Hilton Renaissance Hotel, Cascade
Washington, Spring 1997

"Mr. Ellison? Sir? Mr. Ellison!"

Jim flinched as the waiter's words finally penetrated his stupor.

"Are you okay, sir?" The young man had finished setting up dinner in the presidential suite to find the room's resident staring blankly out the balcony windows, seemingly oblivious to everything around him.

"Yes. Sorry. Just, um, pre-occupied. I...." Jim cut himself off. He never justified his behaviour to anyone. "Here." He handed the waiter a $50 bill, hoping, but not really believing, that this little token would entice the attendant to keep the incident to himself. In his line of work, Jim certainly didn't need anyone knowing his weaknesses.

"Thank you, sir! Can I get you anything else, sir?" Dollar signs glinted in the server's eyes.

"That will be all..." He glanced at the scratched gold-plastic name badge "...Antonio."

"Well, thank you again, sir. If you need anything else, you just ask for me by name. Right?" And bowing obsequiously, he turned and left the magnificent suite.

After the door closed, Jim frowned and rubbed his eyes. It had been a long time since he'd last been in his native Cascade, and he'd been surveying it through the floor-to-ceiling windows, noting the changes that time had wrought. If he pushed his vision far enough, he could see the house he'd grown up in, in which his father still lived his lonely existence. And the high school where he'd been star quarterback. His public school was gone now, a Home Depot in its place. He felt old. Stale. Lonely.

The warm smell of the coq au vin he'd ordered for dinner triggered his hunger and his stomach rumbled its complaint. He hadn't bothered with the finger food served to Board Members at today's annual shareholder meeting. Seeing his father again had stolen his appetite and now prevented him from sleeping, and so he'd found himself ordering room service at four o'clock in the morning.

This was the first company function he'd attended in years, not really caring what happened to his father's empire. Things seemed to be ticking along just fine under his brother's meticulous care, and Jim had access to resources independent of the family fortunes, so he rarely felt the need to turn his attention toward Ellison Enterprises. His father, however, was stepping down this year, finally retiring, and as titular heir apparent, Jim had felt obligated to attend. Besides, Steven had asked, and he still felt protective of his little brother--even after all they'd been through.

He really should sit down and eat the room service meal before it got cold--just one more minute, and he'd turn from the window to his lonely dinner. Just one more minute.

Fearing another blank-out, a dangerous thing when he was alone, he reined his vision back in, narrowing his range as if fine-tuning a microscope. Unexpectedly, movement where none should be caught his attention. There, on the side of the building a few blocks away. What the...? A person? A person was climbing--but that was impossible! His own suite was on the fortieth floor of the Cascade Hilton, so this little spider was at least ten floors up, and creeping upwards at a steady rate.

Snagging a wine glass and a bottle of Chateau D'Yquem '69 from the dinner cart, Jim dragged over a chair to watch the show enfolding before him.

~~~~~

Ventriss Tower,
Cascade, Washington At four o'clock in the morning, Cascade, Washington was quiet--as quiet as any major city ever gets. There was minimal traffic, minimal life, as the shadowy figure inched its way up the slick steel face of Ventriss Tower. Up, up: ten floors, twenty, thirty. It was very dark up there; the streetlights and sounds faded in the distance.

The climber wore all black, rendering him nearly invisible against the darkened building; a sleek visored helmet concealed his face. A few errant wisps of long dark hair had escaped the ponytail tied low on the nape, out of the helmet's way. He wore an elaborate climbing harness comprised of complicated mesh and webbing made from state-of-the-art materials. Across back and shoulders he hauled an oversized oblong backpack; climbing ropes and tools hung conveniently from his waist.

He moved straight up the face of the skyscraper, using electromagnetic suction-cup mechanisms that clanked to the steel to support his weight. A button released the magnetic charge when the cup was moved to a higher position. He scaled the wall with fluid precision until he reached his chosen destination--a softly lit, glass-walled penthouse on the fiftieth floor. It was a cavernous, coldly decorated space, where subtle spotlights bathed an eclectic profusion of priceless treasures--paintings, sculptures, ancient artefacts.

Swiftly, deftly, the thief worked his mechanical and electronic magic, and in a matter of minutes was inside the penthouse, the massive glass panel securely back in place, the sophisticated alarm system deactivated, the climbing equipment and rigging returned to its case on his back.

He carefully observed his handiwork. There was no trace of entry--that wouldn't do. He turned to a vase of lilies that sat gracefully on a side table before the window and quickly rearranged them to look windswept, all to one side, away from the window.

Now the thief moved quickly through the spectacular apartment. He passed works of art by early German expressionists and Russian futurists, side-by-side with rare finds of archaeological and anthropological import--a cuneiform cylinder from Mesopotamia, the hide of an undocumented biped known to the locals as Yeti, a tranquilizer-tipped dart from the elusive Chopec. The thief had no interest in these and moved rapidly past them all, sparing these priceless treasures only the most cursory of glances. Suddenly he froze before a small reading desk on which a single, ragged volume rested. He ran a gloved hand reverently along the dog-eared cover, tracing the faded gold lettering: "The Sentinels of Paraguay--a monograph by Sir Richard Burton, Explorer, Archaeologist and Raconteur Extraordinaire". After a brief moment, he pulled himself away with obvious reluctance and headed toward a small side room, hardly more than an alcove. It contained a single showcase displaying a solitary item, clearly a treasure of extreme value: a small, yellowed piece of bone, maybe eight centimetres by eleven centimetres, with a few deliberate-looked scratches on one side that resemble ancient Chinese pictograph writing.

Removing a small box and padded mailing envelope from his backpack, the thief picked the showcase's simple lock with ease. He snatched the bone fragment from its soft velvet bed, then wrapped it quickly in acid-free tissue and fitted it into the cushioned foam of the box, which he then inserted into the mailing envelope. In place of the priceless antiquity, he left a child's action figure--Spiderman, with suction-cup hands and feet.

The thief traveled quickly now into an adjacent panelled library. Approaching a chute built into the wall, its embossed brass flap announcing "US Mail", the thief popped the labelled envelope down the chute, then ascended to the ceiling using a handy bookshelf as ladder. He reached up to punch out an overhead grating and disappeared into the vent, sliding the grate back into place behind him.

Inside the vent, halogen flashlight leading the way, the thief shimmied down the narrow space, arriving at an open vertical airshaft that ran the fifty-floor height of the skyscraper. Nervousness evident, the thief made several attempts before he successfully unzipped one of the nylon pockets on his backpack. He drew several deep, calming breaths, then leapt into the airshaft, dropping sharply in absolute freefall, until he yanked the cord and a nylon parachute opened with a pop. The lithe man drifted lazily down for remainder of the descent. It was a ride any kid would have paid big money for--any kid without a fear of heights.

~~~~~

Several buildings over, Jim Ellison chuckled, and took another sip of wine. >From his window seat in his luxury hotel room, his extraordinarily sharp vision had allowed him to witness the thief's daring raid. A glance at his watch revealed that exactly twenty-two minutes had passed from the time he first noticed the climber on the side of the building to the moment the man had disappeared into the library ceiling. Show over, Jim turned to his solitary supper--surely cold by now.

