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Renegade

by Mark Tier

On the giant screen in Union Square a marine running full tilt toward the camera suddenly spurted blood where his head had been. I was glad there was no sound—I felt sick enough already.

Before I could wonder what had happened to the cameraman the screen blanked for a fraction of a second, and the scene shifted to a bird's-eye view of the jungle battle. And then cut to an ad.

On the old-fashioned ticker underneath—a copy of the relic in Times Square—the headline marines retreat appeared, one letter at a time.

A screech of brakes and the sound of scrunching steel jerked my attention back to the street. Most everyone on the sidewalk had come to a dead halt. Including me—and I hadn't even noticed. I suddenly became aware of the unnatural silence: after all, it's not every day you see someone's head blown off live on a five-hundred-foot three-dimensional screen. Drivers were mesmerized too. One of them must have hit the brakes and taken his car out of automatic. The roadnet braked the cars behind, but not fast enough to prevent a spectacular pile-up.

A lady nearby was throwing up in the gutter. My stomach started to churn so I took a few steps back. I felt a bit sick too, but I couldn't feel sorry for the guy. He'd volunteered knowing full well what the risks were. And was—had been—highly paid to take them. After all, every man and woman in both the Eighth Army and the Marines get a share of the holo and web rights. With the ratings on this mêlée his family, if he had one, will be well taken care of.

How much time had passed? More than I thought. Now I had to hurry to be at the hearing on time. As I and hundreds of others started moving again the normal Union Square bustle returned. Though it would be a while before the traffic followed suit.

8th army odds on; marines 27–1 was now scrolling across the ticker. I'm not a gambling man but I can't resist an all-but-sure-thing. 27 to 1! That was like taking candy from the mouths of babes.

A few taps on my phone and I learned that the US Marines were retreating all across the front. But the retreat was slow and it didn't seem like they were about to fold. Sure wouldn't do their marketing image any good if they gave up so easily. We Never Quit was their motto.

If they only held out for just a few days I'd clean up. A good friend of mine, an executive of the Eighth Army Inc. had told me that their client—don't ask me whether it was the government of Colombia or the government of Venezuela; I haven't really been following this fracas too closely—had run out of money. That's real money I mean: they had plenty of that stuff they printed down there, whatever they called it, and a wheelbarrow full of it and a silver dime might get you a cup of coffee in San Francisco if the vendor was short of toilet paper.

Whichever gang of thugs it was, if they didn't pay up by Monday the Eighth Army Inc. was flying straight back home. Today was Friday. Planes and choppers were on standby over in Florida to pull them out at a moment's notice. Then all that would stand between the US Marines and the thugs running Venezuela (or Colombia) was the ragtag gaggle of bandits they called their army.

Those marines would walk it in the rest of the way. And the bookies would have to pay up.

A few more taps and I placed two hundred ounces (gold, not silver) on the Marines to win. If the Eighth Army pulled a rabbit out of the hat over the weekend, losing that gold would hurt, but it wouldn't kill me. Like I told you, I'm not a gambling man. You always gotta calculate the odds. If you work with an insurance company for as long as I have without learning that you're still pushing paper.

The phone beeped to tell me I had a couple of minutes to be on time. Then it rang and Joe's ugly face (he's my partner) appeared on the screen. "Where the hell are you?" he growled.

I looked to find out. "Just walking into the lobby of the building," I told him. I turned the phone so he could see for himself.

He harrumphed, and his face disappeared from the screen. Joe was like that: didn't waste any time on pleasantries. Wasn't much good with small talk either.

I took my seat just before the judge walked in, followed by his staff. Adjudicator-in-Chief was his official title, but everybody called them judges.

When he was young, my granddad became a cop just before the tax revolt brought down the government and cops disappeared altogether. Here, anyway. I guess there are still cops in Colombia (or Venezuela) and other places which still have governments. What he told me about judges in his time bears no relation to adjudicators today. For a start, adjudicators are unbribable. Well, Chief Adjudicators. Offer one of them a bribe and he resigns your case. Then you're in deep doodoo. Boycotted. You'll never get another reputable adjudication outfit to take you on.

In a way, I guess I'm following in my grandfather's footsteps. Joe and I run San Francisco Investigations, one of the biggest agencies in the city. Occasionally we do some of the things cops used to do. Like today's case: murder.

Judge Wainwright was pushing eighty, though you'd never have guessed it. He strode into the room with the walk and energy of a much younger man. That, and his full head of hair—even if it was gray—meant he could pass for fifty-something. I resolved once again to spend more time at the gym—his youthful look made me jealous. Hell, he looks younger than I am!

Wainwright commanded the highest fees in the business, such was his experience and reputation for impartiality. Any of the freshmen advocates from his firm could have easily handled today's case. I'd expected one of them to be mediating. So why does All-Risk Insurance—they're our biggest client—want to spend so much money when any junior could have taken his place for peanuts? It didn't figure.

Wainwright sat down at the head of the table in the center of the room. Adjudicators' hearing rooms are often highly personalized. This design was one of the more interesting.

The only way to know this table's "head" is by where the judge sits. It's almost, but not quite, circular. Look a second time and it seems triangular. It's both.

Wainwright's staff arranged themselves on one side of the circular triangle. The All-Risk team sat at another.

To any casual watcher on the web it should have been immediately clear why a junior adjudicator could have handled this hearing: the third side was empty. The defendant, Gerald Murdock—the murderer—wasn't represented. And he hadn't shown up. Not that anyone expected him to: he'd disappeared straight after the murder and no one knew—or was willing to tell—where he'd gone.

That's why Joe and I were both here. Our firm had handled the case; we carried out the investigation, took the depositions, and so on. The moment the adjudicator ruled we were going to have to find the guy and get him to cough up what the judge was about to decide he owed.

Anyone who knew nothing about the killing of Randolph Ackerman had to be blind, deaf and dumb. With group sex, drugs, wife- and secretary-swapping, questionable business deals, not to mention nude bodies (one of them dead) and a murderer who'd done a disappearing act with bundles of money, the tabloids had a field day.

Last Saturday evening Gerald Murdock joined Randolph Ackerman for dinner and a group sex party at Ackerman's penthouse on Nob Hill. Murdock's secretary, Annabelle Pearson, Ackerman's wife, Sophia, and her sister, Jude, were also there to join in the fun and games.

The two men had a few business interests together and over the last couple of years there'd been lots of friction and disagreement between them. Apparently, both of them felt their partner was getting more than his fair share of the profits. They'd come to a peace agreement, and the purpose of the dinner was to celebrate and cement it. Bury the hatchet, if you will.

After dinner, after several bottles of wine, tabs of cocaine and God knows what other cocktails, and lots of group groping, Ackerman and Murdock got into an argument over one of the women. The argument quickly degenerated into a vicious rehash of every accusation they'd ever made against each other.

Seemingly livid with rage, Murdock grabbed a gun from his jacket and shot Ackerman between the eyes. Waving the gun at the women he quickly dressed, ran out of the apartment, down the stairs and into a passing cab.

The women were so stunned—not to mention drunk and/or drugged—that they were slow to act. They first called an ambulance, which arrived just minutes after Murdock had left the building. Not that an ambulance was any help to Ackerman by then. Only after that did they call security. The place was crawling with armed guards (ours) just moments after the ambulance arrived. Just moments too late.

Both witnesses—Annabelle Pearson played mute—agreed with each other down to most of the fine details. And since they were both interviewed while the body was being taken away, still semi-naked, wrapped in sheets or towels, they didn't have time to concoct any fairytales.

Ackerman's hobby, however, made it an open and shut case. Seems he liked to record his sex parties with multiple holographic cameras and then edit them into home porn shows. He had hundreds of them. Someone bootlegged the files. The murder—along with Ackerman's entire porn library—is readily available all over cyberspace. It's the worst thing to hit Hollywood and the holo nets in years.

We tracked down the cab Murdock had picked up on Nob Hill. He'd gotten out at Union Square, and then his trail disappeared. We couldn't find any trace of him. We figured he had a car parked there and a second identity already fixed up, probably with one of the sleazier insurance outfits.

By Monday it was obvious that Murdock hadn't fired that shot in a moment of angry passion. Over the previous months he'd quietly sold all his business interests and closed his stock and bank accounts. He'd turned the last of his real estate into cash just the week before. All but one of his bank accounts were cleaned out. He'd even managed to skim some of the cash from his joint ventures with Ackerman just minutes before the banks closed on Saturday. Ackerman hadn't suspected a thing.

One of his companies remained. The reason emerged when we asked the Insurance Association data bank for information on Gerald Murdock: he had no insurance cover whatsoever in his own name. One reason he wasn't represented before the adjudicator.

His sole remaining company, GMR Holdings, was insured. With the Mafia Corporation of Washington, DC. They weren't too cooperative. Never were: just the minimum level to ensure that other insurance agencies cooperated with them when they needed it. It was part of their heritage. At least according to their marketing, they were proud of their history as a private protection agency back when the government kept trying to put any competitor out of business.

As Mafia insured the company, not Murdock, they were under no obligation to give us the time of day. When we called they were as mute as mollusks.

And on Monday Annabelle Pearson paid every remaining bill and proceeded to shut that company down too.

All the money was gone. Thousands of gold ounces.

Gerald Murdock's legal identity had been tied to his company. His credit cards, bank accounts, agreements and everything else. Very clever. He could deal normally in our society and any trace would lead back to his company, not him.

It also meant there were no records of Murdock: no voiceprints, fingerprints or retina scans on file that we could access to help track him down.

We made a voiceprint from Ackerman's holo of the party. We found fingerprints that were probably Murdock's. We ran them through the data bank and—as I'd expected—drew a blank.

It was as if Gerald Murdock didn't exist. No doubt exactly what he had in mind.

"Good morning, gentlemen," said Wainwright. "We're here today to adjudicate the accusation that Gerald Murdock murdered Randolph Ackerman. Is Mr. Murdock present?"

When there was no answer, Wainwright asked, "Since Mr. Murdock does not appear to be here, who stands to speak for him?"

Again, no answer.

Wainwright was a stickler for procedures. He already knew that Murdock wasn't represented. But any missing step could give grounds for a rehearing or appeal. If Murdock ever surfaced to make a challenge.

"Who speaks for the estate of Randolph Ackerman?"

"I do, sir."

Joe and I looked at each other and I could see he felt as startled as me. Martin Li, the attorney who'd answered, billed more per hour than Wainwright. As usual, I was surprised I hadn't noticed him before. Strangely for a lawyer, he seemed to disappear in a crowd. Yet he was an extraordinarily handsome man. Eurasian most likely. But you just didn't see him until he began to use his deep, penetrating voice. From that moment on, I always had difficulty pulling my eyes away from him.

So why did All-Risks want two of the highest-powered guys in the business on this case? No reason popped into my head, but I had the uncomfortable feeling that it would somehow involve us.

This case had moved at lightning speed. Murder Saturday; evidence all assembled by Thursday morning; hearing today. No defendant to argue with helped. Still, fast in our business was normally two to three weeks between crime and hearing for an open and shut case. Ever since Sunday night, our office had looked more like a student dorm without maid service than a place of business. I don't think any of us had had a good night's sleep all week.

"Be it noted that Gerald Murdock has failed to appear to contest the charges against him," Wainwright said. Turning to Li he asked, "Do you contend that this hearing has jurisdiction over the case?"

"Indeed it does, sir. Mind if I walk around? I think better."

Wainwright waved his hand in a gesture of assent.

"It is conceivable that by his absence," said Li as he paced slowly from one side of the room to the other, "from the fact that he is not represented here today the defendant, Gerald Murdock, could argue that this hearing does not have jurisdiction.

"If he did, he would be wrong.

"Randolph Ackerman was a client of All-Risk Insurance. His person and his property, including his apartment, were insured by All-Risk under a general all-risk policy. That policy included legal representation and mediation with other members of the Insurance Association and their clients. That policy was registered with the Association.

"When Gerald Murdock entered Ackerman's apartment on Saturday night, he implicitly agreed to place himself under the rules of Ackerman's policy with All-Risk."

"Was there a notice to this effect?" asked Wainwright.

"Yes, sir," answered Li. "On all entrances to Ackerman's apartment."

These signs are so common the only time I become aware of them is when they aren't there. They usually read:

WARNING

This property is insured by XYZ Insurance Co.
By entering this property you agree to be bound by the rules of the policy and the
American Insurance Association.

"Has this been attested?" asked Wainwright.

"Yes, sir." One of Li's assistants passed a file to Wainwright, who quickly skimmed through it. Though I'd bet he'd read it all before.

"As Gerald Murdock is neither represented here today, nor has he any known contract with any member of the American Insurance Association, or any of the other insurance associations in North America, he is uninsured. And was uninsured at the time Randolph Ackerman died." Li's assistant passed another folder to Wainwright. "In that file," Li continued, "are the results of our search for any insurance cover of Gerald Murdock.

"Being uninsured, any of his actions while upon the property of Randolph Ackerman are to be adjudicated by the rules of Ackerman's policy with All-Risk Insurance. He implicitly agreed to that upon entry."

Two more files were pushed across the table to Wainwright. They'd be copies of Ackerman's policy and All-Risk's rules.

