betrayal washed through her. And yet... what man could resist that? Who are you kidding, Margo? Even Pendergast isn’t made of stone.

Pendergast himself stood against the wall, as unprotesting of the woman’s affection as the paralyzed mate of a Black Widow spider, enraptured and dying. As a final blow he didn’t even appear to have noticed Margo at all.

The woman showed her teeth in a contemptuous smile. “Next room over, darling,” she purred. “Can’t you see we’re busy?” And as if to underscore that point she turned back to Pendergast and kissed him again, a penetrating kiss that he returned slowly, moving as if in an entranced state and responding appropriately to the stimuli presented him. If he wasn’t willing, he sure as hell didn’t seem to be fighting it, either.

Margo found herself staring at the painful sight of Pendergast so immersed then cleared her throat, fighting down her nausea. None of my business, she told herself.

“You’re going to have to leave,” she said, trying to put authority into her voice even though she could barely stand to look at them. “This room is off limits — the door should have been locked.”

“Yes it should have been, shouldn’t it.” The interloper turned again in displeasure, focusing directly on Margo. “Who are you.” There was no trace of the seduction in the woman’s eyes, and Margo nearly took a step back at the feral, savage glint she saw in them. Pendergast, no longer pinned by her lips, swayed.

He looked disoriented, drunk, and he reinforced this impression by smiling in recognition as he finally caught sight of Margo.

“Ah. My dear Miss Green. This is...” He paused, looking his partner over, and a lazy smile came to his face, “...Miss Red. Have you come to join us?” The seductive suggestion in the question turned Margo’s stomach, and yet as the pure oddness of the situation asserted itself she sensed that there was something even more deeply wrong here than Pendergast’s uncharacteristic behavior.

An impulsive, instinctively protective feeling swept through her, and she spoke without thinking. “We’re leaving, Pendergast,” she said. “It’s time for you to go home.”

The woman showed her teeth again, her attitude more than just possessive. Deadly. “He’ll leave when I’m finished with him,” she said. “Not before.” For all her beauty there was an ugliness in her that twisted her expression into one that Margo recoiled from. The woman’s hand still clutched a wad of Pendergast’s shirt into a fist and he gazed at the treatment of the expensive garment with a slight frown on his face, but he gave no other sign or visible capability of protest.

“Get out,” Margo said, her voice stronger than she thought possible. “Or I’ll call security.”

“You’ll do no such thing.” The woman released Pendergast and moved forward with a confident stride and Margo caught a glimpse of the blade held expertly in her other hand, the mocking smile fixed on her face.

Margo turned her to her left. Years before the museum had installed fire extinguishers in each room per city code and before that Margo had served for a season on a volunteer fire-fighting force. With practiced speed she lifted the extinguisher from its mount beside the door, easily pulled the pin, unholstered the nozzle, and unleashed the geyser of fire-retardant spray aimed directly at the woman’s head. The white spray caked satisfactorily over the woman’s beautiful features, coated her fire-colored dress. She shrieked, dropped the knife, and fell to the ground pawing to get the chemical out of her eyes and mouth. Margo rushed past her, knocking the nearly empty canister heavily against the woman’s head as she attempted to rise. The woman crumpled.

Pendergast had watched the entire exchange with a bemused look on his face, making no move from the wall where the femme fatale had left him. He snickered as Margo approached. “That...wasn’t very nice.” Yet he sounded faintly impressed.

Margo seized his hand, pulling him away from the wall. “Come on.”

“I certainly shall.” He chuckled at his anomalous little aside and she ignored him, choosing a route to the exit that involved parading him in his unsteady state past as few people as possible, pausing only briefly to alert a guard and make sure that a security detail was sent to detain the woman who had seduced Pendergast and drawn a knife on her.



A line of idling cabs steamed in the chill night air, waiting to take revelers home when the gala ended. The first cab in line nosed forward and Margo opened the rear door. Pendergast got in with cringe-worthy clumsiness, barking his shins as he crawled across the seat and collapsed. She stared at him grimly. She had intended to send him home with cab fare and return to the party, collect her notes and then go home, but at the moment he looked like he needed help just sitting up straight. With a frown she glanced back at the festively lit museum, the banners announcing the new exhibit shimmering in their spotlights as the wind caught them.

Pendergast. Drunk.

Margo shook her head and looked back at him. He seemed to be having difficulty just arranging his long legs in the back seat. And I thought I’d seen everything.

The cab driver leaned back, peering at them in annoyance. “Hey, where to?”

With a sigh Margo turned away from the museum and slid in beside Pendergast, giving the cab driver her address. The cab pulled out, accelerating swiftly away from the museum.

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