Unexpectedly, a movement on the ground caught his eye, and he ran his gaze down the length of the tower to the street just in time to see the figure in black climb into a battered old Corvair. As the classic car drove off, Jim smiled shrewdly, raising his glass to salute the daring raid.

~~~~~

Webber Assurance Company,
Cascade, Washington

To the average employee, the third sub-basement of the giant Webber Assurance Company head office building was nothing more than that: a basement, for archival record storage and long-dead projects. No one wondered about the solitary few who worked down there. Records management technicians, glorified file clerks, they would say, if asked. But no one asked.

A man entered the sub-basement's corridor, striding on the hurried side of brisk; he passed through a maze of security doors and entered an unexpectedly vast semicircular room. The entire inner circumference of this room was a single continuous computer display. Currently the screen showed a seamless array of images: three-dimensional rotating schematics of every room in the Ventriss Tower penthouse, including electrical, plumbing, and ventilation systems. These graphics were juxtaposed upon virtual models of high-tech security equipment that flashed as performance simulations ran. Screens flickered with blizzards of data, hurtled past at warp speed. The Pentagon and CNN would have killed for this room.

Hector Cruz was in his early forties, tanned, fit, with dark red hair swept back in a conservative but flattering style. Despite the early hour, he was his usual perfectly groomed, Hugo Boss-clad self. His footsteps echoed on the raised-floor panels as he crossed Webber Assurance's Situation Room.

The largest segment of screen, twenty feet square, ran a live feed from the crime scene, the living room of the penthouse was crawling with slow-moving cops and technicians, doing their slow-moving thing. A very tall black man in a well-tailored camel-hair coat and thick, unflattering glassed appeared to be in charge. He gestured with an unlit cigar, while various underlings scurried about, carrying out his directives. Surrounding this image were a dozen smaller screens, showing this and other live scenes from a variety of camera angles, the gallery room, the library, the alcove, Spiderman.

Cruz descended the three steps to floor level and he surveyed the room, taking in the nine separate control stations, each outfitted with super-tech panels to process the avalanche of information. But at this hour, all the stations were empty--except one.

Cruz leaned over the occupant of the workstation, announcing his presence: "Hey, Sandburg. You got it solved yet?"

Blair Sandburg slouched at his station, looking like a teenager with tousled shoulder-length curls, rumpled oversized work shirt, vintage jeans. He answered his boss without looking up from the computer screen that riveted his attention.

"Actually. Yeah." Not a kid's voice: throaty--music and midnight and sex and effortless confidence.

Grinning, Cruz glanced at his watch "What took you so long, Blair? I called at 4:30 this morning."

Blair spun around in his chair to face his boss; the look on his face ripped the smile from Cruz'.

"I was with someone," he said icily. "Is that all right with you?"

Cruz flushed, eyes raking down the compact body, then back up to meet Blair's. Regaining his composure, Cruz snapped, "So? This is work."

Cruz flinched when Sandburg unexpectedly threw him a kiss across the inches that separated them. Working with Sandburg had given Cruz plenty of inner conflict about his own homophobia. Sandburg often used his boss' discomfiture to his advantage.

"Hector, I hardly knew him." Blair oozed charm. "Why be impolite to a stranger?"

Ever the professional, Cruz returned to the task at hand, gesturing toward the cops on live feed. "Look at those assholes. If that Chinese Oracle Bone was laying on that table, they'd probably sit their doughnuts on it."

"Yeah, well, they didn't insure it, so they don't have to solve this. To them it's a crime. To us it's 24 mil, less re-insurance, which is...." Blair couldn't be bothered doing the math in his head.

"Only thirty percent, Blair," Cruz stated grimly.

"Ouch. Really?"

"Which is why you're on this." Cruz said softly. "You're the best. I need you."

Becoming all business, Blair started his report. "Our thief came in through the window."

"Not possible," Cruz argued.

"What's not possible," Blair countered, "is entry through the doors or the vents. That would have triggered an instant alarm."

Cruz was reluctant to give up his cause, "The windows are wired, too."

"Only for trauma. They used smart glass, where the sensors respond to violation of the panel's integrity. I think he scaled the wall, popped the frame--in one piece. Then he only had to deal with heat and motion sensors. They're on sixty-second delay, so the owner won't trigger the alarm just walking around."

Cruz was astounded. "The pane weighs 200 pounds! The building's 750 feet tall."

Blair nodded, acknowledging the truth of this, then continued, almost with reverence: "This particular guy is the best. The best there ever was."

Cruz tried again: "Popping the frame would trigger the alarm."

Blair gifted Hector with a small smile, then touched the panel before him, gently informing Cruz, "I wrote a program and ran it, Bossman."

At the touch of the computer panel in front of him, Blair replaced the live feed with a rotating three-dimensional diagram of the living room, the alarm box outlined in green, one windowpane glowing red. Sandburg touched the panel in front of him and the virtual window shattered, the alarm instantly emitting a piercing screech.

Blair reset the program. Again they watched. This time the window slid away into thin air. No sound. A stick figure appeared, crawled through the opening and the alarm remained silent. Cruz just stared.

"Here's how I figured it out," Blair continued.

Now the live feed from the Ventriss Tower suite they'd been looking at earlier replaced the diagram. The camera zoomed toward a vase of lilies by the window. All the flowers were tilted in one direction--over the lip of the vase, away from the window.

"No one arranges flowers like that. It was the draft from the window."

"Okay, Smart Guy." Cruz was impressed. "You know how it was done. Who do you think did it?"

"Jim Ellison." Blair breathed the name with respect, delighted at Hector's stupefied reaction.

Cruz snorted in disbelief. "Why not Houdini? Or Pretty Boy Floyd? Maybe Jesus Christ."

" 'Cause they couldn't do it."

Cruz allowed a slow smile to bloom. "This fucking kid," he murmured, too low for Blair to hear, then, "Ellison's out of the business. Been out for five years now."

Blair glanced absently out into the workroom. "Maybe not. No one ever proved--hell, even arrested him for stealing anything. But we all know he was Numero Uno for fifteen years. Why not twenty?"

"And we think this because why? Because of the Spiderman swap? Guys have been copying his in-your-face signature for years. Maybe the thief wanted it to look like Ellison."

Blair didn't bother to answer, just touched his tech-panel, and one of the data screens blew up to fill one side of the room. "This is a list of Ellison's private collection of antiquities, including his three acquisitions last Thursday. This list is all American--South, Central and North. He has a thing for tribal artefacts."

Cruz noted the pattern, "Nothing Asian. Nothing even close."

"Don't be a putz, Hector. This is his legitimate collection, which he buys. Presentable for any search-warrant surprise party."

Names kept rolling up the screen: Aztec, Inca, Chopec.

"What he rips off, he fences." Blair removed his stylish wire-frame glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "And the money feeds his portfolio of investments, which are daring, savvy, and obscenely successful."

"Oh, I get it," Cruz almost sneered. "He has no interest in ancient Chinese bones, so that proves he stole one. By that logic, he oughta be a suspect most of the time. And what about the family fortune? Isn't he a huge shareholder in the very lucrative Ellison Enterprises right here in Cascade?"

"He never touches a dime of that money. Doesn't get along with the family. And besides, thieves don't necessarily steal for the money--it's all about the thrill, ya know." Blair sounded almost wistful for a moment, then recovered himself and touched the computer interface again. "Now this is where Webber's client, Norman Ventriss, bought the bone." The screen showed videotape of an auction held at an English country estate. Perhaps a hundred of the world's great collectors or their agents were in attendance. "Ashcroft Hall, Buckinghamshire, four weeks ago," Blair explained.

The tape panned across five items on the block, one the Asian Oracle Bone, the inscribed characters almost invisible. The view pulled back to include the crowd, then froze. A tiny section grew to fill the screen with the image of....

"Anyone we know?" Blair purred.

...Jim Ellison, perhaps 40, charismatic and shamelessly virile, face etched with character and worldly experience, lit by a twinkle behind the razor-keen gaze. Tall, wide shoulders, massive hands: this guy would be more fun to fuck than fight.

Cruz still fought his losing battle. "So he was there. So what?"

Blair charged in for the kill. "Staking it out. Why bid, when you can mark the buyer and jack it within the month?" He leaned way back in the ergonomically correct chair and propped his bare feet on the console. "At this moment, our Mr. Ellison is on JAL flight 307 to Tokyo, ostensibly to attend a prestigious auction at the Hotel Okura, which will include a rare Mayan tribal mask on which he supposedly has his eye."

"But you know better?" Cruz was getting tired. He snagged a chair from another workstation, falling heavily into it.

"You bet your sweet ass, Hector. At Vegas odds."

Blair touched the panel one more time. The screen now held three faces, three names.

"Research reveals three known fences, still at large, who are believed to have brokered Asian artefacts to black market buyers. Sandra Palmer is hospitalized in Malta--gunshot wound courtesy of an unsatisfied customer." One face and name disappear. Two remain: Koichi Yamese. Hiro Mikado. "Yamese and Mikado both live in Tokyo."

Cruz shook his head unbelievingly. "And you did all this since 4:30 this morning?" He bared his teeth in a mirthless grin. "And you were polite to a stranger."

Cruz's disgust was too obvious to ignore; too much fun to ignore. Soft and playful, Blair responded, "I like strangers, Boss. Too bad you're already a friend."

Changing the subject quickly, nervously, Hector asked, "Okay, Dr. Leakey, so what's an Oracle Bone and why is it so goddam valuable?" He'd tried to do the homework, but came up empty.

"The Oracle Bone dates back to the Shang Dynasty, 3500 years ago." Blair warmed to his topic; and for a moment, he was back at Rainier University, lecturing anthropology students. "It's part of a collection of writings carved into ox bones, tortoise shells and such. It's the oldest Chinese writing anywhere, the first proof of Chinese civilization."

"Okay." Cruz pondered. "But the amount this one is insured for is way more than that kind of artefact would normally be worth. What makes this one so special?"

"It's not common knowledge, but last year artefacts were discovered in the Gulf of Mexico indicating it was once home to an Olmec civilization--3200 years ago. Amazingly, markings on these Olmec figures were identified as Shang Dynasty writing. So that makes this particular bone priceless, because it established the link." Blair started to get impatient as Cruz continued to look puzzled. "Don't you get it, Hector? This proves that North American civilizations descended from Chinese ancestors."

Hector's eyes grew wide with awe. "Something the Chinese would love to rub America's nose in."

"Go to the head of the class, Mr. Cruz."

Cruz stood and stretched as if he'd just done a hard day's work, then he clapped Sandburg on the shoulder. "Well done, my friend. I'll go make my report. And then you'll have to tell me again, Whiz Kid, why you never finished your doctorate."

Blair waved his colleague off tiredly, and when he was well out of earshot answered quietly: "Couldn't find me a research subject, Boss."

~~~~~

Hotel Okura, Tokyo

The auction was well underway in the huge traditionally Japanese lobby, featuring bonsai trees, paper lanterns and elaborate painted screens in counterpoint to the sleek international big-money crowd. Beautiful people milled, drank, schmoozed, and networked in a babble of languages. Up on the raised platform, the auctioneer had a 6th century Mayan shaman's mask from the Quetzal period. It was exquisite, and bidding was fierce; the overhead digital display listed the current bid in thirty currencies simultaneously. Most of the patrons either wore headphones or tried to follow the rapid-fire auctioneer through personal translators.

Jim Ellison stood alone in black tie, no translator required. Tall and rugged, polished and focused, he was bidding on the scroll, indicating his offer by subtle gestures with his program.

Without warning, a mellow baritone speaking fluent Japanese interrupted his concentration, advising, "Don't do it."

Blair stepped up to Ellison's shoulder. He was barely recognizable in his perfectly cut Versace tuxedo with gleaming satin lapels. His chestnut curls were tied at his nape; without his wire-rimmed glasses, his sharp blue eyes and knife-cut cheekbones were arresting.

Ellison didn't turn, didn't seem to even hear, just raised his program to up the bid.

Speaking his Japanese directly into Ellison's ear, Blair counselled again, "You're already over value by fifteen percent."

Jim glanced quickly over his shoulder. This was not an admiring glance, nor a curious one. It was a look that said, in the most understated terms, shut up or I'll kill you. Blair shut up.