"In that case," said Wainwright, "I hereby rule that this hearing has the legal jurisdiction to adjudicate the accusation that Gerald Murdock murdered Randolph Ackerman."

Every adjudication session began with these formalities. Now they were over, Wainwright turned with obvious relief to Li and asked, "Is there anything you'd like to add to your brief?"

Knowing Wainwright, he'd already mastered every nuance of the evidence the All-Risk team had prepared—including any errors or omissions. Today's hearing was, other than the decision itself, the final part of the adjudication process.

"No sir," answered Li.

"Then, please proceed with your summary."

"The facts are clear," said Li. "At 11:07 last Saturday evening, Gerald Murdock shot Randolph Ackerman. The time was established from Ackerman's holo. He died instantly, according to the doctor who examined the body. Murdock left the apartment, hailed a cab, got off at Union Square, and hasn't been seen since.

"These facts were established from interviews with two of the three witnesses, Sophia Ackerman, the victim's wife, and Jude Schwarz, her sister, and from the holo. A secure copy of the holo was made immediately. It was discovered by bonded detectives from San Francisco Investigations.

"The third witness, Annabelle Pearson, Murdock's secretary, refused to answer any questions."

My attention was again riveted to Martin Li. I was vaguely aware that Wainwright sat stock still, like a gray stone god, only his eyes moving as Li walked.

"Both witnesses agreed that no one had been near the computer recording the holo, a fact borne out by the holo itself. Between the murder and the time the detectives entered the apartment twelve minutes later, none of the three women or the medics went anywhere near the computer. There was no one else in the apartment at the time: the maid and the butler who served dinner had already gone home."

Wainwright made a cryptic note with his pencil, the first time he'd moved since Li began to speak.

"Bonded computer experts testified that the only access to the holo files was through the terminal in the living room, and the terminal in Ackerman's study which could only be entered from the living room.

"Since there can be no question of the veracity of the holographic file of the murder that we have presented in evidence, it is clear that Gerald Murdock is guilty of the murder of Randolph Ackerman beyond a shadow of doubt."

Li stopped pacing for a moment and let silence hang over the room.

"We have prepared significant excerpts from the holos and depositions that show these facts. Would you care to review them, sir?"

"No need," said Wainwright. "However, please show me evidence that supports your contention that no one went near the computer terminals."

"Certainly sir." Turning to one of his assistants, he continued, "Blair, can you bring up the holo at the time of the murder."

"Alleged murder please, Mr. Li. Murder—or otherwise—has yet to be determined."

"Of course, sir."

The holo shimmered and then solidified on top of the table. Murdock was frozen with his hand reaching into his jacket. Ackerman stood naked in the center of the room, his face bright red, his mouth open in the middle of a scream. The three women lay on the sofa or the floor in different states of undress.

Li walked around the table to stand behind his assistant. He spoke softly and the scene revolved. After a moment, a door and a terminal were highlighted.

"This is the computer terminal in the living room," he said, and leaned over the table putting his hand inside the holo to point at the keyboard. "And this—" he pointed at the highlighted door "—is the only entrance into the study, with the only other terminal that could access these files."

At a gesture from Li, another of his assistants passed two files to Wainwright. "These files show the layout of the computers, and which terminal could access which file type, kind and level of security," said Li, "and the layout of Ackerman's penthouse apartment."

"Thank you," said Wainwright, making another note. "Continue," he said, looking at Li.

Li said a few more quiet words to his assistant, and stepped back.

"We'll hold the holo on the door and the keyboard and fast forward it to the moment the secure copy was made." As he spoke Murdock sprang to life and for the second time today I saw a man die. This one didn't affect me nearly as much. I'd seen it before, and knew it was coming.

I felt like laughing at the way Murdock dressed and disappeared in a flurry of clothing and as the three almost-naked women seemed to run every which way across the room. A team of medics appeared and suddenly the room seemed to overflow with armed men. As one of them looked into the study the picture slowed back to normal speed.

"As you can see, this is the first time anyone has been near the keyboard or the door," Li said.

Sam Renkin, one of our investigators, sat down at the keyboard. A moment later he said, "Hey, this thing is recording something."

Li signaled his assistant and the holo stopped. "From this moment on," he said, "this man, Sam Renkin, a bonded detective from San Francisco Investigations never left the keyboard until a secure copy of the files on the computer was made.

"One other point. These files could be accessed by voice, but only by Ackerman's voice. The computer would respond to Mrs. Ackerman's voice for other commands. Otherwise, only with a password that Mrs. Ackerman said she did not know. Indeed, when Mr. Renkin asked her if she'd known that the computer was recording everything, she went into shock and had to be treated by the medics."

Turning to Wainwright he asked, "Do you have any other questions, sir?"

With a slight shake of his head, Wainwright indicated that Li should continue. As the holo shimmered and disappeared Wainwright ceased being a faint shadow behind Sam Renkin's face.

"In our brief, we outlined the substantial circumstantial evidence that strongly suggests Murdock had murder in mind when he arrived for dinner.

"But the facts are clear. At 11:07 last Saturday evening, Gerald Murdock shot and killed Randolph Ackerman. There can be no doubt that Murdock is guilty of murder. For that reason, whether he killed Murdock in a fit of anger or, as we submit, as part of a long-standing plan makes absolutely no difference to the penalty we seek.

"Gerald Murdock is guilty."

Li took a sheet of paper from his place at the table and passed it to Wainwright.

"Murdock is guilty of murder beyond a shadow of doubt. The high probability that the murder was premeditated merely adds weight to our claim that Murdock pay the highest penalty the law allows.

"And it's to that penalty I'd now like to turn."

"We submit that Murdock be required to pay to All-Risk Insurance the sum of 125,115 gold ounces, plus all costs, with interest."

The amount Li asked for drew a low whistle of astonishment from several spectators, including me. People started whispering to each other until Wainwright's sharp "Quiet, please," brought silence back to the room.

"Continue."

"Certainly, sir," said Li. "If he fails to pay the penalty, ownership of all property identified as belonging to him be transferred to All-Risk Insurance in full or partial settlement of the penalty. And as he has disappeared entirely and has no known legal identity, we ask that Gerald Murdock be declared a renegade and outlaw until such time as the penalty is paid in full."

Now I understood why they'd rushed to have this case adjudicated. They'd be able to take ownership of Murdock's companies. GMR Holdings was the only one left, but if they could grab it before Annabelle Pearson closed it down completely they'd have a chance of being able to trace the money and, with it, Murdock.

Correction: We'd have a chance. Joe and I were going to be the ones who had to find him.

"As we all know, and as Murdock must also know, the penalty for murder is restitution to the heirs of the victim for the value of the life taken, and restitution of any other damages directly attributable to the death.

"Ackerman's life was insured by All-Risk for the sum of fifteen thousand gold ounces. We seek reimbursement of that amount.

"In addition, Ackerman's policy with All-Risk includes coverage of violent death, such as murder.

"Because of this provision, All-Risk had complete access to Ackerman's financial records and routinely updated this risk. The calculation of the value of Ackerman's life, based on the present value of his estimated future earning power, totals 110,115 gold ounces. This amount is exhaustively documented in the brief, using standard Insurance Association scales."

That was a big number, even for someone as wealthy as Ackerman. It's a number you could easily lowball. That was one of the things I liked about All-Risk: they never stiffed their customers.

And how do you figure someone's future earning potential? You make lots of assumptions. Assumptions that would have been challenged—if there'd been a Murdock representative to challenge them.

"The penalty we seek includes reimbursement of the fifteen thousand gold ounces in life insurance cover that All-Risk has already paid to Ackerman's widow, Sophia Ackerman, and the sum of 110,115 gold ounces that would become immediately due and payable by All-Risk Insurance.

"We also submit that the penalty include all the costs of the investigation and these proceedings to date, plus the costs yet to be disbursed in finding the defendant and recovering the penalty.

"Finally, that the penalty include interest on the outstanding amount from the moment the decision of these proceedings is finalized to the time the penalty has been recovered in full."

Wainwright was looking at the papers Li had given him. When Li stopped talking, he looked up.

"Subject to any questions, the plaintiff rests."

"No questions," said Wainwright. In a louder voice, looking around the room, "Is there anyone here to speak for Gerald Murdock?"

Once more he was greeted with silence.

"In that case, this hearing is adjourned until two o'clock." As Wainwright stood up his assistants followed suit. A hubbub of conversation quickly filled the silence as they left the room.

I grabbed Joe by the arm. "Let's go and talk to Li before everybody else does."

A loose knot of people had gathered around him. I squeezed through and offered him my hand. "Nicely put, counselor."

"Hi Ray." He smiled at me. "Joe."

"We were surprised to see both you and Wainwright here today."

"I think the idea is they don't want the faintest question as to the probity of the verdict."

Up close, I noticed that his eyes looked tired. "Looks like you haven't had much sleep recently. Either."

He laughed. "We're hoping to give you a warm trail to follow. If there's any trail at all."

"There's always something—"

"Ah, there you are." A voice came from behind me. "Joe. Ray. We need to talk right away." I turned as somebody's hand grabbed my arm and started tugging it gently.

"Hi, Fritz. Anyone here had any sleep this week?" Fritz Gandhi—he had an Indian father and a German mother—was chief of All-Risk's San Francisco bureau.

"Plenty of time for that next week. Or next month," he said.

"Looks like I have to go," I said to Martin. "See you at two."

"I wouldn't count on it," said Fritz. "You'll be too busy."

Joe and I followed Fritz into a nearby room along with a number of people I recognized from his office. A woman I did not know, who was stunningly attractive despite her full head of gray hair, was already sitting at the table.

"Ray, Joe, I'd like you to meet Noni Brooks. Noni, this is Ray Black and Joe Herrera. They head San Francisco Investigations."

"Good," she said. I presumed our reputation had preceded us. "I'm pleased to meet you."

"Noni's from Berkshire Re," Fritz explained. "They have—potentially—a large interest in this case."

"The violent death cover?" Joe asked. Noni and Fritz both nodded.

Noni Brooks certainly didn't waste any time. "The question is: can you find Gerald Murdock?" But her look seemed to say, If you can't, we'll get someone who can.

Berkshire Re is the biggest—and smartest—insurance outfit in the world. They obviously wanted Murdock and his money found. And they don't take "impossible" as an answer.

"What's the budget?" asked Joe.

"Five hundred ounces," said Noni.

"To start with," added Fritz.

"You're assuming Wainwright will find him guilty," I said.

"No," said Noni, "we're not assuming that. Though we expect he will." She looked at her watch. "Judge Wainwright will give his decision three and a half hours from now. If we just sit around and wait till then and the verdict is guilty, that's three and a half hours we've lost.

"Do I need to point out the obvious? It's Friday already, and this man is going to be very hard to find. His trail's getting colder by the minute. One extra hour could be the difference between success and failure."

What about the five days we've already lost? I thought to myself. But I said, "If anyone can find him, we can." Joe nodded his agreement.

"As far as you're concerned," said Fritz, "Wainwright has already pronounced him guilty. We'll call you when he announces his decision but we want you to be ready to move the moment he does."

"GMR Holdings," said Joe.

"That's right," said Fritz. "Follow the money. We've got all the papers ready: five minutes after Wainwright rules we'll be in possession of the company. Then we have to get Murdock's secretary out of the office and see what she's left for us to find."

"I want to see the bank records," I said. "Murdock disappeared at Union Square Saturday night. Like the Invisible Man. Feels like we've been hitting our heads against a brick wall ever since."

"That's exactly the point," said Fritz. "Somewhere in the company's records should be a warm trail to follow. At least a lead, a hint of some kind."

"Looks like our only bet," said Joe.

Noni Brooks shook her head. "There'll be a reward. One thousand ounces for information that leads us to Murdock."

"Who'll screen the replies?" asked Joe.

"We want you to do that. You're the experts," said Fritz.

"That'll cost extra," said Joe. "Murdock will be 'seen' all over the world."

"We only need one."

"Yeah. But figuring which is the right one will cost a fortune."

Fritz turned to Noni, who nodded her head.

"Okay," he said. "We're also going after the money Murdock skimmed from the joint venture companies. We're claiming Murdock broke the partnership agreements which would make it theft."

"But I thought he had the right to withdraw that money," I said.

"He had the right to spend the money on joint venture business. Not to pay himself without Ackerman's agreement. Anyway, we'll have a judgment in a day or three. If the judge rules against Murdock, he'll be guilty of theft as well as murder."

"Good," said Joe.

Everybody turned to look at him. "Why?" someone asked.

"Never mind now," said Fritz. "It's time we got moving."

"Who's handing things on your end?" Joe asked.

"Tony Ramirez. He's expecting your call."

"What I want to know," said Joe, to no one in particular, "is why did he do it? What's his motive?"

"Greed or lust," said Joe as we walked out onto Geary.

"What about revenge?"

Joe shook his head. "Doesn't figure."

"Hang on a minute," said Joe. He stepped into the tobacco store we'd just passed.

"Heavens above," he said, jogging up to where I'd stopped. He stared at his phone in one hand and a packet of Maui Wowie Lights in the other. "They've gone down in price again!"

I jangled the coins in my pocket. Joe never carried any, always paying by phone. Call me weird if you like, but I enjoy the feel, the weight of gold and silver.

"So what's new?" I asked.

"They dropped last month, and they're down again already."