Ellison's glance travelled to his obvious bidding rival, a rather butch, middle-aged Chinese woman in an embroidered version of a Mao suit. She indicated her bid by gesturing with a tiny Yorkshire terrier. Jim raised back.

Blair was jittery, his frustration showing in his fidgety movements. "Will you stop being stubborn for one freakin' second?" And froze, because now Jim turned to him, with the eyes of a panther.

"I have a question." Only a slight American accent marred his fluent Japanese.

"Who the fuck am I?" Blair guessed.

"No," Jim responded, his voice coldly neutral. "I don't give a shit."

"Oh." In spite of himself, Sandburg was a little hurt. "What, then?"

"Why are we speaking Japanese?" was Jim's question--in English.

Blair's eyes moved across Ellison's formidable face. "Uh. I'm showing off." Sandburg also switched to English.

Jim scanned the length of Blair's body, striking in the Versace tux. "Something of a habit?"

Blair was minus a comeback.

"You know the alleged value of this piece from some fucking computer, which has no clue about the price I can turn the mask around for in 30 minutes."

"No, you can't," Blair countered.

Jim blinked. "No?"

"Er, um. Really sorry. It's sold."

Ellison's head whipped around to see Madame Mao kissing her pooch, flushed with victory. He stared for a long moment, then turned and walked away from Blair.

~~~~~

Ellison lingered with the guests awaiting their cars, standing slightly apart. From behind him a masculine throat cleared nervously. Jim closed his eyes for a beat, then turned.

Softly, Blair asked, "How 'bout I try humility?" and presented a business card to him with both hands, Japanese-style.

Jim accepted the card, reading aloud, " 'B. Donovan Sandburg, B.Sc., M.Sc.' "

Jim moved his gaze from the card to the man before him " 'Donovan?' I had a dog named that in the 60s. After the folk singer."

"It's Blair, actually. Blair Donovan Sandburg."

"'Blair', hmmm," Ellison gave him a look that managed to be bored and appraising at the same time. "Well, Blair, I'm afraid you've mistaken me for someone who gives a rat's ass."

Taken aback, the young man blurted, "But you're supposed to be charming."

"I'm supposed to be selective," Jim contradicted.

Jim glanced back at Blair's card, reading further, " 'Art and Antiquities Acquisition Advisor'. How alliterative." He looked up, unsmiling. "And am I the antiquity?"

"In mint condition," Blair interjected immediately. "Look, I've studied you, I know... pretty much... everything."

"Do you?" Jim arched one eyebrow, neither amused nor angry.

"Yeah. You're the eldest son of a wealthy industrialist. You joined the army as early as they'd take you. You rose to the rank of Captain in the Rangers. You were honourably discharged due to Post Traumatic Stress Disorder after an unsuccessful mission in Peru. Then you returned to take over your family business, expanded into gold mining, gems, art, and lately strategic metals for new technologies--platinum, zirconium, titanium..."

Jim leaned back against the hotel wall, crossed his arms over his chest and stared down at Blair. "You said 'everything'."

"Huh? Oh. You mean the cat-burglar stories? Why would anyone... with so much to lose... take those kinds of risks?" He followed this with his most guileless smile. "You'd have to be stupid."

Ellison glared at Sandburg coldly for a long moment. "Excuse me," and walked off toward a sleek custom touring car just pulling up.

Blair chased after him. "Wow, man. I didn't know Porsche made things like this."

"They don't." Jim tipped the valet, slid in. "As a rule."

The valet closed the door, but before Ellison could pull away Blair thrust a small plastic slide viewer through the open window into Jim's hand. Groaning with impatience, Jim took a quick look. It was a pictograph of an item known as "God's Eye", clearly South American in origin.

"Recognize that?" Blair knew he only had seconds left to make his pitch. "This icon was removed from a lost temple near Sierra Verde known among the locals as "The Temple of the Sentinels." Blair lectured. Getting no reaction from Ellison, he continued rapidly, "My seller is in Shinjuku. We can go there tonight." He leaned closer. "He wants 4.6 million. I can get it for three."

Jim handed the device back abruptly. "No, you can't," he stated emphatically, and pulled away.

Blair's jaw dropped, but he quickly recovered himself and in one fluid motion, hailed a passing taxi.

~~~~~

The hotel's main lounge was graceful, elegant, timeless. Designed by Frank Lloyd Wright in the '20s. it was a place to drink, to dream, to deal.

Sandburg sat at the polished bar nursing a tropical drink with one of those cute little umbrellas. The umbrella camouflaged a miniaturized listening device, directed across the room toward the table where Jim Ellison was seated. Blair still wore his tux, but he'd donned his glasses and the ponytail was gone, hair hanging forward to hide the small earphone attached to one arm of the glasses frame. He muttered disparagingly about substandard manufacturing as he listened to static. He adjusted the drink umbrella cum directional mike, and finally heard Ellison's voice, speaking English.

"...only it's not American football!"

The mirror over the bar was large enough and angled enough that Blair had a good view of Jim's table while facing away from him. Jim was drinking giant beers with a really large Japanese guy in a costly, if wrinkled, suit. The hulk listened with stony attention to Ellison's rant as if he actually gave a shit.

Jim's voice in Blair's ear was surprisingly clear, "...it's just that crap the Europeans call 'football', like you could call your ass a Mars Bar and have it be one!"

The guy nodded seriously. To Blair, he resembled a sumo wrestler turned businessman. Maybe that's what they did when they were too old to wrestle anymore.

Jim sighed. Blair heard this clearly from across the room.

When Sumo guy finally spoke, it was with such a major accent--Jamaican--that it took Blair a moment to orient to it. "You got Cubano this trip, mon?" The Japanese-Jamaican asked.

Apparently Jim did. He pulled out a leather cigar holder and passed it over. Watching in the bar mirror, Blair saw a flash of white that seemed out of place on the brown cigar box. As the box left Jim's hand, the mirror clearly reflected an envelope stuck flat against one side of the box, which the Jamaican skilfully palmed, slipping it smoothly into his pocket as he withdrew a matchbox. He removed one long cigar, lit up, took a long drag and then sat back with a beatific smile on his round face. Blair thought he looked like a giant four-year-old with an oversized pacifier.

Jim continued to advise his dinner companion: "Seriously now. Put the money into pharmaceuticals or prostitution, something stable."

The big guy pushed the cigar holder and matchbox back toward Jim, who opened the box. Squinting, thankful he was wearing his glasses, Blair was just barely able to discern the reflection of a small microchip fastened to the cardboard lid of the matchbox. He watched Jim light up, then slide the matchbox in his pocket.

Jim carried on with the financial advice: "Garbage, perhaps. Or industrial plastics."

The transaction was over. Blair was just about to disconnect and depart, when Ellison suddenly spoke again, this time in French at normal volume. "I met a young man this evening. A beautiful young man--someone I could see spending the rest of my life with."

Astonished, Blair looked back up into the mirror and found Jim's eyes burning into his.

"Shit!" he murmured in shock.

"Such language, Chief." Still speaking French.

Sumo man spoke again, in English. "Hey, Elliott. No speaka da Frog, ya know, mon." He further confused the language issue with an intentionally bad Italian accent, then returned to his original Jamaican lilt. "You speak so many languages now you get dem mixed up?"

"No, mon," Jim aped the patois. "I was just talking to someone else." He excused himself from the puzzled Jamaican ex-pat and moved across the crowded bar.

Blair was shaking when, a moment later, Jim leaned down next to him.

"Coincidence is not one of my favourite things in life."

Blair tried for nonchalant, but managed defensive instead: "I'm staying here. In this hotel. What's your excuse?"

Jim answered Blair's defence with offence. "Staying here, as well. You are in room....?"

"852, Blair responded, half a beat out of sync.

Jim turned and flagged down the bartender. "Send a bottle of Chateau D'Yquem '69 to room 852, please? And have some chocolate-dipped strawberries sent up as well." He pressed some currency into the barkeep's hand, then turned back to Blair, saying, "Actually, I was just across the bar dickering with a gentleman over the purchase of an interesting item. Until I determined the piece was apparently stolen."

Blair feigned shock--but didn't bother to do it all that well.

Jim continued in the same vein "Not my style. The icon in your slide--the 4.6 million you can get for three. Can you get it for two and a half?" He peered into Blair's eyes, smiling just a little.

Blair managed nonchalance this time. "Sure."

And as if he believed him, Jim said, "My cheque book is in my room safe. You wait here."

Smile evaporated, Ellison was gone before Blair could acquiesce.

~~~~~

Shinjuku District, Tokyo

Blair stole a quick glance at his new acquaintance as Jim drove in silence. Suddenly and smoothly, Ellison reached down, and picked up an object off the floor by its straps.

"Hey! That's my backpack."

Keeping one eye on the road, Jim opened it and began to rummage around. "Just want to see if you're the person you say you are. Can't be too careful, you know."

Blair snatched the bag away. Jim made a grab to get it back, and the car swerved, crashing violently into a parked white Bentley. Metal crunched and both car alarms went off in a jangled cacophony.

"Oh, shit!" Jim swore under his breath, throwing his hands over his ears.

People came running--to gawk and to help. A refined elderly couple just returning to their precious Bentley began to wail and curse, demonstrating anguish that would be more suitable if all their grandchildren had been crushed beneath Ellison's wheels.

Ellison and Sandburg climbed out of the car. As he exited, Jim palmed a small blade, and in a quick, unseen motion, ripped a jagged tear in his left trouser leg. The old couple rushed to Ellison, shrieking their rage and grief. Blair tried to calm them as bystanders gathered.

Jim's pained voice, speaking Japanese, cut through the multilingual clamour. "All my fault. Very sorry. I'll take care of everything. Let's go call the police." He hobbled off toward the nearest building, a block-square 30-story skyscraper bearing the name "Fujitsu". The couple and the crowd all trailed after the limping Jim.

Unaware that Jim's injury was feigned, Blair asked worriedly, "You all right?"

"Fine, kid. I just need to go in here for a few minutes."

Like a well-dressed pied piper, Ellison led the impromptu entourage into the public lobby of the huge industrial complex. Two night guards leapt from the security desk as the small mob poured in. Still speaking Japanese, Jim informed the guards in a loud, clear voice, "I have damaged the car of these kind people. Please help them call the police."

One guard led the hysterical couple to a phone. Jim pulled up his trouser leg, revealing a bloody gash. Blair's stomach lurched in sympathetic angst. Dropping the pant leg back down, Ellison asked the remaining guard to direct him to the nearest bathroom. The guard nodded, indicating he'd be right with Jim.

Handing his wallet to Blair, Jim explained vaguely, "If the police arrive while I'm in the john..."

"You're going to need stitches. Let me get you to a hospital," Blair advised, clasping the wallet like a sacred artefact. His words were soft, filled with genuine concern, as if somehow he was just now seeing Jim as a person for the first time. Softer still Blair added, "Really. This can all wait. I'll handle it."

Jim reached out to Sandburg, but let his hand fall short. "That's actually...um...very sweet. But as you must know, since you know everything about me...." The corners of Jim's mouth twitched. "I was a medic in the Army, so I can handle this life-threatening injury," he finished self-deprecatingly. He flashed Blair a smile--the first real smile. It was worth waiting for.

Jim turned back to the guard. "Do you have a first aid kit of some kind?"

~~~~~

Jim entered the empty, Asian-style stall--unlike a Western-style toilet, there were only porcelain footrests and a hole. Locking the door, he placed the first aid kit on the floor and hit the stop watch on his wrist. Pulling up his trouser leg again, he simply ripped the entire wound off, it being nothing more than a rubber prosthetic dripping phony blood. He pulled gauze strips from the kit, soaked them in bogus gore, expertly wrapped his leg and then flushed the prosthetic wound down the hole.

>From a Ziploc bag in his jacket pocket he produced a Fujitsu ID badge and clipped it to his lapel--the name "Kawakubo, M.", the photo of a surly Japanese man. Quickly, Jim took out the matchbox from the hotel bar, and with a fine set of tweezers, gently removed the microchip he'd acquired from the Jamaican. Next he placed it inside the badge and activated it. Pulling off his tux jacket, he reached into a hidden pocket, and plucked free a tightly compressed pack containing a baggy Tyvek cleansuit complete with a white hood and opaque tinted visor.

Jim headed out of the bathroom, and arrived at an elevator marked "Cleared Personnel Only" in English and Japanese. He held his badge to the scanner--the door pinged and slid open.

~~~~~

Back in the main lobby, Blair was up to his ears in hassle. No less than five cops were grilling him, taking notes, while the old couple shrieked. The bystander gallery had grown to almost three dozen, all intent on having their say. As Blair struggled to cope he continually watched the clock; darting glances toward the corridor. He was beginning to freak out.

Finally, he could stand it no longer. He handed Ellison's billfold to one of the cops, pushed his way through the mob, and took off down the corridor, a security guard in belated pursuit. He ran down the hallway, wheeled around a corner, flat-out sprinting. Skidding to a stop, he burst into the men's room. Except it appeared to be an empty men's room. He listened. Nothing.

He called out "Mr. Ellison? Sir?"

No sound. Uh-oh, "Uh. Mr...."

Jim's voice came from one of the stalls, "Just 'Jim'. And whatever happened to privacy?"

The security guard barged in and started railing loudly at Blair--even if Blair hadn't spoken the language, he would have known where this guy was coming from. Still shaking slightly from his earlier panic, he managed to haul a wad of bills from his back pocket, thrust them at the guard. His fluency out of reach in his present agitated state, he managed, "Stand outside. That door. Two minutes. Please."

Much to Blair's surprise, the guard actually did as requested.

Shifting nervously from one foot to the other, Blair began, "I was worried. It's been twenty minutes."

Interrupting, Jim snapped: "Eighteen, actually. The leg is fine, but I got sort of... woozy."

"Woozy," Blair repeated, as if he isn't familiar with the word, even though they were speaking English.

"Must be a bit shocky from the accident. Lost my lunch."

Ellison cleared his throat lengthily. Fabric rustled.

"I'm an old man, kiddo," Ellison continued. "You probably noticed."

Awkward silence. Jim smiled at that, slipped on his jacket.

"You should see me without my teeth." He pulled a coiled black satin cloth strip from the Tyvek coveralls, the microchips he had just liberated from the lab on the floor above snug to the underside. It fit neatly down his trouser leg--the perfect tuxedo stripe. He dumped the coveralls down the crapper, flushed and unlocked the stall door.

"Odd place, this," Jim remarked as he finally emerged from the stall. He washed and dried his hands and they exited the white tiled bathroom. As the guard escorted them back along the corridor towards the now-calmer lobby, he glanced around. "What do you suppose they make here? Video recorders?"

"Microchips, I think. For computers." Blair replied.

"Bad investment. The best ones are here today...." He followed Blair to the desk "...gone tomorrow."

~~~~~

Nihonbashi District, Tokyo

They sat together in the rear of the taxi, as it made its way through late night traffic. Jim gave their Thai driver directions to his native tongue, a language Sandburg didn't speak. Blair looked around. "This isn't the way to my seller."

"I've changed my mind, kid."

"Mind telling me why?"

"You can't get it for me at 2.5, can you?"

"Well, we can try..." Blair countered desperately.

"You were setting me up. The correct price is 2.8. You conspire with the seller to start at 4.6, so I'll be grateful when you 'bargain' him down to three. Close enough to fool some people. Unfortunately..." He sighed, never looking at his companion. "I'm old. I know what everything is worth."

"So where are we going, then?" Blair glanced out the window, suddenly more nervous that before.

"I am going to the airport. You are going on to the rest of your life. Which..." Jim hesitated, "...should be interesting."

In one last attempt to keep them together, Sandburg whispered, "You forgot your luggage."

"The hotels deal with that kind of thing, Chief. The things I need are always waiting at the next one. I don't carry baggage. Had enough of that in the Army."

"Okay. And you're off to....?"

"Oh, that's classified information. If I tell you, I'll have to kill you."

Jim stared straight ahead. The taxi pulled onto a freeway, heading toward Narita airport. Time was running out for Blair to keep Jim with him.

"I did so hope to impress you." Blair gently placed the fingertips of his left hand on Jim's thigh. Silence--no reaction. "I'm still hoping to." He inched his hand up the inside of Jim's thigh, scraping lightly with his fingernails through the delicate wool of the costly dress slacks. "When I said I knew everything about you, I meant this... us... men, as well."

"Sandburg, I'm almost old enough to be your father," Jim replied indignantly. He brought his hand firmly down on top of Blair's, stilling the stroking fingers on his thigh.

"How old do you think I am, Jim?" Blair gently eased his hand out from under Jim's, continuing the stroke-scratch-stroke that brought him ever closer to his intended destination.

"Twenty-one or twenty-two. Which makes me eighteen years older than you, Kid. You're practically jailbait."

"No such laws here, man. You can marry at fourteen. Besides, I'll be thirty on my next birthday. Hell, I flew choppers in Desert Storm--just maintenance. But I was there! I only look young. Thought you'd find it part of the thrill." Prudently, he didn't add that most of his lovers did.

"Thirty, huh." Jim's voice wavered slightly, as if reconsidering Blair's offer. "I've been giving you too much credit then. Cutting you too much slack. Thinking what a wunderkind you were. I like my partners experienced, skilful, mature. I'm no short-eyes. I don't fuck babies." As he said this, he startled Blair by swiftly bringing his hand back over Blair's stroking one and shifting it to press directly down on his erection--hard.

Blair re-grouped quickly; he'd almost given up hope. He leaned in to softly fit his mouth to Jim's. Two sets of blue eyes closed as they tasted each other's mouths, tongues, for the first time. Surprisingly, there was nothing predatory in this kiss. It was tender, exquisite; a kiss of deep longing, and of... possibilities.

Jim's arms slid around the younger man, trapping him against the seat. The taxi driver, no stranger to backseat romances of any kind, interrupted, grinning, "Still on fo' airport, Mista?"