Thinking of our payroll I said, "Wish salaries went down like everything else."

"Yeah," he grunted.

"So what do you want with them?" I asked him.

"Added inspiration."

"I'm inspired enough already."

"I said added inspiration, you dummy. I want to watch the holo. There's bound to be something, something somebody said or did, that will give us a clue."

The rest of the morning disappeared in a blaze of activity. But at two o'clock we were ready. At 2:05 Wainwright announced his decision: Guilty. At 2:10 one team from All-Risk, along with some of our operatives, moved into Murdock's office. A second team went to the Bank of San Francisco. At 2:15 they zapped us the account records of GMR Holdings.

"What's the time in Switzerland?" asked Joe as the records scrolled across the screen.

I thought for a minute. "Bedtime, I'd say."

"Damn. Bet Swiss banks aren't open Saturdays, either." Joe pointed at the screen. "I don't like the look of that." His fingers danced over the keyboard and the screen split into half a dozen different displays.

"See," he said. "All the money was sent to Swiss banks. All these transfers—" all but one of the displays lit up "—went to three different Swiss banks. Union Bank, Credit Suisse, Bank Leu. All big names."

"We should get some cooperation out of them. What's the problem?"

Joe punched a button on the keyboard and the display that hadn't been highlighted filled the screen.

"Right there. That wire went Saturday. Anstalt Bank. Where the hell is Vaduz, anyway?" He highlighted the bank's name and an information screen appeared. "Vaduz, Liechtenstein. Oh hell."

"Liechtenstein," I murmured. "So how do we stand with them?"

"Those guys in Liechtenstein don't say 'boo' to their own mothers. Let's see. Court order required," he read from a new display. "Hmmm. To get that, the whole case has to be retried in Vaduz. Witnesses. Everything. God knows how long that would take—years possibly. They don't recognize our adjudication process."

"Anyway," I said, "what's the bet all the money is some other place."

"Ha. Want me to take the wrong side of a sure thing?

The phone rang and a message blinked on the screen that Tony Ramirez was calling. "Good," said Joe as he pushed the Accept button. Tony's face appeared on the screen.

"Seen the bank records?" he asked.

"Yeah," said Joe. "Liechtenstein."

"And Switzerland, which is a bit more cooperative. Monday, we'll be filing cases in both places."

"So what are the chances of getting any information?" I asked.

"Not good," said Ramirez. "Better, though, when we get a ruling that Murdock stole the money from the joint ventures. That case should be finished this afternoon.

"You got anything?"

"Lots of questions," said Joe. "You got any answers?"

"Lots," Ramirez laughed. "See what you guys can dig up in Switzerland."

"Sure. We'll be on the next ship out. Let us know if they find Murdock guilty of theft."

"Will do."

After Tony had signed off Joe asked me, "Who is our guy in Switzerland?"

"Günter Lattman. Remember?"

"Let's call him." Günter's number appeared on the screen.

"Wait! How cooperative do you think he'll be if you wake him up in the middle of the night."

"You're right," Joe said, grudgingly.

"Send him a message, ask him to call us as soon as he can. Let him wake us up in the middle of the night."

Joe nodded as the phone rang again. It was Andy, one of our investigators who'd gone with the All-Risk team to Murdock's office.

"What did you find?" I asked.

"She didn't leave much for us to find. Most of the computers have been wiped clean. We'll see what we can recover, but I wouldn't hold your breath. She's had a whole week."

"Anything at all?"

"Well . . . I don't know. We haven't moved anything yet. I'd like you to come down and have a look. Joe, I mean. My gut feeling is he might smell something."

I didn't take offense. Joe's "nose" had taken on a mystical quality in our company.

"We're on our way."

What had clearly been Murdock's office had a wonderful, close-up view of the building next door. We entered through a general office/reception area with three desks. One other door led into a smaller office which had been Annabelle Pearson's.

Joe stood in the center of Murdock's office, deep in thought. We all knew better than to interrupt him when he was in this state.

This office, like the others, had been all but stripped clean. Other than a few papers in the trash cans, a few files lying around, some old newspapers and magazines, all that was left was two bookshelves full of books. Mostly travel guides.

After a while Joe said, "It's too obvious." One of the All-Risk guys started to ask him, "What—and was silenced. "Wait," somebody whispered to him.

Joe walked to one of the shelves and scanned the titles. They were mostly tourist guides to countries in Africa and South America. On one of the tightly packed shelves there was a hole where a book had been removed. The missing book was one of the travel guides.

"It's like Murdock left instructions. 'Ms. Pearson,' " he recited, " 'please destroy everything but don't remove or touch anything on the bookshelves.'

"It's like Murdock's trying to tell us, 'Please waste your time looking for me here.' "

"Somewhere in Africa," I said. "Starting with 'N.' "

"Nigeria," someone said.

"Niger."

"Nairobi."

"Nepal."

"Nepal's in Asia, muscle head."

"Never mind." Turning to Andy, Joe said, "What I'd like you to do is set up these books and shelves in my office, exactly as they are now. Make a list of all the countries; see what's missing. And what the missing book probably is. See what you find out about trips Murdock took. Was he a traveler or a stay-at-home? Where did he go on vacations? What were his hobbies? Things like that. We need a better feel for this man."

"Right," said Andy.

"Wherever he is, I'll bet he's not where that bookshelf is pointing us to."

"Perhaps he's sitting there laughing at us while we're looking everywhere else," said one of the people from All-Risk. "Wheels within wheels."

"That really helps narrow down the search," I said.

"Or maybe Annabelle Pearson took it," said Andy. "Maybe she wants to go there."

Talking to himself again, Joe murmured, "I'll bet she does."

"Want me to order you guys pizza or something before I head for home?"

Molly's voice pulled me away from the screen. I rubbed my eyes, bleary from hours poring over files and documents. By contrast Molly (our receptionist) was bright and chirpy: she was about the only member of our staff who hadn't been putting in twenty-six-hour days.

Joe seemed to be asleep, his feet up on the desk and his chair laying all the way back. With Joe, appearances are always deceptive. "Good idea," he mumbled without opening his eyes.

"Want the usual?" she asked.

"Sure, pepperoni," I said.

"Yeah," said Joe, "with just a sprinkle of hash."

"You too?" said Molly, looking at me.

"Not for me. I want to keep my head clear so I'll stick to beer. If you could order a six-pack—make sure they're ice-cold."

"What's the time?" asked Joe.

"Six." Molly said. "Oh . . . and everybody else is wondering if you want them to stay another night, or can they all go home?"

I looked at Joe. "Tell 'em to go home, sleep—and keep their phones on in case we need 'em at three o'clock in the morning."

"Thanks, Molly," I said.

As she closed the door Joe stirred himself, stretched and sat up. He reached for the still-unopened packet of Maui Wowie Lights lying on his desk and pulled out a joint. "Time to look at that holo," he said.

Joe and I shared a large office. Our desks half-faced each other so we could work privately or talk when we wanted to. A couple of very comfortable sofas lined the opposite wall—they'd proved their worth this week. The books and bookshelves from Murdock's office had been set up against the wall to Joe's left.

"Any inspirations?" I asked, waving at the books.

"Needle in a haystack. I think that's a red herring. My gut has been bugging me about that holo; maybe, that's where we'll find our lead. Not in those books. . . . Heard from Andy?"

I shook my head. "Let's give him a call and see what he's got."

"No need—he'll call in when he's ready."

Joe punched a button on his keyboard and the holo shimmered in the center of the room for a moment before stabilizing.

"This is hardly what I'd have chosen for a Friday night movie."

Joe grinned. "Me neither. I'd rather watch the football. So let's run it—maybe we can catch the end of the game."

Fat chance. Having seen it before, I had trouble keeping awake. Joe on the other hand looked like he was going to fall asleep at any moment, only moving to munch on pizza. But he was actually in a highly alert, trancelike state. Which deepened as the smoke in the room thickened. Just when he looked like he'd finally dozed off he'd wind the holo back saying, "Look at this."

Dinner was over, but the five of them were still at the dining table. Murdock and Ackerman were toasting each other. "To our partnership," said Ackerman. "May it prosper," said Murdock. "He doesn't mean it," said Joe.

Joe wound the holo back and locked it onto Murdock's face and zoomed in. When Murdock said, "May it prosper," he looped it, so Murdock said the same words over and over again.

"Look at his face," Joe said. "It's wooden. That smile is forced. He's lying through his teeth."

We know that, I thought. Just that morning he'd stripped the money out of the partnerships. He's ready to run. I also knew better than to interrupt Joe when he was following his nose. I knew what he was trying to do: get inside their minds.

Joe then ran through the same scene again, with the perspective locked onto Ackerman. "He doesn't notice."

"What?" I asked.

"He can't see it. He's enthusiastic. Maybe he was one of those people who can't read faces; insensitive."

"Maybe he's too drunk or stoned."

"Maybe," said Joe. But he didn't believe it.

I only perked up when the women stripped off. No—I don't "get off" from watching other people have sex. These three women, though, were something to look at. Like watching a beauty contest. And Ackerman's wife, Sophia, was the clear winner.

"There it is. That's why my nose has been twitching. It's not Murdock at all."

I couldn't figure out what Joe was talking about.

"Look at this." Joe locked the holo on Sophia Ackerman's face. Even I could see it now: she and Murdock weren't screwing: they were making love. Or she was: it was written all over her face.

Then Joe flicked to Annabelle Pearson. For just a moment there was a look of pure hatred on her face. Joe froze the picture, zoomed out, and it was clear that Annabelle Pearson was looking at Sophia and Murdock making love.

One more flick and we were looking at Sophia Ackerman. Just for a second, a look of disgust crossed her face: at that moment she was looking at her husband.

"That's it," said Joe. "The eternal triangle. Or quadrangle, in this case. If we can't follow the money, we can follow the sex."

He punched his phone. "Andy. I want a twenty-four-hour tail on Mrs. Murdock and Annabelle Pearson . . . Yes, starting right now. . . . Call anyone you need: this has got to be tight. You've all got to be ready to follow them wherever they go. . . . Sure, hire all the extra help you need. . . . Yeah, right, tell everyone to have their bags packed. And make sure your cards are loaded with cash: one of those women is going to lead us to Murdock as sure as my name is Joe Herrera, and you've got to be ready to go wherever in the world they go."

For a while Joe listened, muttering, "Yeah," "Okay," "Good," and so on. Finally, "Okay, I'm on my way," and put the phone down.

"Where?" I asked.

"Murdock's apartment. I'm meeting Andy there."

"My god, it's getting on for midnight!"

"Well, I'm in the mood right now."

"What's Andy found out?"

"Oh, this and that. Sort of mood stuff. I'll fill you in tomorrow."

"Is that it?" I asked, motioning to the holo.

"Oh yeah, we're finished with that. My nose has stopped itching." With relief, I switched the holo off and the room was clear at last.

Joe grabbed his coat and waved "goodbye" as he ran out the door. I've no idea where his energy came from; it just made me feel even more tired.

And then the phone rang. Who could be calling at this time of night? Maybe it was Sophia Ackerman looking for a date. I must have been dreaming.

"Hullo. Is this San Francisco Investigations?" said a voice I didn't recognize. It was English English, but with a faint trace of a foreign accent I couldn't place. No face appeared on the screen to help me out.

"Yes," I replied.

"Oh, good morning, Ray."

"Yes. Who is this?"

"Oh, sorry. It's too early in the morning to show my face. Günter Lattman here."

"Günter! You got my message? What time is it in Zurich?"

"About eight-thirty. What are you doing in the office so late?"

"Working, more's the pity."

"I went quickly through the Murdock stuff you sent me. There's no way I can get information out of a Swiss bank without a Swiss court order. And Swiss courts don't recognize your murder penalties. If we found Murdock here we could lock him up for you—but that wouldn't get you any money out of him."

"All-Risks is going to file in a Zurich court bright and early Monday morning."

"That'll take weeks if you're lucky. Months more likely. And even then, the Swiss court isn't going to give you—or me—access to Swiss bank records. Not for murder."

"Yeah, that's what I thought."

"All they could do is arrest him if he was found here."

"There's another case against Murdock in court right now. For theft."

"That's different," said Günter, enthusiasm showing in his voice at last. "If you can show there's stolen money in a Swiss bank, well . . ."

"Murdock's flown the coop. He didn't show up in court today, and he won't show up next week. So it should be open and shut."

"Okay. You've still got to get a Swiss court order. But that's a lot easier for theft. Do you want me help you get that done?"

"I'm pretty sure All-Risks will take care of that. I'll check and let you know. Main thing is we want to see those records as soon as possible after we get the order. Can you set that up?"

"That I can do."

"Great. I have to hit the sack. I'll talk to All-Risks and get back to you next week."

"Fine. Good night."

After I'd closed up the office—kind of Joe to leave that to me—I slumped into my car, ordered it to take me "Home, Jeeves," reclined the seat and dozed while the roadnet took me there. When the car pulled into the garage I was sound asleep: it had to wake me up.

On Monday the Eighth Army called for a truce and pulled out. My bank account was flusher by 5,400 gold ounces. The rest of the week was downhill from there.

Tuesday Murdock was found guilty of theft; Thursday a Swiss court gave us access to Murdock's bank records (which impressed Günter no end. "All-Risks must have pulled a lot of strings to get the hearing done so fast," he told us); and Friday we had copies.