After a long pause, one of the passengers directed him back to the hotel.

~~~~~

Hotel Okura, Tokyo

Following the sweetness of the shared kiss in the taxi, and the deliberate distance they put between them when passing through the common areas of the hotel, Jim and Blair came together awkwardly once they reached Jim's suite.

Blair stood in the room, waiting for Jim to come to him. Instead, Jim went to the bar fridge concealed in the Indonesian-style cabinet and removed a small bottle featuring an ornate label--Chateau D'Yquem '69. He had called the hotel from the taxi, advising them to move everything from room 852 to his own, room 307. Later, Blair would finish the bottle while Jim slept, but for now, they shared a single glass, lending intimacy to the moment, moving them towards their shared goal.

Jim drew Blair to him and began to undress him in a perfunctory manner, without caress or kiss. Then he undressed himself, carefully hanging up his own clothing, although Blair's was tossed on a side chair without care. Once naked, they moved together, two beautiful bodies, new to each other, fresh, novel.

Their lovemaking became what it was meant to be, this first time, this special time--for them this was not about love, and certainly not about trust, or even particularly about sex: for these two the act was about power, about strength, about dominance. And like wild dogs or great cats, dominance is demonstrated, achieved, by who mounts whom.

On Jim's part, his touch was rough, almost violent; he discovered Blair was tough, taking whatever Jim could dish out. They both liked it when Jim grabbed great handfuls of Blair's curls and tugged his head roughly into the best position for a long, passionate kiss. Blair discovered that Jim was unusually sensitive; a puff of air across his balls made him writhe with pleasure. Blair's tongue covered a lot of ground that night, all of it good--no, great--for Ellison.

Jim travelled down Blair's body, making him moan and writhe under vicious teeth--the firm young ass and sturdy thighs would be covered by crescent-shaped bite marks the next day. Blair would make a point of walking around naked next morning; Jim would get hot again just seeing the bruised and broken skin.

When Jim finally entered the younger man, staring deeply into his lust-bright eyes, Blair felt as if a connection had been achieved. Somehow, this dance of power and ecstasy has cut through walls and brought down defences. He'd never felt a sexual gestalt like this cathartic embrace of passion. He believed Jim felt this too, thought he could read it in Jim's darkened eyes.

Blair slid to the edge of the bed under Jim's continuous pounding; the blood rushed to his head in an amyl nitrate-like high as his head hung over the side. He was almost too far away, in that special place, but he noticed the changes in Jim's breathing, the increasingly erratic motions. With great effort, Sandburg raised his head, wanting to see Jim's face as he came deep within the proffered body. Then, without warning, Jim withdrew suddenly, and in a single upward sweeping motion, rose to his feet and whipped off the condom. Standing on the bed over his partner, he wrapped his hand around his own dick and one, two, three, he shot his wad--which landed unceremoniously all over Blair's face, in his hair, in his eyes. Blair was mortified, hurt, shamed.

Jim fell back on the bed next to Blair, not quite touching. Deeply disappointed and humiliated, Blair rose stiffly, silently and stalked to the bathroom to clean up.

He returned to the bedroom to find Jim peacefully asleep. He stormed over to the reclining couch and angrily downed the fine wine like tequila shooters. Eventually he got a handle on his anger, his wounded pride. He smiled grimly; Jim may have won the battle, but Blair had successfully infiltrated his camp.

~~~~~

Just before morning, Jim stirred. Rising, wrapped a long Balinese sarong around his waist and he strode across the room to where the unsleeping Blair sat, his posture and gaze expressing his anger. Blair's eyes flickered over the leg exposed by the sarong, his face not revealing his surprise at seeing no sign of the bloody gash from last night's car accident.

Passing his sullen lover, Jim returned to the little fridge and removed the plateful of chocolate-dipped strawberries. He carried it over to the daybed, chose the most perfect fruit and rubbed it enticingly over Blair's pouting lips,

"Here. A reward."

"A reward for what?" Blair's words were leaden, but he had, after all, asked--no, begged--to be here.

"For being older than you look. And more mature." He traced his finger along Blair's cheek.

"Yeah." Blair shook himself, making a conscious effort to forgive Jim his transgression, his win. The young man reminded himself he wasn't here for love, and then kissed his new lover, deeply, sending a clear message about what he'd accept in future, what he'd put up with to be with Jim.

When Jim finally pulled back, it was Blair who picked up a berry and offered it to him.

"Do I deserve a reward, too?" Jim asked wryly. Instead of answering, Blair placed the sweet in Jim's mouth. With great tenderness, he traced the line of Jim's lower lip.

"It's so hard to find good casual sex anymore." Blair rationalized aloud, as if he owed Jim an explanation. "I'm probably just out of practice."

Jim stared at Blair for a long moment before responding in a sexy, low voice, "What's hard to find is someone you truly want to be with." And leaned closer, saying just above a whisper, "Even for a little while."

~~~~~

Later, sitting together on a huge daybed suspended by velvet covered chains from the ceiling, Blair remarked, "It's lucky we had them move my stuff from my room, otherwise we wouldn't have found out my bag was stolen. Until tomorrow."

"Would that make it more stolen? Or less?" Jim smiled. His face looked kind now, not formidable at all.

"They even got my prescriptions.

"Something you need?" Jim asked, "There are all-night drug stores. There's a Mizuno Pharmacy right in the hotel, although I doubt it will be open till mid-morning." He did look concerned, and kind of... sweet. Blair kissed him again.

"I take Rivatril. For anxiety; panic attacks." He smiled--a soft, wicked tease. "But since I didn't have to work all that hard last night...."

Jim mock-glared at him, then playfully slapped his bare flank--hard.

"Ouch. Guess I had that coming." Blair rubbed the stinging spot, then pivoted round and snuggled his back more comfortably into Jim's broad chest. Jim wrapped his strong arms around the young man, pulled him close.

"Why would someone steal my luggage? Every guest in this place must have more expensive stuff than a wannabe art and antiquities dealer."

"Maybe the thief thought you had something valuable in there."

Something in the tone caused Blair to twist round, craning to look at his new lover's face. "Such as?"

"Well. Wannabe dealers make excellent fences."

Blair sank back into the warm embrace. "So you're saying this mad baggage thief thought I had a stolen artefact? In my luggage?"

"Just joking, Chief." Ellison kissed the top of the curly head. "You would never be stupid enough to leave the Oracle Bone in your luggage."

Blair's eyes widened in surprise. He was glad he wasn't facing Jim, especially since he'd begun to realize that darkness and distance were no deterrents to Jim's sight. "Excuse me?"

"Why, did you do something wrong?"

Blair turned all the way around, their faces inches apart. "'Oracle Bone?" Blair repeated.

"Just the most famous artefact stolen this week, Sherlock." Jim brushed the curls back so he could nibble the nearest ear. "If you don't keep up on your chosen profession, you won't get the in-jokes."

He gently lowered the younger man onto his back, still staring into the ocean-dark eyes. He wound the muscular legs around his own waist and leaned in to take Blair in a harsh, invasive kiss. Blair stopped him with a broad, strong hand to his chest, eyes serious in the dark. "So where do I subscribe to 'Cat Burglar Monthly'?" Jim chuckled, then put his mouth to better--much better--use. The conversation was over.

~~~~~

One ear on the bathroom, making sure the shower was still running, Blair, hair wet and dripping in the late morning light, wrapped in a plush hotel robe, was rapidly and expertly going through dresser, night stand, closet, sofa cushions, every goddam thing in the room. He came to Ellison's tux, rifled the pockets; patted the lining. There was something peculiar about the pants--the right leg had no stripe. The cloth was slightly sticky where the stripe should have been.

In the bathroom, the shower ran full blast, but no one was in it. Instead, Jim knelt before the maid's storage closet, a set of lock-picking tools by his side, rifling through a travel bag. The luggage tag read "B.D. Sandburg", an address in Cascade, Washington.

Jim ambled into the bedroom, towelling his short hair with one hand, holding his billfold in the other. It was not the same one he'd offered the police the previous evening. Blair was chowing down on a room-service breakfast: eggs, sausage, Belgian waffles. The guy could eat.

"Sure glad I didn't leave Tokyo, Chief."

Blair looked up from his meal, gifting Jim with a warm grin. "I love a guy who knows how to sweet talk."

Jim chuckled, "Yeah, that too. But what I meant was, I had a call. While you were in the shower. An art dealer I know has a Shamanic Spirit Stick for my collection. He'll let me have it for 5.3 million."

Blair ceased chewing, swallowing dryly. Cautiously, he offered, "We can maybe beat that; I'm sure." He sounded surer by the end of the sentence than he did at beginning.

Jim yanked a plastic card from his billfold, saying, "I know. This is a bank debit card. The pin number is 852-307. You'll have access to an account containing $4.6 million and change." Jim offered the card to Blair, who just stared at it. "I'd like you to go down there and pick up the piece. If that's all right with you, Mata Hari."

Without taking his eyes off the proffered card, Blair squeaked, "Me?"

"If I'm there, he'll haggle. You just hand him the debit card, with that... luminous smile. And say, 'take it or leave it, man'." His imitation of Blair's hippie-speak caused Blair to look up. Or maybe it was the offer, the challenge, the promise of trust, but for once he said nothing, hesitant.

"Okay. Well, I thought you 'so wanted to make a good impression'," He quoted Blair's words from the previous evening. "But if you're not interested..." He trailed off, still holding out the debit card.

"Thought I already did..." But the young accomplice took the card anyway.

"And along with making an excellent impression, Darwin, you will also make two percent of the purchase price."

Blair blinked in surprise, a whole new look on his face, wary giving way to feral, wolf-like.

"That's $92,000. And change. For two hours work. Helluva lot more than you'll make back Stateside. As an art and antiquities dealer."

Jim went over to the suite's desk, picked up a cellular phone and tossed it to his new partner "Any problems, just give me a call."

"So just to be clear here, Ellison, the Spirit Stick's not stolen, is it?"

"Of course not."

Blair put the debit card and cell phone in his jacket pocket and on his way out the door, still unsure, turned back to Jim.