All the money had flown. To places like Nauru, the Cook Islands, Pitcairn and other sandbars that made Mafia, Inc. look like first-prize winners in a gabfest.

The money trail was a dead end.

Meanwhile our phones were ringing off the hook with more red herrings, thanks to Berkshire's reward. . . . 

WANTED
for Murder and Theft:
1,000au REWARD

Gerald Murdock has been declared an outlaw and a renegade under the rules of the American Insurance Association. A reward of 1,000 gold ounces will be paid to the person who provides information leading to his arrest.

Outlaw means that no client of any AIA member is insured for any dealing with Gerald Murdock other than self-defence.

Renegade means that any member of the public who apprehends, arrests, or detains Gerald Murdock or assists in doing so will be considered a bonded representative of the AIA under its rules.

People were told to contact us—and they did. Within two days, Murdock had been sighted in fifty-five countries, every major city in North America and half the small towns.

Luckily for us, Berkshire paid for all the extra staff, phone lines and follow-up on all the leads, just as Noni had promised.

Noni—and Fritz—weren't quite so understanding on everything else.

Eventually, after several meetings, some of them heated, they had to agree that with the money trail dead and none of the leads leading us anywhere Joe's instinct to "follow the sex" was all that was left.

"And if he dumps both women?" Noni asked.

Joe and I could only shrug.

Some three months later I'd just gotten to sleep when a phone call from Andy woke me.

"I'm on a rocket to Tokyo. Just took off."

"So? What? Why?"

"I nearly lost her on the way to the airport."

"Who?"

"Sophia Ackerman. Are you asleep or something?"

"I was."

"I didn't get a chance to call in earlier. We land in Tokyo in forty-five minutes and I'm going to need backup."

"Okay. I'll call you back."

It was a wild night. We couldn't arrange backup in time. Luckily, Andy kept up with her as she got on the Mag-Lev to Osaka. When the train arrived he had all the help he needed.

She took him on a merry chase, from Osaka to Shanghai, to Singapore, to Hong Kong and finally Manila. At each stop she changed her appearance. And at each stop from Osaka on, a female operative followed her into the bathroom. Otherwise we might have lost her entirely: each time, she had a new identity to go with each disguise.

She ended up in a condo in a high-security walled and gated village.

Andy sent us a picture of the happy couple by the condo pool.

"My god," said Joe, "I'd never have recognized him. But it has to be him."

Murdock had a goatee and mustache, had changed his hair and eye color (contacts, I figured), and had picked up a new nose somewhere along the line.

"Right," I said. "If she was going to meet anyone else, why the merry chase?"

"Manila, hmmm," Joe murmured. "No mountains, no beaches, no snow. Clever." Among the useless information we'd piled up about Murdock was that he loved skiing, hiking, mountaineering, boats and deep-sea fishing.

"All you have to do now," he said to me, "is go to Manila and pick him up."

The only nonstop service to Manila was an aging SuperJumbo. I didn't fancy a twelve-hour flight, so I took the rocket to Hong Kong and connected. Hong Kong–Manila took longer than San Francisco–Hong Kong.

As a kid, I loved hearing my granddad's stories about the tax revolt—but I never knew until after he died that he was one of its heroes.

He'd sit on the swinging chair on the porch at night, set me on his knee and tell me how people hated the government, but were afraid. Some arm of the government called the "HSS" was rounding up terrorists, and nobody ever knew where they'd strike next. I'd wake up sweating from nightmares of giants, dressed in black, storming into my room in the middle of the night. Even so, I could never resist another of his stories.

He told me about Amanda Green, a teacher in a small town near San Francisco. When she didn't show up at school one morning, someone went to see if she was hurt—and found her house trashed, all her files and computer gone, but no sign of her.

And her valuables untouched. No ordinary burglars.

Her neighbors had nothing. But they'd heard the familiar sounds of the sirens and car doors slamming and thumping feet in the middle of the night . . . and closed their houses up tight.

A terrorist, claimed the HSS, inciting her students to rebel against the state.

A homely grandmother, a dedicated teacher, loved by her students, and respected by the community a terrorist? For teaching her students the meaning of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness?

Amanda Green was the spark that lit the fire. It started quietly, like a burning ember, as groups held sporadic protests here and there. Only to be brutally repressed by the HSS police.

The TV coverage inflamed the nation. Within days millions of people across the country were parading with signs saying "Liberty or Death," "Don't Tread on Me" and even "Taxation is Theft."

One night an IRS office was burned down and somebody calling himself Tom Paine appeared on the web, urging people to strangle the government peacefully by refusing to pay taxes. As the idea caught on, the government called out the army to help the police help the tax collectors to "do their duty." Despite widespread support for the revolt, the government was winning until a couple of big corporations announced they were joining in.

The way my grandad told me as a kid, the people united against the hated government and brought it tumbling down.

Of course, it wasn't that simple or that easy, as I later found out. And I also learnt how granddad had persuaded some of his fellow policemen to do their real duty: protect the public. The sight of police standing between the army and the people inspired thousands of other policemen to do the same. When soldiers started joining them, the government had no choice but to cave in.

When the government collapsed the oil-rich states of the Middle East spotted an opportunity and hired a remnant of the US army to "liberate" the Muslims of the Philippines. They had no trouble at all gathering a seasoned force of veterans who were highly skilled in killing people.

That generated an enormous controversy. The soldiers were severely criticized for working for a government. Some pointed out it's a free country—at least now it is, with government gone—so anyone's free to work for anyone . . . including mercenaries. Others said that, right or wrong, it's better for us that these people are somewhere on the other side of the world.

The oil sheiks started a trend: pretty soon American mercenaries were fighting other people's wars for them all round the world. As they still are.

The Philippines—which used to be pretty much all the islands between Taiwan and Borneo—disintegrated. The Philippine Army was no match for the Americans, who threw them out of Mindanao in a couple of weeks. Once Mindanao declared its independence other islands followed suit. Local elites grabbed control, often with the help of a few hundred American mercenaries, and the country disintegrated into a patchwork of competing warlords. What's called the Philippines today is the island of Luzon and not much more.

The ride from the airport to the hotel—a slow crawl through an almost continuous traffic jam on what was labeled an "expressway," interrupted only by detours around numerous potholes—did nothing to convince me that much had improved in three generations. Beggars in rags cadged pennies from millionaires riding in chauffer-driven air-conditioned limousines. Here, a glitzy apartment building that wouldn't have been out of place in San Francisco stood opposite a pile of garbage blocking the sidewalk and spilling out onto the street; there, a wall topped by razor-sharp barbed wire prevented the wealthy occupants of a village from seeing the teeming slums across the street.

My guess was that Murdock was merely waiting for the heat to die down before moving on.

Andy had set up twenty-four-hour surveillance on Murdock. Two of our operatives had moved into one of the condos as a "couple," and had even become vaguely friendly with Murdock and Sophia Ackerman. Murdock's story, they were told, was that he and his "wife" were retired and were taking a slow, multi-year trip around the world. His next stop? "Well, when we've finished here we'll decide. Maybe flip a coin. Who can say?"

Andy introduced me to our local contact, José Guzman, known to everyone as "Boyet," who I'd called on to help Andy "meet" Sophia Ackerman off the plane.

"We've got one of our people in the condo security force, and three or four others discreetly patrolling the streets around the building."

"Is that enough?" I asked.

"You have to understand that in the Philippines most everything is the opposite to what you're used to. For example, in America, you have law but no government; here we have government but no law."

"Maybe it's jetlag, but I don't get it."

"The system here works on grease. Bribery and corruption. Of course there are laws—the government makes new ones every day. But whether they're enforced, or how, depends on who pays what to whom. Going to court here is like going to an auction.

"What that means is everything and everyone is for sale. So you've got to know who you can really trust. That's why I've put so few people onto Murdock. Once somebody talks, inevitably it will get back to Murdock or the people he's paid off, and your bird will fly away."

"So what do we do? And there's no extradition agreement we can use."

"Andy and I have talked about that. Here's what I suggest we do. . . ."

It took another week of long days and sleepless nights, intense negotiations, not to mention considerable expense, before we were ready to spring the trap on Murdock. Speed, Boyet stressed, was the essence—a difficult proposition in a country where the local equivalent of the Mexican word mañana didn't have quite the same sense of urgency—to make sure Murdock didn't get wind of what we were up to.

As every day passed, more and more people were involved. We did our best to ensure secrecy by paying officials—up to and including the President—bribes we were pretty sure Murdock couldn't match; and one condition of the payments was that 80 percent of the money only got paid when Murdock was on a plane out of the country in handcuffs.

That didn't mean someone who got wind of things couldn't extract a healthy "reward" from Murdock for tipping him off. In my nightmares I was part of a gun battle between two groups of rent-a-cops on the streets of Manila.

On the appointed day, Tim—one of our two operatives who'd befriended Murdock—knocked on the door of his apartment. I, Andy, Boyet, the local chief of police and a couple of cops stood well back from the door. Other police, teamed up with Boyet's people, stood guard on the apartment's rear entrance, and took control of the lobby to guard the elevators as well as prevent the security guards from giving any warning.

"Hey, Tim, come in," said Murdock as he opened the door. Tim took a step forward and then pushed Murdock hard in the chest so he fell backward, landing in a heap on the floor. We rushed in, guns drawn.

"You bastards. And you," he screamed, pointing at Tim, "are a low-down, lying, shit-faced scum of the earth."

Two of the cops pulled him up and handcuffed his wrists behind his back. I heard a crash as Andy put his foot through one of the bedroom doors. In a moment a chastened Sophia Ackerman was led into the living room.

"You bitch," said Murdock, his face reddening with his fury. "You brought them here." Forgetting the handcuffs, he struggled to hit her. Realizing he couldn't, he spat in her face instead.

"Yes," said Andy, smiling, "she led me a merry chase. Almost lost her a couple of times. And it looks like we got here just in time: she was packing for a trip."

"And I never saw you, damn your eyes," she said.

"Another hour, we'd have been outta here," said Murdock. "You bastards." I managed to pirouette out of the way as he spat again in my direction.

"Anyway," he said, pulling himself up and trying to look officious and innocent at the same time, "you have no right to be here. I've committed no crime. What's this all about?"

The chief of police pulled out a thick file of papers. Waving them in Murdock's direction he explained: "I have here an order of extradition, signed by the President of the Philippines, for the apprehension of Gerald Murdock and Sophia—"

"Gerald who?" said Murdock.

"You," I said. "The goatee and the nose job are certainly a good disguise. Even if you've changed your fingerprints all we have to do is pull off those contact lenses and a retina scan will be conclusive."

Murdock's shoulders slumped.

Sophia Ackerman turned to the chief of police: "You have a warrant for my arrest? On what grounds?"

"Embezzlement, false pretences, defrauding an insurance company," he replied.

"I've not been convicted of any such thing," she said adamantly.

"True and not true. At the same time," I said.

A puzzled look crossed her face. "What bullshit!"

"This gentleman here," I said, indicating the chief of police, "has a presidential order to extradite you from the country. So you must have been convicted. Here, at least. By the time we land in San Francisco, All-Risks will have presented its case before an adjudicator. In your absence there's a chance the hearing will find, prima facie, against you. The best you can hope for is a new date for the hearing, since All-Risks won't have given the proper notice."

"Anyway," said Murdock, "what's this about extradition? The Philippines has no extradition treaty with America."

"It does now. Here," I said, pulling out a sheaf of papers, "is a treaty between All-Risks and the government of the Philippines, signed by the President. Something for you to read . . . on the plane."

"That can't be legal," said Murdock. "Don't you need an act of Congress or something? Presidential order ain't enough. I want to talk to my lawyer."

"That won't be possible," said the chief of police. Pulling out another sheet of paper which he offered to Murdock, grinning when he remembered the handcuffs, he continued: "This is an order for your immediate deportation. It seems that your visa, as well as Miss Ackerman's, has expired."

Murdock looked like he was about to explode. Then his body relaxed and he turned to me with a glint of admiration in his eyes. "You really pulled out all the stops, eh?"

"Well, Berkshire Re did."

"Oh, that I didn't know."

"You know, you'd have done better to stay at home," I told him. "Not in San Francisco, of course. Some other American city. With your money, your disguise and new fingerprints, just by avoiding retina scans we might never have found you. In a place where government is for sale, you can always be outbid."

"Maybe you're right," he said.

"Look on the bright side. Here, the penalty for murder is death. Back home, all you have to do is pay back all the money and you're a free man." The prospect didn't seem to be all that appealing to Murdock. I could sympathize: from wealth to poverty in matter of moments.

"And what about me?" asked Sophia Ackerman.

"Same thing. The presumption is you're an accessory to murder. That was your plan, right?" I said, looking from one to the other. "You were after Ackerman's insurance—the 110,115 gold ounces Sophia got for your murder of hubbie."

They stared at me blankly, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.

I looked at Sophia admiringly—an easy thing to do.

"You're a good actress," I said. "I saw the holo."

She spat at me, this time connecting.

"Time to go," said Andy, looking at his watch.

"Right," I agreed, wiping the spittle off my face. "Let's move—we all have a plane to catch."

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Framed

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Renegade

by Mark Tier

On the giant screen in Union Square a marine running full tilt toward the camera suddenly spurted blood where his head had been. I was glad there was no sound—I felt sick enough already.

Before I could wonder what had happened to the cameraman the screen blanked for a fraction of a second, and the scene shifted to a bird's-eye view of the jungle battle. And then cut to an ad.

On the old-fashioned ticker underneath—a copy of the relic in Times Square—the headline marines retreat appeared, one letter at a time.

A screech of brakes and the sound of scrunching steel jerked my attention back to the street. Most everyone on the sidewalk had come to a dead halt. Including me—and I hadn't even noticed. I suddenly became aware of the unnatural silence: after all, it's not every day you see someone's head blown off live on a five-hundred-foot three-dimensional screen. Drivers were mesmerized too. One of them must have hit the brakes and taken his car out of automatic. The roadnet braked the cars behind, but not fast enough to prevent a spectacular pile-up.

A lady nearby was throwing up in the gutter. My stomach started to churn so I took a few steps back. I felt a bit sick too, but I couldn't feel sorry for the guy. He'd volunteered knowing full well what the risks were. And was—had been—highly paid to take them. After all, every man and woman in both the Eighth Army and the Marines get a share of the holo and web rights. With the ratings on this mêlée his family, if he had one, will be well taken care of.

How much time had passed? More than I thought. Now I had to hurry to be at the hearing on time. As I and hundreds of others started moving again the normal Union Square bustle returned. Though it would be a while before the traffic followed suit.

8th army odds on; marines 27–1 was now scrolling across the ticker. I'm not a gambling man but I can't resist an all-but-sure-thing. 27 to 1! That was like taking candy from the mouths of babes.

A few taps on my phone and I learned that the US Marines were retreating all across the front. But the retreat was slow and it didn't seem like they were about to fold. Sure wouldn't do their marketing image any good if they gave up so easily. We Never Quit was their motto.

If they only held out for just a few days I'd clean up. A good friend of mine, an executive of the Eighth Army Inc. had told me that their client—don't ask me whether it was the government of Colombia or the government of Venezuela; I haven't really been following this fracas too closely—had run out of money. That's real money I mean: they had plenty of that stuff they printed down there, whatever they called it, and a wheelbarrow full of it and a silver dime might get you a cup of coffee in San Francisco if the vendor was short of toilet paper.

Whichever gang of thugs it was, if they didn't pay up by Monday the Eighth Army Inc. was flying straight back home. Today was Friday. Planes and choppers were on standby over in Florida to pull them out at a moment's notice. Then all that would stand between the US Marines and the thugs running Venezuela (or Colombia) was the ragtag gaggle of bandits they called their army.

Those marines would walk it in the rest of the way. And the bookies would have to pay up.

A few more taps and I placed two hundred ounces (gold, not silver) on the Marines to win. If the Eighth Army pulled a rabbit out of the hat over the weekend, losing that gold would hurt, but it wouldn't kill me. Like I told you, I'm not a gambling man. You always gotta calculate the odds. If you work with an insurance company for as long as I have without learning that you're still pushing paper.

The phone beeped to tell me I had a couple of minutes to be on time. Then it rang and Joe's ugly face (he's my partner) appeared on the screen. "Where the hell are you?" he growled.

I looked to find out. "Just walking into the lobby of the building," I told him. I turned the phone so he could see for himself.

He harrumphed, and his face disappeared from the screen. Joe was like that: didn't waste any time on pleasantries. Wasn't much good with small talk either.

I took my seat just before the judge walked in, followed by his staff. Adjudicator-in-Chief was his official title, but everybody called them judges.

When he was young, my granddad became a cop just before the tax revolt brought down the government and cops disappeared altogether. Here, anyway. I guess there are still cops in Colombia (or Venezuela) and other places which still have governments. What he told me about judges in his time bears no relation to adjudicators today. For a start, adjudicators are unbribable. Well, Chief Adjudicators. Offer one of them a bribe and he resigns your case. Then you're in deep doodoo. Boycotted. You'll never get another reputable adjudication outfit to take you on.

In a way, I guess I'm following in my grandfather's footsteps. Joe and I run San Francisco Investigations, one of the biggest agencies in the city. Occasionally we do some of the things cops used to do. Like today's case: murder.

Judge Wainwright was pushing eighty, though you'd never have guessed it. He strode into the room with the walk and energy of a much younger man. That, and his full head of hair—even if it was gray—meant he could pass for fifty-something. I resolved once again to spend more time at the gym—his youthful look made me jealous. Hell, he looks younger than I am!

Wainwright commanded the highest fees in the business, such was his experience and reputation for impartiality. Any of the freshmen advocates from his firm could have easily handled today's case. I'd expected one of them to be mediating. So why does All-Risk Insurance—they're our biggest client—want to spend so much money when any junior could have taken his place for peanuts? It didn't figure.

Wainwright sat down at the head of the table in the center of the room. Adjudicators' hearing rooms are often highly personalized. This design was one of the more interesting.

The only way to know this table's "head" is by where the judge sits. It's almost, but not quite, circular. Look a second time and it seems triangular. It's both.

Wainwright's staff arranged themselves on one side of the circular triangle. The All-Risk team sat at another.

To any casual watcher on the web it should have been immediately clear why a junior adjudicator could have handled this hearing: the third side was empty. The defendant, Gerald Murdock—the murderer—wasn't represented. And he hadn't shown up. Not that anyone expected him to: he'd disappeared straight after the murder and no one knew—or was willing to tell—where he'd gone.

That's why Joe and I were both here. Our firm had handled the case; we carried out the investigation, took the depositions, and so on. The moment the adjudicator ruled we were going to have to find the guy and get him to cough up what the judge was about to decide he owed.

Anyone who knew nothing about the killing of Randolph Ackerman had to be blind, deaf and dumb. With group sex, drugs, wife- and secretary-swapping, questionable business deals, not to mention nude bodies (one of them dead) and a murderer who'd done a disappearing act with bundles of money, the tabloids had a field day.

Last Saturday evening Gerald Murdock joined Randolph Ackerman for dinner and a group sex party at Ackerman's penthouse on Nob Hill. Murdock's secretary, Annabelle Pearson, Ackerman's wife, Sophia, and her sister, Jude, were also there to join in the fun and games.

The two men had a few business interests together and over the last couple of years there'd been lots of friction and disagreement between them. Apparently, both of them felt their partner was getting more than his fair share of the profits. They'd come to a peace agreement, and the purpose of the dinner was to celebrate and cement it. Bury the hatchet, if you will.

After dinner, after several bottles of wine, tabs of cocaine and God knows what other cocktails, and lots of group groping, Ackerman and Murdock got into an argument over one of the women. The argument quickly degenerated into a vicious rehash of every accusation they'd ever made against each other.

Seemingly livid with rage, Murdock grabbed a gun from his jacket and shot Ackerman between the eyes. Waving the gun at the women he quickly dressed, ran out of the apartment, down the stairs and into a passing cab.

The women were so stunned—not to mention drunk and/or drugged—that they were slow to act. They first called an ambulance, which arrived just minutes after Murdock had left the building. Not that an ambulance was any help to Ackerman by then. Only after that did they call security. The place was crawling with armed guards (ours) just moments after the ambulance arrived. Just moments too late.

Both witnesses—Annabelle Pearson played mute—agreed with each other down to most of the fine details. And since they were both interviewed while the body was being taken away, still semi-naked, wrapped in sheets or towels, they didn't have time to concoct any fairytales.

Ackerman's hobby, however, made it an open and shut case. Seems he liked to record his sex parties with multiple holographic cameras and then edit them into home porn shows. He had hundreds of them. Someone bootlegged the files. The murder—along with Ackerman's entire porn library—is readily available all over cyberspace. It's the worst thing to hit Hollywood and the holo nets in years.

We tracked down the cab Murdock had picked up on Nob Hill. He'd gotten out at Union Square, and then his trail disappeared. We couldn't find any trace of him. We figured he had a car parked there and a second identity already fixed up, probably with one of the sleazier insurance outfits.

By Monday it was obvious that Murdock hadn't fired that shot in a moment of angry passion. Over the previous months he'd quietly sold all his business interests and closed his stock and bank accounts. He'd turned the last of his real estate into cash just the week before. All but one of his bank accounts were cleaned out. He'd even managed to skim some of the cash from his joint ventures with Ackerman just minutes before the banks closed on Saturday. Ackerman hadn't suspected a thing.

One of his companies remained. The reason emerged when we asked the Insurance Association data bank for information on Gerald Murdock: he had no insurance cover whatsoever in his own name. One reason he wasn't represented before the adjudicator.

His sole remaining company, GMR Holdings, was insured. With the Mafia Corporation of Washington, DC. They weren't too cooperative. Never were: just the minimum level to ensure that other insurance agencies cooperated with them when they needed it. It was part of their heritage. At least according to their marketing, they were proud of their history as a private protection agency back when the government kept trying to put any competitor out of business.

As Mafia insured the company, not Murdock, they were under no obligation to give us the time of day. When we called they were as mute as mollusks.

And on Monday Annabelle Pearson paid every remaining bill and proceeded to shut that company down too.

All the money was gone. Thousands of gold ounces.

Gerald Murdock's legal identity had been tied to his company. His credit cards, bank accounts, agreements and everything else. Very clever. He could deal normally in our society and any trace would lead back to his company, not him.

It also meant there were no records of Murdock: no voiceprints, fingerprints or retina scans on file that we could access to help track him down.

We made a voiceprint from Ackerman's holo of the party. We found fingerprints that were probably Murdock's. We ran them through the data bank and—as I'd expected—drew a blank.

It was as if Gerald Murdock didn't exist. No doubt exactly what he had in mind.

"Good morning, gentlemen," said Wainwright. "We're here today to adjudicate the accusation that Gerald Murdock murdered Randolph Ackerman. Is Mr. Murdock present?"

When there was no answer, Wainwright asked, "Since Mr. Murdock does not appear to be here, who stands to speak for him?"

Again, no answer.

Wainwright was a stickler for procedures. He already knew that Murdock wasn't represented. But any missing step could give grounds for a rehearing or appeal. If Murdock ever surfaced to make a challenge.

"Who speaks for the estate of Randolph Ackerman?"

"I do, sir."

Joe and I looked at each other and I could see he felt as startled as me. Martin Li, the attorney who'd answered, billed more per hour than Wainwright. As usual, I was surprised I hadn't noticed him before. Strangely for a lawyer, he seemed to disappear in a crowd. Yet he was an extraordinarily handsome man. Eurasian most likely. But you just didn't see him until he began to use his deep, penetrating voice. From that moment on, I always had difficulty pulling my eyes away from him.

So why did All-Risks want two of the highest-powered guys in the business on this case? No reason popped into my head, but I had the uncomfortable feeling that it would somehow involve us.

This case had moved at lightning speed. Murder Saturday; evidence all assembled by Thursday morning; hearing today. No defendant to argue with helped. Still, fast in our business was normally two to three weeks between crime and hearing for an open and shut case. Ever since Sunday night, our office had looked more like a student dorm without maid service than a place of business. I don't think any of us had had a good night's sleep all week.

"Be it noted that Gerald Murdock has failed to appear to contest the charges against him," Wainwright said. Turning to Li he asked, "Do you contend that this hearing has jurisdiction over the case?"

"Indeed it does, sir. Mind if I walk around? I think better."

Wainwright waved his hand in a gesture of assent.

"It is conceivable that by his absence," said Li as he paced slowly from one side of the room to the other, "from the fact that he is not represented here today the defendant, Gerald Murdock, could argue that this hearing does not have jurisdiction.

"If he did, he would be wrong.

"Randolph Ackerman was a client of All-Risk Insurance. His person and his property, including his apartment, were insured by All-Risk under a general all-risk policy. That policy included legal representation and mediation with other members of the Insurance Association and their clients. That policy was registered with the Association.

"When Gerald Murdock entered Ackerman's apartment on Saturday night, he implicitly agreed to place himself under the rules of Ackerman's policy with All-Risk."

"Was there a notice to this effect?" asked Wainwright.

"Yes, sir," answered Li. "On all entrances to Ackerman's apartment."

These signs are so common the only time I become aware of them is when they aren't there. They usually read:

WARNING

This property is insured by XYZ Insurance Co.
By entering this property you agree to be bound by the rules of the policy and the
American Insurance Association.

"Has this been attested?" asked Wainwright.

"Yes, sir." One of Li's assistants passed a file to Wainwright, who quickly skimmed through it. Though I'd bet he'd read it all before.

"As Gerald Murdock is neither represented here today, nor has he any known contract with any member of the American Insurance Association, or any of the other insurance associations in North America, he is uninsured. And was uninsured at the time Randolph Ackerman died." Li's assistant passed another folder to Wainwright. "In that file," Li continued, "are the results of our search for any insurance cover of Gerald Murdock.

"Being uninsured, any of his actions while upon the property of Randolph Ackerman are to be adjudicated by the rules of Ackerman's policy with All-Risk Insurance. He implicitly agreed to that upon entry."

Two more files were pushed across the table to Wainwright. They'd be copies of Ackerman's policy and All-Risk's rules.