Ellison completely failed to reassure him by saying: "If it was, I wouldn't pay more than three."

~~~~~

Yokohama Wharf, Tokyo

Blair climbed out of a taxi in a scruffy section of Yokohama's harbour district. It housed mainly sleazy shops, massage parlours, hostess bars, sidewalk noodle counters, all built along a tall rickety pier nearly thirty feet above the pounding surf. The harbour was gigantic, temporary home to every type and size of vessel imaginable.

He carried a long neoprene-covered tube with watertight seals and a lightweight bright orange foam cover. He looked at his slip of paper, then across at Kendo Souvenirs, a schlocky joint with a tourist bus parked out front.

Blair gazed uncertainly at the tacky gift store, then pulled out the cell phone and dialled, getting Ellison's recorded voice, "You have reached the voicemail of J.J.E. Investments. And, yes, you are at the right place."

After the beep Blair informed the machine, "I like a man with a sense of humour. This so does not qualify."

Snapping the phone shut, he checked the slip again, then walked resolutely across the street through the mobs of tourists, and into Kendo Souvenirs.

The place was huge, ramshackle, loaded with every conceivable kind of tourist crap. The only antiquities on display were mass produced dragons and Ming vases, available by the gross, and in a variety of sizes and colours. He wound his way through the racks and display cases to a counter at the back, finding one guy there.

In Japanese he asked, "I'd like to speak with Mr. Okati, please."

"You doin' it." The clerk responded, in working-class Japanese. The pudgy, balding fellow in the Hawaiian shirt and spectacularly baggy trousers didn't seem to be a guy who would be selling rare artefacts.

"I think there's some mistake..." Blair trailed off lamely, not sure how to proceed.

"You from Elliott?"

Blair recognized one of Jim's many "business" names.

"Yeah. I'm from Elliott."

"Lemme see card."

When Blair hesitated, Okati slapped his hand loudly on the table, spooking the already-nervous Sandburg. "Four million, six hundred thirteen thousand, five hundred? Lay it down."

"You..." Blair's voice cracked. He tried again, "You first."

Okati shrugged, then produced a brown paper-wrapped item from beneath the counter. Blair took it and opened it. Inside was an ancient, carved stick about three inches in diameter, with remnants of shells and bone dangling from long-hardened bits of rawhide. It did look like a Shamanic Spirit Stick. He stared at it, then told Okati, "Okay. Now bring me the real one."

"This as real as it gets, kid."

Blair and Okati locked eyes--an impasse.

Just then the cell phone in his pocket rang. When he answered, Jim asked without preliminary, "You got it?"

Scared and angry, Blair hissed into the phone, "Is this an audition, a joke, or a rip-off? I'm staring at an obvious forgery here."

"Is there anything inside the stick?" Jim asked in apparent non-sequiter.

Surprised, Blair paused, then cradling the phone against his shoulder, he grasped the stick in two hands and twisted. It opened like a Christmas cracker, revealing several sheets of rolled-up paper: schematics, planograms, maps.

Sandburg glanced at Okati, who smiled triumphantly as Blair read into the phone, "'HMSS Royal Page', Yokohama to Jakarta. Dates, stats, specs on some kind of... machine."

"That's great, Darwin. Now put the papers back in the stick, then put the stick in the neoprene tube." A hint of urgency entered Jim's voice. "Do it quickly, without seeming to hurry."

Blair's eyes flickered with questions, but he did as he was told, cradling the phone on his shoulder.

"Now give the debit card to Okati."

"Ellison, the Spirit Stick's a fake."

"You're right, Sandburg. This is a test. Of whether you'll still be alive in four minutes! Do you hear me? Now smile."

Blair's face froze--in a pleasant smile. "Yes, Jim, I do."

"Good," Jim continued, "Now, hand him the card, and tell him in Japanese to pretend he is checking it out by phone. Tell him to take awhile, as if he's on hold."

Blair turned the sweet plastic smile to Okati and handed him the card. "Elliott said you're supposed to pretend you're checking this by phone. And take your time."

"Like I'm on hold. Sure." And suddenly the clerk's eyes were keen and quick, and he was no longer some schmuck in baggy pants. He took the card, stared at it comically and picked up the phone.

Into Blair's ear, Ellison continued, "While he's checking, look around the room casually as if searching for the cheesy handbags."

Blair did so as the instructions continued, "All the while laughing, as if you're chatting with someone you actually like."

Blair laughed nervously. "Hey man, I'm not that good."

But he was. And he laughed as he strolled over to the knock-off handbags--Prada, Guess, Chanel, everything on the rack, eight bucks U.S.

Once again Jim directed, "As you're looking around, do you notice any one watching you?"

"Three guys, two together, one alone. Cheap suits, not-looking at me in a cop-casual way."

"Call out cheerily to Okati, in English, 'Where's the toilet?'"

"Can I say, 'little boy's room'?"

"Wing it, Chief."

Blair called out with enthusiasm, "Hey, man! Where's the crapper?" He hadn't bothered to cover the mouthpiece of the phone, knowing that unexpected loud noises could get to Ellison--small revenge for putting him through this.

Okati, absorbed by his make-believe phone call, pointed around the back.

"Get going. Now!" This time it's an order.

Blair tried one last time as he sauntered toward the can, "Ellison, the artefact isn't.... "

"You've got what we came for. Okay? Are you out of their sight?"

Sandburg turned the corner to find a filthy corridor with restrooms at opposite ends.

"Now, run into the men's toilet. Just like you did last night at Fuji."

"Fujitsu," Blair corrected automatically, then sprinted down the garbage-strewn hallway. Throwing open the men's room door, he burst in on a wispy old guy taking a leak through a hole in the floor.

"Get the fuck out of here!" Blair snarled in Japanese.

The panicked little man startled and bolted out the door.

"Jump, Sandburg! Now!"

Jump? He could hear the sounds of pursuit out in the hallway. He looked down through the piss hole to the surf roiling thirty feet below. "It's too small!" Panic in his voice.

"The window, asshole!"

Oh. He hopped over the disgusting hole, and boosted himself up to the small window as the footfalls raced closer. He hoisted himself halfway through, dropping the phone a scary thirty feet into the surf below, as behind him the door slammed open and he jumped/fell out the window.

"Shiiiiiiiiiit!!!!"

Blair kicked and flailed and grasped the precious orange tube as he hit the ocean like a ton of bricks. He surfaced quickly, sputtering in the swirling water. Under the nearby pilings an engine roared to life, followed by the blur of a jet ski. Jim reached down to scoop the startled Blair out of the water, and they blasted off as bullets rained uselessly after them. Their pursuers shouted their frustration into cell phones and at each other as they raced down the pier to watch and curse at the rapidly vanishing thieves.

Spray bounced copiously off the waterproof surface of Jim's black nylon coveralls. Blair pressed his sodden body against Ellison's back, his chilled hands slipping as he tried to hang on.

Above the noise Jim shouted, "Are you pissed, Chief?"

Sandburg gave this some consideration before shouting in his partner's ear. "Actually. It's incredibly cool! Major adrenaline rush."

Blair caught the sound of Jim's quick laugh as the jet ski headed out into the major shipping channel. Jim pointed to one side, and Blair saw a sleek harbour patrol vessel fire up behind them. They sped past a passing luxury liner, slamming into the wake head-on, and were airborne for an amazing distance. They jolted back to the surface, raced toward two gigantic freighters which approached each other from opposite directions, the harbour patrol in hot pursuit, blasting its horn.

"Jim! We're gonna die, aren't we?" Blair yelled before craning his head back around to watch the pursuit.

"Not until I'm ready, Chief!"

As they neared the outbound freighter, Jim cut his speed. Now the harbour patrol was really gaining.

"Faster, not slower, Ellison!" Blair pulled roughly on Jim's slick, nylon-clad shoulders, urging him to speed up again.

"Gotta give 'em a sporting chance, kid."

The jet ski cut between the two freighters. When the pursuing harbour patrol was nearly on top of them, Jim veered suddenly around the stern of the outbound freighter. He cut his wheel in an adroit swerve, the harbour patrol following suit, narrowly avoiding the freighter. The turn was too sharp for the harbour patrol's larger vessel, however, and the boat rolled over on its side, dumping its crew amid taunts and laughter from the freighter's sailors.

Wasting no time, Jim accelerated to maximum burn, streaking toward the immensely crowded harbour and its thousand vessels. Blair couldn't help but look back at the capsized harbour patrol, mouthing a silent "Wow".

Nearing the harbour, Jim cut his speed completely, drifted between two huge ships, and vanished from the sight of the harbour occupants.

~~~~~

The jet ski cruised through the side channel that was crowded with tugs, fishing boats, yachts, junks, sampans--smaller craft than the huge ocean-going vessels they'd left behind in the main channel, but all larger than they were. Blair clung closely to Ellison, although it wasn't strictly necessary in this calmer water. He was still flushed with the rush of the daring escapes, first from the Souvenir shop and then from the Harbour Patrol. "I guess you're gonna explain all this, huh?" he panted, eyes darting excitedly around him.

Instead of answering, Jim pulled out a watertight duffle and handed it to Blair without looking back. "Dry clothes. You'll need them. In less than five minutes."

Sandburg took the bag, confused. "I'm supposed to change? Here? On a moving jet ski? There are a thousand sailors watching!"

"S'okay, Chief. I've already seen you naked. Give the boys a thrill. You probably won't be dating any of them, or not many at least. So what the hell?"

Blair looked around as they floated through the maze of watercraft. No one seemed to be paying much attention. 'What the hell' was right. He unzipped the bag. "Hey! These... these are mine! From my stolen suitcase."

Still watching forward, Jim replied coolly, "Found 'em in our room. Perhaps the thief wasn't your size."

He stared at the back of Jim's head, wondering. In the meantime, without letting go of the wheel entirely, Jim deftly stripped off his coverall, revealing a neatly tailored suit beneath.

"Get a move on, Sandburg. We have a business appointment. In four minutes."

Blair pulled his sodden sweatshirt off over his head. "Business, huh?"

He ignored the nearby whistles and shouts, and quickly dried himself off with a towel from the bag.

Jim cocked his head to one side, obviously listening to something now that their engine was

purring instead of roaring, then he chuckled meanly, "The poor sailors think you're a flat-chested girl. It's the long hair, Chief."

"Well, they won't be deluded for long," Blair responded, reaching for his fly.

Still watching the harbour ahead, Jim coughed, then declared, "Time has come to tell you what business I'm really in, Sandburg."

That got Blair's full attention, his hands halted their unzipping. He asked, uncertainty in his voice, "Uh. Am I gonna like this?"

"You'll have to decide that for yourself. 'Cause, ya know the rumours about me? They're all true. I really am a thief. And now that I've told you, I'll have to kill you." He chuckled softly, cold and warm at once. "Or..." Jim continued as Blair pulled on a dry, cotton button-down shirt. "...you can spend the most interesting three weeks of your life... training."