"In that case," said Wainwright, "I hereby rule that this hearing has the legal jurisdiction to adjudicate the accusation that Gerald Murdock murdered Randolph Ackerman."

Every adjudication session began with these formalities. Now they were over, Wainwright turned with obvious relief to Li and asked, "Is there anything you'd like to add to your brief?"

Knowing Wainwright, he'd already mastered every nuance of the evidence the All-Risk team had prepared—including any errors or omissions. Today's hearing was, other than the decision itself, the final part of the adjudication process.

"No sir," answered Li.

"Then, please proceed with your summary."

"The facts are clear," said Li. "At 11:07 last Saturday evening, Gerald Murdock shot Randolph Ackerman. The time was established from Ackerman's holo. He died instantly, according to the doctor who examined the body. Murdock left the apartment, hailed a cab, got off at Union Square, and hasn't been seen since.

"These facts were established from interviews with two of the three witnesses, Sophia Ackerman, the victim's wife, and Jude Schwarz, her sister, and from the holo. A secure copy of the holo was made immediately. It was discovered by bonded detectives from San Francisco Investigations.

"The third witness, Annabelle Pearson, Murdock's secretary, refused to answer any questions."

My attention was again riveted to Martin Li. I was vaguely aware that Wainwright sat stock still, like a gray stone god, only his eyes moving as Li walked.

"Both witnesses agreed that no one had been near the computer recording the holo, a fact borne out by the holo itself. Between the murder and the time the detectives entered the apartment twelve minutes later, none of the three women or the medics went anywhere near the computer. There was no one else in the apartment at the time: the maid and the butler who served dinner had already gone home."

Wainwright made a cryptic note with his pencil, the first time he'd moved since Li began to speak.

"Bonded computer experts testified that the only access to the holo files was through the terminal in the living room, and the terminal in Ackerman's study which could only be entered from the living room.

"Since there can be no question of the veracity of the holographic file of the murder that we have presented in evidence, it is clear that Gerald Murdock is guilty of the murder of Randolph Ackerman beyond a shadow of doubt."

Li stopped pacing for a moment and let silence hang over the room.

"We have prepared significant excerpts from the holos and depositions that show these facts. Would you care to review them, sir?"

"No need," said Wainwright. "However, please show me evidence that supports your contention that no one went near the computer terminals."

"Certainly sir." Turning to one of his assistants, he continued, "Blair, can you bring up the holo at the time of the murder."

"Alleged murder please, Mr. Li. Murder—or otherwise—has yet to be determined."

"Of course, sir."

The holo shimmered and then solidified on top of the table. Murdock was frozen with his hand reaching into his jacket. Ackerman stood naked in the center of the room, his face bright red, his mouth open in the middle of a scream. The three women lay on the sofa or the floor in different states of undress.

Li walked around the table to stand behind his assistant. He spoke softly and the scene revolved. After a moment, a door and a terminal were highlighted.

"This is the computer terminal in the living room," he said, and leaned over the table putting his hand inside the holo to point at the keyboard. "And this—" he pointed at the highlighted door "—is the only entrance into the study, with the only other terminal that could access these files."

At a gesture from Li, another of his assistants passed two files to Wainwright. "These files show the layout of the computers, and which terminal could access which file type, kind and level of security," said Li, "and the layout of Ackerman's penthouse apartment."

"Thank you," said Wainwright, making another note. "Continue," he said, looking at Li.

Li said a few more quiet words to his assistant, and stepped back.

"We'll hold the holo on the door and the keyboard and fast forward it to the moment the secure copy was made." As he spoke Murdock sprang to life and for the second time today I saw a man die. This one didn't affect me nearly as much. I'd seen it before, and knew it was coming.

I felt like laughing at the way Murdock dressed and disappeared in a flurry of clothing and as the three almost-naked women seemed to run every which way across the room. A team of medics appeared and suddenly the room seemed to overflow with armed men. As one of them looked into the study the picture slowed back to normal speed.

"As you can see, this is the first time anyone has been near the keyboard or the door," Li said.

Sam Renkin, one of our investigators, sat down at the keyboard. A moment later he said, "Hey, this thing is recording something."

Li signaled his assistant and the holo stopped. "From this moment on," he said, "this man, Sam Renkin, a bonded detective from San Francisco Investigations never left the keyboard until a secure copy of the files on the computer was made.

"One other point. These files could be accessed by voice, but only by Ackerman's voice. The computer would respond to Mrs. Ackerman's voice for other commands. Otherwise, only with a password that Mrs. Ackerman said she did not know. Indeed, when Mr. Renkin asked her if she'd known that the computer was recording everything, she went into shock and had to be treated by the medics."

Turning to Wainwright he asked, "Do you have any other questions, sir?"

With a slight shake of his head, Wainwright indicated that Li should continue. As the holo shimmered and disappeared Wainwright ceased being a faint shadow behind Sam Renkin's face.

"In our brief, we outlined the substantial circumstantial evidence that strongly suggests Murdock had murder in mind when he arrived for dinner.

"But the facts are clear. At 11:07 last Saturday evening, Gerald Murdock shot and killed Randolph Ackerman. There can be no doubt that Murdock is guilty of murder. For that reason, whether he killed Murdock in a fit of anger or, as we submit, as part of a long-standing plan makes absolutely no difference to the penalty we seek.

"Gerald Murdock is guilty."

Li took a sheet of paper from his place at the table and passed it to Wainwright.

"Murdock is guilty of murder beyond a shadow of doubt. The high probability that the murder was premeditated merely adds weight to our claim that Murdock pay the highest penalty the law allows.

"And it's to that penalty I'd now like to turn."

"We submit that Murdock be required to pay to All-Risk Insurance the sum of 125,115 gold ounces, plus all costs, with interest."

The amount Li asked for drew a low whistle of astonishment from several spectators, including me. People started whispering to each other until Wainwright's sharp "Quiet, please," brought silence back to the room.

"Continue."

"Certainly, sir," said Li. "If he fails to pay the penalty, ownership of all property identified as belonging to him be transferred to All-Risk Insurance in full or partial settlement of the penalty. And as he has disappeared entirely and has no known legal identity, we ask that Gerald Murdock be declared a renegade and outlaw until such time as the penalty is paid in full."

Now I understood why they'd rushed to have this case adjudicated. They'd be able to take ownership of Murdock's companies. GMR Holdings was the only one left, but if they could grab it before Annabelle Pearson closed it down completely they'd have a chance of being able to trace the money and, with it, Murdock.

Correction: We'd have a chance. Joe and I were going to be the ones who had to find him.

"As we all know, and as Murdock must also know, the penalty for murder is restitution to the heirs of the victim for the value of the life taken, and restitution of any other damages directly attributable to the death.

"Ackerman's life was insured by All-Risk for the sum of fifteen thousand gold ounces. We seek reimbursement of that amount.

"In addition, Ackerman's policy with All-Risk includes coverage of violent death, such as murder.

"Because of this provision, All-Risk had complete access to Ackerman's financial records and routinely updated this risk. The calculation of the value of Ackerman's life, based on the present value of his estimated future earning power, totals 110,115 gold ounces. This amount is exhaustively documented in the brief, using standard Insurance Association scales."

That was a big number, even for someone as wealthy as Ackerman. It's a number you could easily lowball. That was one of the things I liked about All-Risk: they never stiffed their customers.

And how do you figure someone's future earning potential? You make lots of assumptions. Assumptions that would have been challenged—if there'd been a Murdock representative to challenge them.

"The penalty we seek includes reimbursement of the fifteen thousand gold ounces in life insurance cover that All-Risk has already paid to Ackerman's widow, Sophia Ackerman, and the sum of 110,115 gold ounces that would become immediately due and payable by All-Risk Insurance.

"We also submit that the penalty include all the costs of the investigation and these proceedings to date, plus the costs yet to be disbursed in finding the defendant and recovering the penalty.

"Finally, that the penalty include interest on the outstanding amount from the moment the decision of these proceedings is finalized to the time the penalty has been recovered in full."

Wainwright was looking at the papers Li had given him. When Li stopped talking, he looked up.

"Subject to any questions, the plaintiff rests."

"No questions," said Wainwright. In a louder voice, looking around the room, "Is there anyone here to speak for Gerald Murdock?"

Once more he was greeted with silence.

"In that case, this hearing is adjourned until two o'clock." As Wainwright stood up his assistants followed suit. A hubbub of conversation quickly filled the silence as they left the room.

I grabbed Joe by the arm. "Let's go and talk to Li before everybody else does."

A loose knot of people had gathered around him. I squeezed through and offered him my hand. "Nicely put, counselor."

"Hi Ray." He smiled at me. "Joe."

"We were surprised to see both you and Wainwright here today."

"I think the idea is they don't want the faintest question as to the probity of the verdict."

Up close, I noticed that his eyes looked tired. "Looks like you haven't had much sleep recently. Either."

He laughed. "We're hoping to give you a warm trail to follow. If there's any trail at all."

"There's always something—"

"Ah, there you are." A voice came from behind me. "Joe. Ray. We need to talk right away." I turned as somebody's hand grabbed my arm and started tugging it gently.

"Hi, Fritz. Anyone here had any sleep this week?" Fritz Gandhi—he had an Indian father and a German mother—was chief of All-Risk's San Francisco bureau.

"Plenty of time for that next week. Or next month," he said.

"Looks like I have to go," I said to Martin. "See you at two."

"I wouldn't count on it," said Fritz. "You'll be too busy."

Joe and I followed Fritz into a nearby room along with a number of people I recognized from his office. A woman I did not know, who was stunningly attractive despite her full head of gray hair, was already sitting at the table.

"Ray, Joe, I'd like you to meet Noni Brooks. Noni, this is Ray Black and Joe Herrera. They head San Francisco Investigations."

"Good," she said. I presumed our reputation had preceded us. "I'm pleased to meet you."

"Noni's from Berkshire Re," Fritz explained. "They have—potentially—a large interest in this case."

"The violent death cover?" Joe asked. Noni and Fritz both nodded.

Noni Brooks certainly didn't waste any time. "The question is: can you find Gerald Murdock?" But her look seemed to say, If you can't, we'll get someone who can.

Berkshire Re is the biggest—and smartest—insurance outfit in the world. They obviously wanted Murdock and his money found. And they don't take "impossible" as an answer.

"What's the budget?" asked Joe.

"Five hundred ounces," said Noni.

"To start with," added Fritz.

"You're assuming Wainwright will find him guilty," I said.

"No," said Noni, "we're not assuming that. Though we expect he will." She looked at her watch. "Judge Wainwright will give his decision three and a half hours from now. If we just sit around and wait till then and the verdict is guilty, that's three and a half hours we've lost.

"Do I need to point out the obvious? It's Friday already, and this man is going to be very hard to find. His trail's getting colder by the minute. One extra hour could be the difference between success and failure."

What about the five days we've already lost? I thought to myself. But I said, "If anyone can find him, we can." Joe nodded his agreement.

"As far as you're concerned," said Fritz, "Wainwright has already pronounced him guilty. We'll call you when he announces his decision but we want you to be ready to move the moment he does."

"GMR Holdings," said Joe.

"That's right," said Fritz. "Follow the money. We've got all the papers ready: five minutes after Wainwright rules we'll be in possession of the company. Then we have to get Murdock's secretary out of the office and see what she's left for us to find."

"I want to see the bank records," I said. "Murdock disappeared at Union Square Saturday night. Like the Invisible Man. Feels like we've been hitting our heads against a brick wall ever since."

"That's exactly the point," said Fritz. "Somewhere in the company's records should be a warm trail to follow. At least a lead, a hint of some kind."

"Looks like our only bet," said Joe.

Noni Brooks shook her head. "There'll be a reward. One thousand ounces for information that leads us to Murdock."

"Who'll screen the replies?" asked Joe.

"We want you to do that. You're the experts," said Fritz.

"That'll cost extra," said Joe. "Murdock will be 'seen' all over the world."

"We only need one."

"Yeah. But figuring which is the right one will cost a fortune."

Fritz turned to Noni, who nodded her head.

"Okay," he said. "We're also going after the money Murdock skimmed from the joint venture companies. We're claiming Murdock broke the partnership agreements which would make it theft."

"But I thought he had the right to withdraw that money," I said.

"He had the right to spend the money on joint venture business. Not to pay himself without Ackerman's agreement. Anyway, we'll have a judgment in a day or three. If the judge rules against Murdock, he'll be guilty of theft as well as murder."

"Good," said Joe.

Everybody turned to look at him. "Why?" someone asked.

"Never mind now," said Fritz. "It's time we got moving."

"Who's handing things on your end?" Joe asked.

"Tony Ramirez. He's expecting your call."

"What I want to know," said Joe, to no one in particular, "is why did he do it? What's his motive?"

"Greed or lust," said Joe as we walked out onto Geary.

"What about revenge?"

Joe shook his head. "Doesn't figure."

"Hang on a minute," said Joe. He stepped into the tobacco store we'd just passed.

"Heavens above," he said, jogging up to where I'd stopped. He stared at his phone in one hand and a packet of Maui Wowie Lights in the other. "They've gone down in price again!"

I jangled the coins in my pocket. Joe never carried any, always paying by phone. Call me weird if you like, but I enjoy the feel, the weight of gold and silver.

"So what's new?" I asked.

"They dropped last month, and they're down again already."

Thinking of our payroll I said, "Wish salaries went down like everything else."

"Yeah," he grunted.

"So what do you want with them?" I asked him.

"Added inspiration."

"I'm inspired enough already."

"I said added inspiration, you dummy. I want to watch the holo. There's bound to be something, something somebody said or did, that will give us a clue."

The rest of the morning disappeared in a blaze of activity. But at two o'clock we were ready. At 2:05 Wainwright announced his decision: Guilty. At 2:10 one team from All-Risk, along with some of our operatives, moved into Murdock's office. A second team went to the Bank of San Francisco. At 2:15 they zapped us the account records of GMR Holdings.

"What's the time in Switzerland?" asked Joe as the records scrolled across the screen.

I thought for a minute. "Bedtime, I'd say."

"Damn. Bet Swiss banks aren't open Saturdays, either." Joe pointed at the screen. "I don't like the look of that." His fingers danced over the keyboard and the screen split into half a dozen different displays.

"See," he said. "All the money was sent to Swiss banks. All these transfers—" all but one of the displays lit up "—went to three different Swiss banks. Union Bank, Credit Suisse, Bank Leu. All big names."

"We should get some cooperation out of them. What's the problem?"

Joe punched a button on the keyboard and the display that hadn't been highlighted filled the screen.

"Right there. That wire went Saturday. Anstalt Bank. Where the hell is Vaduz, anyway?" He highlighted the bank's name and an information screen appeared. "Vaduz, Liechtenstein. Oh hell."

"Liechtenstein," I murmured. "So how do we stand with them?"

"Those guys in Liechtenstein don't say 'boo' to their own mothers. Let's see. Court order required," he read from a new display. "Hmmm. To get that, the whole case has to be retried in Vaduz. Witnesses. Everything. God knows how long that would take—years possibly. They don't recognize our adjudication process."

"Anyway," I said, "what's the bet all the money is some other place."

"Ha. Want me to take the wrong side of a sure thing?

The phone rang and a message blinked on the screen that Tony Ramirez was calling. "Good," said Joe as he pushed the Accept button. Tony's face appeared on the screen.

"Seen the bank records?" he asked.

"Yeah," said Joe. "Liechtenstein."

"And Switzerland, which is a bit more cooperative. Monday, we'll be filing cases in both places."

"So what are the chances of getting any information?" I asked.

"Not good," said Ramirez. "Better, though, when we get a ruling that Murdock stole the money from the joint ventures. That case should be finished this afternoon.

"You got anything?"

"Lots of questions," said Joe. "You got any answers?"

"Lots," Ramirez laughed. "See what you guys can dig up in Switzerland."

"Sure. We'll be on the next ship out. Let us know if they find Murdock guilty of theft."

"Will do."

After Tony had signed off Joe asked me, "Who is our guy in Switzerland?"

"Günter Lattman. Remember?"

"Let's call him." Günter's number appeared on the screen.

"Wait! How cooperative do you think he'll be if you wake him up in the middle of the night."

"You're right," Joe said, grudgingly.

"Send him a message, ask him to call us as soon as he can. Let him wake us up in the middle of the night."

Joe nodded as the phone rang again. It was Andy, one of our investigators who'd gone with the All-Risk team to Murdock's office.

"What did you find?" I asked.

"She didn't leave much for us to find. Most of the computers have been wiped clean. We'll see what we can recover, but I wouldn't hold your breath. She's had a whole week."

"Anything at all?"

"Well . . . I don't know. We haven't moved anything yet. I'd like you to come down and have a look. Joe, I mean. My gut feeling is he might smell something."

I didn't take offense. Joe's "nose" had taken on a mystical quality in our company.

"We're on our way."

What had clearly been Murdock's office had a wonderful, close-up view of the building next door. We entered through a general office/reception area with three desks. One other door led into a smaller office which had been Annabelle Pearson's.

Joe stood in the center of Murdock's office, deep in thought. We all knew better than to interrupt him when he was in this state.

This office, like the others, had been all but stripped clean. Other than a few papers in the trash cans, a few files lying around, some old newspapers and magazines, all that was left was two bookshelves full of books. Mostly travel guides.

After a while Joe said, "It's too obvious." One of the All-Risk guys started to ask him, "What—and was silenced. "Wait," somebody whispered to him.

Joe walked to one of the shelves and scanned the titles. They were mostly tourist guides to countries in Africa and South America. On one of the tightly packed shelves there was a hole where a book had been removed. The missing book was one of the travel guides.

"It's like Murdock left instructions. 'Ms. Pearson,' " he recited, " 'please destroy everything but don't remove or touch anything on the bookshelves.'

"It's like Murdock's trying to tell us, 'Please waste your time looking for me here.' "

"Somewhere in Africa," I said. "Starting with 'N.' "

"Nigeria," someone said.

"Niger."

"Nairobi."

"Nepal."

"Nepal's in Asia, muscle head."

"Never mind." Turning to Andy, Joe said, "What I'd like you to do is set up these books and shelves in my office, exactly as they are now. Make a list of all the countries; see what's missing. And what the missing book probably is. See what you find out about trips Murdock took. Was he a traveler or a stay-at-home? Where did he go on vacations? What were his hobbies? Things like that. We need a better feel for this man."

"Right," said Andy.

"Wherever he is, I'll bet he's not where that bookshelf is pointing us to."

"Perhaps he's sitting there laughing at us while we're looking everywhere else," said one of the people from All-Risk. "Wheels within wheels."

"That really helps narrow down the search," I said.

"Or maybe Annabelle Pearson took it," said Andy. "Maybe she wants to go there."

Talking to himself again, Joe murmured, "I'll bet she does."

"Want me to order you guys pizza or something before I head for home?"

Molly's voice pulled me away from the screen. I rubbed my eyes, bleary from hours poring over files and documents. By contrast Molly (our receptionist) was bright and chirpy: she was about the only member of our staff who hadn't been putting in twenty-six-hour days.

Joe seemed to be asleep, his feet up on the desk and his chair laying all the way back. With Joe, appearances are always deceptive. "Good idea," he mumbled without opening his eyes.

"Want the usual?" she asked.

"Sure, pepperoni," I said.

"Yeah," said Joe, "with just a sprinkle of hash."

"You too?" said Molly, looking at me.

"Not for me. I want to keep my head clear so I'll stick to beer. If you could order a six-pack—make sure they're ice-cold."

"What's the time?" asked Joe.

"Six." Molly said. "Oh . . . and everybody else is wondering if you want them to stay another night, or can they all go home?"

I looked at Joe. "Tell 'em to go home, sleep—and keep their phones on in case we need 'em at three o'clock in the morning."

"Thanks, Molly," I said.

As she closed the door Joe stirred himself, stretched and sat up. He reached for the still-unopened packet of Maui Wowie Lights lying on his desk and pulled out a joint. "Time to look at that holo," he said.

Joe and I shared a large office. Our desks half-faced each other so we could work privately or talk when we wanted to. A couple of very comfortable sofas lined the opposite wall—they'd proved their worth this week. The books and bookshelves from Murdock's office had been set up against the wall to Joe's left.

"Any inspirations?" I asked, waving at the books.

"Needle in a haystack. I think that's a red herring. My gut has been bugging me about that holo; maybe, that's where we'll find our lead. Not in those books. . . . Heard from Andy?"

I shook my head. "Let's give him a call and see what he's got."

"No need—he'll call in when he's ready."

Joe punched a button on his keyboard and the holo shimmered in the center of the room for a moment before stabilizing.

"This is hardly what I'd have chosen for a Friday night movie."

Joe grinned. "Me neither. I'd rather watch the football. So let's run it—maybe we can catch the end of the game."

Fat chance. Having seen it before, I had trouble keeping awake. Joe on the other hand looked like he was going to fall asleep at any moment, only moving to munch on pizza. But he was actually in a highly alert, trancelike state. Which deepened as the smoke in the room thickened. Just when he looked like he'd finally dozed off he'd wind the holo back saying, "Look at this."

Dinner was over, but the five of them were still at the dining table. Murdock and Ackerman were toasting each other. "To our partnership," said Ackerman. "May it prosper," said Murdock. "He doesn't mean it," said Joe.

Joe wound the holo back and locked it onto Murdock's face and zoomed in. When Murdock said, "May it prosper," he looped it, so Murdock said the same words over and over again.

"Look at his face," Joe said. "It's wooden. That smile is forced. He's lying through his teeth."

We know that, I thought. Just that morning he'd stripped the money out of the partnerships. He's ready to run. I also knew better than to interrupt Joe when he was following his nose. I knew what he was trying to do: get inside their minds.

Joe then ran through the same scene again, with the perspective locked onto Ackerman. "He doesn't notice."

"What?" I asked.

"He can't see it. He's enthusiastic. Maybe he was one of those people who can't read faces; insensitive."

"Maybe he's too drunk or stoned."

"Maybe," said Joe. But he didn't believe it.

I only perked up when the women stripped off. No—I don't "get off" from watching other people have sex. These three women, though, were something to look at. Like watching a beauty contest. And Ackerman's wife, Sophia, was the clear winner.

"There it is. That's why my nose has been twitching. It's not Murdock at all."

I couldn't figure out what Joe was talking about.

"Look at this." Joe locked the holo on Sophia Ackerman's face. Even I could see it now: she and Murdock weren't screwing: they were making love. Or she was: it was written all over her face.

Then Joe flicked to Annabelle Pearson. For just a moment there was a look of pure hatred on her face. Joe froze the picture, zoomed out, and it was clear that Annabelle Pearson was looking at Sophia and Murdock making love.

One more flick and we were looking at Sophia Ackerman. Just for a second, a look of disgust crossed her face: at that moment she was looking at her husband.

"That's it," said Joe. "The eternal triangle. Or quadrangle, in this case. If we can't follow the money, we can follow the sex."

He punched his phone. "Andy. I want a twenty-four-hour tail on Mrs. Murdock and Annabelle Pearson . . . Yes, starting right now. . . . Call anyone you need: this has got to be tight. You've all got to be ready to follow them wherever they go. . . . Sure, hire all the extra help you need. . . . Yeah, right, tell everyone to have their bags packed. And make sure your cards are loaded with cash: one of those women is going to lead us to Murdock as sure as my name is Joe Herrera, and you've got to be ready to go wherever in the world they go."

For a while Joe listened, muttering, "Yeah," "Okay," "Good," and so on. Finally, "Okay, I'm on my way," and put the phone down.

"Where?" I asked.

"Murdock's apartment. I'm meeting Andy there."

"My god, it's getting on for midnight!"

"Well, I'm in the mood right now."

"What's Andy found out?"

"Oh, this and that. Sort of mood stuff. I'll fill you in tomorrow."

"Is that it?" I asked, motioning to the holo.

"Oh yeah, we're finished with that. My nose has stopped itching." With relief, I switched the holo off and the room was clear at last.

Joe grabbed his coat and waved "goodbye" as he ran out the door. I've no idea where his energy came from; it just made me feel even more tired.

And then the phone rang. Who could be calling at this time of night? Maybe it was Sophia Ackerman looking for a date. I must have been dreaming.

"Hullo. Is this San Francisco Investigations?" said a voice I didn't recognize. It was English English, but with a faint trace of a foreign accent I couldn't place. No face appeared on the screen to help me out.

"Yes," I replied.

"Oh, good morning, Ray."

"Yes. Who is this?"

"Oh, sorry. It's too early in the morning to show my face. Günter Lattman here."

"Günter! You got my message? What time is it in Zurich?"

"About eight-thirty. What are you doing in the office so late?"

"Working, more's the pity."

"I went quickly through the Murdock stuff you sent me. There's no way I can get information out of a Swiss bank without a Swiss court order. And Swiss courts don't recognize your murder penalties. If we found Murdock here we could lock him up for you—but that wouldn't get you any money out of him."

"All-Risks is going to file in a Zurich court bright and early Monday morning."

"That'll take weeks if you're lucky. Months more likely. And even then, the Swiss court isn't going to give you—or me—access to Swiss bank records. Not for murder."

"Yeah, that's what I thought."

"All they could do is arrest him if he was found here."

"There's another case against Murdock in court right now. For theft."

"That's different," said Günter, enthusiasm showing in his voice at last. "If you can show there's stolen money in a Swiss bank, well . . ."

"Murdock's flown the coop. He didn't show up in court today, and he won't show up next week. So it should be open and shut."

"Okay. You've still got to get a Swiss court order. But that's a lot easier for theft. Do you want me help you get that done?"

"I'm pretty sure All-Risks will take care of that. I'll check and let you know. Main thing is we want to see those records as soon as possible after we get the order. Can you set that up?"

"That I can do."

"Great. I have to hit the sack. I'll talk to All-Risks and get back to you next week."

"Fine. Good night."

After I'd closed up the office—kind of Joe to leave that to me—I slumped into my car, ordered it to take me "Home, Jeeves," reclined the seat and dozed while the roadnet took me there. When the car pulled into the garage I was sound asleep: it had to wake me up.

On Monday the Eighth Army called for a truce and pulled out. My bank account was flusher by 5,400 gold ounces. The rest of the week was downhill from there.