"Training for what?"

Jim ignored Blair's interruption "...followed by the most exciting night of your life. After which, you can walk away with twenty million untraceable dollars."

Blair blinked. Jim was serious.

Blair wiggled out of his wet underwear, hoping the shirttails covered his genitals. The sailors, it seemed, would continue to be deluded after all; the universal cries of disappointment clearly indicated they were crestfallen at her modesty. The two thieves ignored them.

"And if I refuse?"

Jim took his eyes off the water for a moment. "Don't. Please."

"I mean, you won't really kill me. I'm far too sexy." Blair batted his lashes for effect, but Jim had already turned back to his piloting.

Jim paused a long moment, then started a new tack, "Last night, at Fujitsu, I did some... business. While you thought I was in the can."

"Yeah. I noticed you weren't really injured. Certainly didn't affect your...performance. But what could you possibly steal in eighteen minutes?"

"Thirty-five super-microchips. Each worth one million dollars. And change."

Blair whistled in appreciation, admiration and not a little greed.

"But before I did that, I first stole your suitcase when I left you at the bar. When you left for Kendo, I had it sent back to the States, with three of the microchips, well hidden. Are you following?" Blair didn't bother to nod, since Jim wasn't facing his way. He drew on a pair of navy dockers, struggling to pull them up over his damp skin. "Since you aren't there to claim it, the bag will sit at customs. Safe. Unless they receive an anonymous tip."

"Holy. Fucking. Christ. I can't believe this, man. That's entrapment."

"No, Sandburg. 'Entrapment' is what cops do to robbers." Slowing the jet ski, Jim turned to face Blair. "Blackmail is what robbers do to schmucks." He leaned in to kiss the gaping man's mouth. "Even extremely sexy ones."

They coasted up beside the gangway of a gigantic freighter. He pointed up to the name." Pop quiz, Professor."

"HMSS Royal Page." Blair nodded slowly, the pieces falling into place. He pulled the fake Spirit Stick from its tube, and handed it to Jim, who removed the sheets of paper and began to peruse them. He pulled his dripping curls back into a fairly decent ponytail, securing it with the nylon-covered elastic he'd found in the shirt pocket. Ellison had thought of everything.

"Admit it's a rush, kid. The best day of your drab little office-worker life."

"Fuck you, Ellison."

"What, no foreplay, Chief?" Ellison cut the engine and stepped deftly out of the jet ski and onto the floating gangway.

Blair declined the proffered hand, hauling himself onto the gangway instead. He watched as Ellison leaned back into the souped-up jet ski and flipped a switch. The vehicle began to fill with water, sinking rapidly out of sight.

~~~~~

HMSS Royal Page

Jim and Blair stood inside a gigantic cargo bay, where massive containers were being loaded by crane through the gaping hatch. The chamber was a vaulted cathedral of steel painted hospital green, and Ellison's eye moved over all of it, seeming to inspect every plate, every rivet.

Coming toward them was a round little man with watery eyes and a very wide necktie. Bursting with good cheer, he extended a plump hand. "Nickerson Carlsby, Mr.... Elliott, yes?" He affected an overdone upper-crust British accent.

Jim took to proffered hand, saying, "Nice to meet you, Mr. Carlsby, I'm John Elliott, and this is my associate and partner, Blake Sanderson."

"A pleasure to do business with fellow Westerners, in this alien place." Blair rolled his eyes; he stood at an angle that only Jim could see. "Colonialism is not dead," he whispered too low for Carlsby to hear. Jim raised one eyebrow, but didn't otherwise acknowledge the comment.

Carlsby looked around. "Well, whoever escorted you on board brought you to quite the wrong place, I see." He led the way along a narrow catwalk to a steel door where he pressed his thumb to an ID panel and said into the voice box, "In Penny Lane, the barber shaves another customer." Blair looked questioningly at Jim, who just nodded. A small grin appeared on Blair's face. This was not the first time Jim had demonstrated enhanced hearing and sight.

The door clanged open. They passed through it and down a gangway that led toward an open vault door. Two armed guards rose from their seats. Carlsby ignored them as if they were furniture and thumped the door. "Five feet thick with additional reinforcements. No way to drill through!"

"Impressive." And Blair was impressed. It was, after all, his line of work...his official line of work.

Carlsby nattered on reassuringly, "And this, gentlemen, is only the tip of our security iceberg. See these two Brinks locks?" The Americans looked where directed. "The Captain keeps one key. The other is continually forwarded to the Chief of Security at the next port. There is no way to enter during a voyage." They strolled a little further into the interior. "We retain only the best armed guards, who are rotated every six hours. A redundancy, of course, but we would rather be safe three times over than merely two."

"Sound mathematics," Blair acknowledged.

Jim entered the conversation for the first time, saying quietly, "What if there's a fire? In the chamber?"

In response Carlsby ushered them through the open door into the maximum-security hold. The steel was coated with sleek, matte black paint. Pointing up, the Brit explained, "Sprinklers. New design. Incredible power. The entire chamber is waterproof, fireproof, airtight. Even if the ship were to sink, God forefend, your cargo would be secure for salvage."

Jim still looked sceptical.

"May I ask what your cargo is, Mr. Elliott?"

"Wine." Jim clarified, "The bloody Japs bought up half the premium clarets in the universe. You may have heard."

Apparently, Carlsby had.

"I'm in charge of shipping some 14,000 bottles, most quite rare, to a number of premium hotels in Hong Kong, Bangkok, Singapore, Phuket, and Penang." Carlsby nodded, dollar signs in his eyes.

"And I know, Carlsburg." The man flinched at Jim's abuse of his name, but didn't correct his potential customer. "All of these are destinations on your October voyage. Five months from now. However..." Ellison focused on the Brit with laser, disapproving eyes. "Wine doesn't like to be jostled."

Carlsby beamed. He gestured to a series of platforms, each swaying at different heights, in different directions. "Observe, if you will, gentlemen, our 'delicate treasure' platforms, suspended on gimbals. Your cargo remains unruffled by roiling seas. Then, on arrival, is plucked..." He pointed once more. "...by that forklift and gently deposited on dock through a huge cargo hatch."

Ellison's gaze swept the hold, his face an unreadable mask. After a long moment, he commented, "Adequate, I suppose." He turned to Carlsby once more. "Did we see a swimming pool on deck?"

"Oh, yes, sir. The 'Royal Page', or 'Royal Pain' as the crew like to call her...." The smile faded from his face when he saw Ellison was not amused by his little joke. "Carries thirty luxury suite passenger cabins. We offer the finest cuisine. For valued clients who prefer to cruise in privacy."

"Might be of interest. Show us."

Carlsby ushered the pair along a plushly appointed hallway, a secret oasis of refinement in the heart of the massive freighter. He opened a burnished door into an elegant suite: cherrywood panels, spacious windows with views of the harbour. The finest furnishings. It was breathtaking.

"Adequate. I suppose." Jim repeated, his manner blas.

"But, John," Blair suddenly interjected, as if he'd only just realized this, "In five months, we'll be in Cape Town."

Jim pulled from his pocket the folded sheets that had been hidden inside Okati's fake Spirit Stick, perused them casually. He glanced over at Carlsby, his expression showing expectation of disappointment. "Anything sooner? That goes perhaps from... say, Sri Lanka? To Jakarta?"

Carlsby was dumbstruck by the coincidence. He just barely managed, "Why, yes. As a matter of fact. In three weeks' time. Imagine that."

"Yeah, imagine that," Blair echoed.

~~~~~

California, USA

"You seem a bit distracted, Chief," Jim observed, looking down on California's San Joaquin Valley from 12,000 feet. He had to yell to be heard above the noise of air rushing past the open door of the private Cessna.

He wore a dark blue flightsuit and was carefully checking their gear in preparation for the jump. Blair's own flightsuit was gunmetal grey.

"At your insistence, Ellison, I'm leaping to my death. And I don't even know why!" He eyed the sprawling grid of fields below, then turned to clip a tether from Jim's harness to his own.

"Because you're a greedy boy."

Blair took a firm stand. "I am not jumping until you talk about this. He folded his arms across his chest, looking rebellious. Jim smiled at his lover tenderly, then nodded.

"Just tell me why we're going in three weeks, if the wine will be on a different route months later?"

"There is no wine, Sandburg. That just bought us a look at their security."

Blair stared at Jim. "I knew that."

"What we want is on the boat in three weeks. Now can we jump?"

But Blair had more questions. "The machine in those diagrams that I got in the souvenir shop?"

Jim was still smiling. Blair figured he must be on the right track. "What does it do? Make gold?"

"We're nearing the target, Chief."

"Why won't you trust me?" Frustration was palpable in Blair's expressive voice.

"How do I know who you really are, hmmm?" Still smiling, Jim stared into in his partner's eyes. "For all I know, your name isn't Blair Donovan Sandburg. Maybe you're a cop."

Blair stared back defiantly, "Why would a cop do all this?" He gestured obliquely around the hold.

Still yelling to be heard over the thunderous engines and deafening rush of air, "Entrapment, remember? What cops do to robbers."

"Oh. Is that all?" Blair's smile was light, affectionate, dismissing Jim's concerns.

Gingerly, Jim began to back to the edge of the doorway. "Ready, Sandburg? One... two..."

Suddenly, Blair threw his arms around Jim's neck, holding him close. "Ellison, I'm afraid..." Blair's words were vulnerable and touchingly real. Jim's arms slid around him reassuringly.

"...of you." Blair finished, speaking directly into Jim's sensitive ear.

"Smart boy." And jumped. Blair shrieked within Jim's arms.