Tuesday Murdock was found guilty of theft; Thursday a Swiss court gave us access to Murdock's bank records (which impressed Günter no end. "All-Risks must have pulled a lot of strings to get the hearing done so fast," he told us); and Friday we had copies.

All the money had flown. To places like Nauru, the Cook Islands, Pitcairn and other sandbars that made Mafia, Inc. look like first-prize winners in a gabfest.

The money trail was a dead end.

Meanwhile our phones were ringing off the hook with more red herrings, thanks to Berkshire's reward. . . . 

WANTED
for Murder and Theft:
1,000au REWARD

Gerald Murdock has been declared an outlaw and a renegade under the rules of the American Insurance Association. A reward of 1,000 gold ounces will be paid to the person who provides information leading to his arrest.

Outlaw means that no client of any AIA member is insured for any dealing with Gerald Murdock other than self-defence.

Renegade means that any member of the public who apprehends, arrests, or detains Gerald Murdock or assists in doing so will be considered a bonded representative of the AIA under its rules.

People were told to contact us—and they did. Within two days, Murdock had been sighted in fifty-five countries, every major city in North America and half the small towns.

Luckily for us, Berkshire paid for all the extra staff, phone lines and follow-up on all the leads, just as Noni had promised.

Noni—and Fritz—weren't quite so understanding on everything else.

Eventually, after several meetings, some of them heated, they had to agree that with the money trail dead and none of the leads leading us anywhere Joe's instinct to "follow the sex" was all that was left.

"And if he dumps both women?" Noni asked.

Joe and I could only shrug.

Some three months later I'd just gotten to sleep when a phone call from Andy woke me.

"I'm on a rocket to Tokyo. Just took off."

"So? What? Why?"

"I nearly lost her on the way to the airport."

"Who?"

"Sophia Ackerman. Are you asleep or something?"

"I was."

"I didn't get a chance to call in earlier. We land in Tokyo in forty-five minutes and I'm going to need backup."

"Okay. I'll call you back."

It was a wild night. We couldn't arrange backup in time. Luckily, Andy kept up with her as she got on the Mag-Lev to Osaka. When the train arrived he had all the help he needed.

She took him on a merry chase, from Osaka to Shanghai, to Singapore, to Hong Kong and finally Manila. At each stop she changed her appearance. And at each stop from Osaka on, a female operative followed her into the bathroom. Otherwise we might have lost her entirely: each time, she had a new identity to go with each disguise.

She ended up in a condo in a high-security walled and gated village.

Andy sent us a picture of the happy couple by the condo pool.

"My god," said Joe, "I'd never have recognized him. But it has to be him."

Murdock had a goatee and mustache, had changed his hair and eye color (contacts, I figured), and had picked up a new nose somewhere along the line.

"Right," I said. "If she was going to meet anyone else, why the merry chase?"

"Manila, hmmm," Joe murmured. "No mountains, no beaches, no snow. Clever." Among the useless information we'd piled up about Murdock was that he loved skiing, hiking, mountaineering, boats and deep-sea fishing.

"All you have to do now," he said to me, "is go to Manila and pick him up."

The only nonstop service to Manila was an aging SuperJumbo. I didn't fancy a twelve-hour flight, so I took the rocket to Hong Kong and connected. Hong Kong–Manila took longer than San Francisco–Hong Kong.

As a kid, I loved hearing my granddad's stories about the tax revolt—but I never knew until after he died that he was one of its heroes.

He'd sit on the swinging chair on the porch at night, set me on his knee and tell me how people hated the government, but were afraid. Some arm of the government called the "HSS" was rounding up terrorists, and nobody ever knew where they'd strike next. I'd wake up sweating from nightmares of giants, dressed in black, storming into my room in the middle of the night. Even so, I could never resist another of his stories.

He told me about Amanda Green, a teacher in a small town near San Francisco. When she didn't show up at school one morning, someone went to see if she was hurt—and found her house trashed, all her files and computer gone, but no sign of her.

And her valuables untouched. No ordinary burglars.

Her neighbors had nothing. But they'd heard the familiar sounds of the sirens and car doors slamming and thumping feet in the middle of the night . . . and closed their houses up tight.

A terrorist, claimed the HSS, inciting her students to rebel against the state.

A homely grandmother, a dedicated teacher, loved by her students, and respected by the community a terrorist? For teaching her students the meaning of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness?

Amanda Green was the spark that lit the fire. It started quietly, like a burning ember, as groups held sporadic protests here and there. Only to be brutally repressed by the HSS police.

The TV coverage inflamed the nation. Within days millions of people across the country were parading with signs saying "Liberty or Death," "Don't Tread on Me" and even "Taxation is Theft."

One night an IRS office was burned down and somebody calling himself Tom Paine appeared on the web, urging people to strangle the government peacefully by refusing to pay taxes. As the idea caught on, the government called out the army to help the police help the tax collectors to "do their duty." Despite widespread support for the revolt, the government was winning until a couple of big corporations announced they were joining in.

The way my grandad told me as a kid, the people united against the hated government and brought it tumbling down.

Of course, it wasn't that simple or that easy, as I later found out. And I also learnt how granddad had persuaded some of his fellow policemen to do their real duty: protect the public. The sight of police standing between the army and the people inspired thousands of other policemen to do the same. When soldiers started joining them, the government had no choice but to cave in.

When the government collapsed the oil-rich states of the Middle East spotted an opportunity and hired a remnant of the US army to "liberate" the Muslims of the Philippines. They had no trouble at all gathering a seasoned force of veterans who were highly skilled in killing people.

That generated an enormous controversy. The soldiers were severely criticized for working for a government. Some pointed out it's a free country—at least now it is, with government gone—so anyone's free to work for anyone . . . including mercenaries. Others said that, right or wrong, it's better for us that these people are somewhere on the other side of the world.

The oil sheiks started a trend: pretty soon American mercenaries were fighting other people's wars for them all round the world. As they still are.

The Philippines—which used to be pretty much all the islands between Taiwan and Borneo—disintegrated. The Philippine Army was no match for the Americans, who threw them out of Mindanao in a couple of weeks. Once Mindanao declared its independence other islands followed suit. Local elites grabbed control, often with the help of a few hundred American mercenaries, and the country disintegrated into a patchwork of competing warlords. What's called the Philippines today is the island of Luzon and not much more.

The ride from the airport to the hotel—a slow crawl through an almost continuous traffic jam on what was labeled an "expressway," interrupted only by detours around numerous potholes—did nothing to convince me that much had improved in three generations. Beggars in rags cadged pennies from millionaires riding in chauffer-driven air-conditioned limousines. Here, a glitzy apartment building that wouldn't have been out of place in San Francisco stood opposite a pile of garbage blocking the sidewalk and spilling out onto the street; there, a wall topped by razor-sharp barbed wire prevented the wealthy occupants of a village from seeing the teeming slums across the street.

My guess was that Murdock was merely waiting for the heat to die down before moving on.

Andy had set up twenty-four-hour surveillance on Murdock. Two of our operatives had moved into one of the condos as a "couple," and had even become vaguely friendly with Murdock and Sophia Ackerman. Murdock's story, they were told, was that he and his "wife" were retired and were taking a slow, multi-year trip around the world. His next stop? "Well, when we've finished here we'll decide. Maybe flip a coin. Who can say?"

Andy introduced me to our local contact, José Guzman, known to everyone as "Boyet," who I'd called on to help Andy "meet" Sophia Ackerman off the plane.

"We've got one of our people in the condo security force, and three or four others discreetly patrolling the streets around the building."

"Is that enough?" I asked.

"You have to understand that in the Philippines most everything is the opposite to what you're used to. For example, in America, you have law but no government; here we have government but no law."

"Maybe it's jetlag, but I don't get it."

"The system here works on grease. Bribery and corruption. Of course there are laws—the government makes new ones every day. But whether they're enforced, or how, depends on who pays what to whom. Going to court here is like going to an auction.

"What that means is everything and everyone is for sale. So you've got to know who you can really trust. That's why I've put so few people onto Murdock. Once somebody talks, inevitably it will get back to Murdock or the people he's paid off, and your bird will fly away."

"So what do we do? And there's no extradition agreement we can use."

"Andy and I have talked about that. Here's what I suggest we do. . . ."

It took another week of long days and sleepless nights, intense negotiations, not to mention considerable expense, before we were ready to spring the trap on Murdock. Speed, Boyet stressed, was the essence—a difficult proposition in a country where the local equivalent of the Mexican word mañana didn't have quite the same sense of urgency—to make sure Murdock didn't get wind of what we were up to.

As every day passed, more and more people were involved. We did our best to ensure secrecy by paying officials—up to and including the President—bribes we were pretty sure Murdock couldn't match; and one condition of the payments was that 80 percent of the money only got paid when Murdock was on a plane out of the country in handcuffs.

That didn't mean someone who got wind of things couldn't extract a healthy "reward" from Murdock for tipping him off. In my nightmares I was part of a gun battle between two groups of rent-a-cops on the streets of Manila.

On the appointed day, Tim—one of our two operatives who'd befriended Murdock—knocked on the door of his apartment. I, Andy, Boyet, the local chief of police and a couple of cops stood well back from the door. Other police, teamed up with Boyet's people, stood guard on the apartment's rear entrance, and took control of the lobby to guard the elevators as well as prevent the security guards from giving any warning.

"Hey, Tim, come in," said Murdock as he opened the door. Tim took a step forward and then pushed Murdock hard in the chest so he fell backward, landing in a heap on the floor. We rushed in, guns drawn.

"You bastards. And you," he screamed, pointing at Tim, "are a low-down, lying, shit-faced scum of the earth."

Two of the cops pulled him up and handcuffed his wrists behind his back. I heard a crash as Andy put his foot through one of the bedroom doors. In a moment a chastened Sophia Ackerman was led into the living room.

"You bitch," said Murdock, his face reddening with his fury. "You brought them here." Forgetting the handcuffs, he struggled to hit her. Realizing he couldn't, he spat in her face instead.

"Yes," said Andy, smiling, "she led me a merry chase. Almost lost her a couple of times. And it looks like we got here just in time: she was packing for a trip."

"And I never saw you, damn your eyes," she said.

"Another hour, we'd have been outta here," said Murdock. "You bastards." I managed to pirouette out of the way as he spat again in my direction.

"Anyway," he said, pulling himself up and trying to look officious and innocent at the same time, "you have no right to be here. I've committed no crime. What's this all about?"

The chief of police pulled out a thick file of papers. Waving them in Murdock's direction he explained: "I have here an order of extradition, signed by the President of the Philippines, for the apprehension of Gerald Murdock and Sophia—"

"Gerald who?" said Murdock.

"You," I said. "The goatee and the nose job are certainly a good disguise. Even if you've changed your fingerprints all we have to do is pull off those contact lenses and a retina scan will be conclusive."

Murdock's shoulders slumped.

Sophia Ackerman turned to the chief of police: "You have a warrant for my arrest? On what grounds?"

"Embezzlement, false pretences, defrauding an insurance company," he replied.

"I've not been convicted of any such thing," she said adamantly.

"True and not true. At the same time," I said.

A puzzled look crossed her face. "What bullshit!"

"This gentleman here," I said, indicating the chief of police, "has a presidential order to extradite you from the country. So you must have been convicted. Here, at least. By the time we land in San Francisco, All-Risks will have presented its case before an adjudicator. In your absence there's a chance the hearing will find, prima facie, against you. The best you can hope for is a new date for the hearing, since All-Risks won't have given the proper notice."

"Anyway," said Murdock, "what's this about extradition? The Philippines has no extradition treaty with America."

"It does now. Here," I said, pulling out a sheaf of papers, "is a treaty between All-Risks and the government of the Philippines, signed by the President. Something for you to read . . . on the plane."

"That can't be legal," said Murdock. "Don't you need an act of Congress or something? Presidential order ain't enough. I want to talk to my lawyer."

"That won't be possible," said the chief of police. Pulling out another sheet of paper which he offered to Murdock, grinning when he remembered the handcuffs, he continued: "This is an order for your immediate deportation. It seems that your visa, as well as Miss Ackerman's, has expired."

Murdock looked like he was about to explode. Then his body relaxed and he turned to me with a glint of admiration in his eyes. "You really pulled out all the stops, eh?"

"Well, Berkshire Re did."

"Oh, that I didn't know."

"You know, you'd have done better to stay at home," I told him. "Not in San Francisco, of course. Some other American city. With your money, your disguise and new fingerprints, just by avoiding retina scans we might never have found you. In a place where government is for sale, you can always be outbid."

"Maybe you're right," he said.

"Look on the bright side. Here, the penalty for murder is death. Back home, all you have to do is pay back all the money and you're a free man." The prospect didn't seem to be all that appealing to Murdock. I could sympathize: from wealth to poverty in matter of moments.

"And what about me?" asked Sophia Ackerman.

"Same thing. The presumption is you're an accessory to murder. That was your plan, right?" I said, looking from one to the other. "You were after Ackerman's insurance—the 110,115 gold ounces Sophia got for your murder of hubbie."

They stared at me blankly, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.

I looked at Sophia admiringly—an easy thing to do.

"You're a good actress," I said. "I saw the holo."

She spat at me, this time connecting.

"Time to go," said Andy, looking at his watch.

"Right," I agreed, wiping the spittle off my face. "Let's move—we all have a plane to catch."

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Framed