They tumbled in freefall, until Jim released his terrified companion. Regaining some of his composure, Blair extended his arms and legs as he floated at the end of the tether, a few feet below Jim. "Hey, Ellison." He waited until Jim met his eyes. "Next time, I'm on top!"

~~~~~

Bolinas, California, USA

Ellison owned a cabin in Bolinas, nestled among the rolling hills of Marin County. It was ringed by woods, and set in the middle of nowhere, which was exactly where Jim liked it.

The two men stood in the shower, shorts and tank tops sodden. Blair operated a sleek miniature welding torch, trying to perform microsurgery on a dartboard which Jim waved in all directions at the end of a short pole.

"All right, six and seven...."

Blair blinked the spray from his eyes, long hair back, and deftly seared the wire dividing those two numbers on the board. Jim kept waving the board around, but Sandburg focused and the wire melted away....

"Three and four...."

Eventually, all the wires were cut to perfection. Even Jim should have been satisfied...and he was--but then again, he wasn't. When they returned to their bedroom to change, he unexpectedly shoved a half-naked, soaking Blair roughly against the wall face first. He yanked down Blair's dripping shorts, and, without preparation, shoved his cock deep in the smaller man. Luckily Blair was still loose and slippery from previous activity. Jim gave little thought to Blair's pleasure as he pumped angrily in and out of the mostly-pliant body, leaving Blair surprised and achingly hard when Jim crossed the finish line shortly, as if it had, indeed, been a race.

Gasping for breath, he slapped Blair soundly on the butt cheek as acknowledgment of the service rendered, saying only, "God, that's hard on the knees, Chief. We gotta get you a box to stand on or something."

When he heard Jim return to the bathroom to clean up, Blair turned from the wall, shaking. He briefly considered the wisdom, or definite lack thereof, of letting Jim ride him bareback, but then discarded the whole thing with a shrug. In their line of work, they weren't likely to live long enough to die a slow death anyway.

Blair pulled his kayak up next to Jim's, his way illuminated by the full moon that bounced off the rolling surface of the choppy sea. Destination reached, they bobbed gently in place. Jim's stopwatch glowed. "Forty seconds, Chief."

Blair flipped his kayak over, submerging his head and torso, and upside down and underwater he struggled to free the set of tools tethered to his wetsuit. Fumbling, he broke the seal on a slender tube, which burst, sending a glow of yellow-green light in all directions. He fit the flexible tube around his head like a miner's lamp, then pulled out a small electric motor comprised largely of a fan mechanism with side handgrips of black metal. Buffeted by the current, Blair managed to flip a small switch on the housing of the device, but nothing happened. Again. Nothing. And again. Shit! With a supreme effort, he tried to roll himself upright, but couldn't quite make it. Blind panic filled his mind and bubbles appeared around his head as he flailed about, trapped in the kayak.

Thankfully, he rolled upright, manipulated by Jim. Blair sputtered and tried to throw the tethered fan at his unasked-for mentor, but it snapped back and slammed him across the shoulder. He was furious.

"Get your fucking equipment together, man. This is supposed to be a professional operation!"

Later, in bed, he chokingly told Jim about his almost-drowning trauma--the crazy research subject, the campus fountain. Jim held him as he sobbed, then made love to him tenderly, lovingly, --for once the need to dominate forgotten.

~~~~~

Blair stood in a clearing, arms at his sides, a determined look on his handsome face. Jim was somewhere just behind him.

"This time, Blair, when you raise your arm... Don't. Breathe."

Blair nodded, ponytail rustling against his shirt collar. He drew in a centering breath, completely focused now. In the clearing before him, a silhouette target popped up suddenly, the outline of a terrorist shielding himself with a hostage. Blair's arm rose with a blur and blamm, blamm, blamm!!! the paper terrorist was nailed in the head. Two out of three.

"Very, very nice. Had a tour with the Israeli Army, did you, Sandburg?"

Blair turned slowly, "I hate guns. And just where does this fit in the game plan?"

Jim gifted Blair with his enigmatic, yet fond, smile. "Oh, it doesn't. But one never knows...." A wink. "You might want to shoot me someday."

~~~~~

There were other odd activities Jim made Blair practice until he could undertake them with alacrity and accuracy. The overarching purpose of all this preparation was pretty much lost on the young accomplice, even though he'd considered himself fairly smart up till now. But you can't get the big picture if you don't have all the pieces.

~~~~~

Alone at a table on the front porch, Jim sipped coffee while reading "USA Today". A TV played CNN nearby. Leaning against an open laptop was Ellison's stopwatch. He glanced up at it. Reaching over and switching off the radio, he took several deep breaths, then cocked his head to one side, obviously listening to something.

Blair was out running. He crested a small hill half a mile from Jim's house and entered a lonely phone booth. He bent over, hands on thighs, taking a minute to catch his breath before he inserted his credit card.

"Webber Assurance." A bored receptionist answered.

"This is oh-four-six-one. Hector Cruz, please, on a secure line."

A little less bored, the voice directed, "Hold, please."

Back up at the house, Ellison's expression was like a thundercloud.

"Cruz here."

Using his most throaty, playful voice, Blair said, "... no way I'm telling you shit."

"Sandburg, this is an extremely dangerous game...."

"...right now, you're more dangerous than he is."

"You want to explain this, Mr. Sandburg?" Phrased like a question; definitely an order.

"If I tell you what this is, and where this is, you'll send backup. And those morons will blow my cover and I'll be too dead to accept your apology."

"You're fucking him, aren't you?" His shudder of disgust was almost audible.

"No, actually."

Cruz stuttered, "But the file said... I thought... "

Blair continued as if he hadn't been interrupted, "Actually, he's fucking me. Seems to be important to him for some reason." His eyes were stone cold--he looked like Ellison.

"You're in over your head, Sandburg."

"Only romantically. I'll write to him in prison." Balancing the phone on one shoulder, Blair pulled out a different piece of plastic--a pay-in-advance phone card, available at any retail convenience outlet.

"Okay, it's your funeral."

"Next time you see me, you can spank me." Blair loved to taunt the homophobe, but his eyes remained cold even while he teased.

"While you're on a secure line, do you want a transfer?"

"Nope. I'm headed back to the hot tub. I'll call again. If I'm in the mood."

The line went dead. So did Ellison's eyes.

~~~~~

Jim had stopped listening, turned the TV back on.

Back in the phone booth, Blair took a moment to collect his thoughts, then inserted the untraceable phone card. He dialled from memory--fifteen digits. A man's voice answered, speaking Mandarin. Blair cut in immediately in the same language, "Is it done yet?"

Taking the call from his parked Mercedes, Col. Qiu of the People's Liberation Army lounged at the wheel in full uniform. "It has not yet even begun."

He listened, wincing as Blair expressed his extreme displeasure, dishing out a major piece of his mind.

Qiu waited impatiently for the tirade to subside. "Tonight, after midnight, when his meeting ends. In Zhongnankai." The Colonel didn't care for the American's attitude. And there was plenty of it. "The eyes will be ready. You just bring the fucking Bone."

~~~~~

Zhongnankai, Beijing

From an open gateway in the walled compound where the politburo's elite worked and lived, China's illustrious Minister of Finance appeared, flanked by bodyguards in the drab green of People's Republic of China police. They stepped onto the dark street and turned into a narrow alley. Down the alleyway toward them, came a young man walking his bicycle through shadow. As he neared the Minister he raised his right hand as though in greeting, and shot each bodyguard with a tranquilizer dart that had immediate affect. He dropped the bike, lurched at the frightened Minister with something cylindrical and gleaming, and sprayed the cowardly official's face with an aerosol that made him scream in pain. The assailant escaped down the alleyway.

~~~~~

Colonel Qiu walked beside the jaunty ophthalmologist, Dr. Hongwei, who turned on lights in the darkened office as they entered. Behind them, two PLA soldiers half-carried the suffering Minister into an examination room. The Minister was gently set into an examining chair. The doctor tilted the agonized face up, shining a light into the Minister's eyes, which made him wince and groan. Perfunctorily, the doctor administered milky-grey eye drops, which made the Minister yelp in pain. Hongwei moved the retinal scanner into position, resting the Minister's chin on the slot provided. The machine's panel flashed digital numbers as a red laser scan moved across the pupil vertically, then retraced its path horizontally, left to right, right to left, up and down--done in under a minute. At the touch of a button, a compact disc popped out of the disc drive. The doctor placed it in a box, telling the Finance Minister, "We will send this to the lab for finer analysis. But let me give you one bit of medical advice?"

The Minister squinted up, painfully.

"No more red pepper in your eye."

The doctor laughed. The Minister seethed. Colonel Qiu had his mind on business.

~~~~~

San Francisco, California, USA

Blair's gloved hand removed a carabineer clip with a nylon rope attached from his climbing harness and attached it to a thick wire. "Jesus, James. What the hell are we doing here?" He'd long since realized that he needn't raise his voice nor direct his words in order for Jim to hear him clearly. He glanced down, but it was too dark for him to see Jim very well, despite the moonlight. He knew Jim had no such problem. He turned back to the nearly vertical cable they were scaling. "I'm freezing my tender parts here."

"I'm relieved to hear you have some," Jim responded wryly as he pulled himself up behind his partner. The two of them were climbing the Golden Gate Bridge. They were near the top, more than 700 feet above the silvery black bay--a precarious, dizzying sight.

"You know, what's truly amazing, Chief, is that only eleven workers died during construction of this thing."

Blair grimaced into the darkness. "Thanks for sharing."

"Of course, the others were saved by the safety net." Jim passed Blair, taking the lead.

Blair kept his focus on the small, railed platform just above him.

"Now, as for the suicides, they always jump facing the city. Avoids that tall fence about fifty stories down. See it there?" Jim heaved himself up onto the platform.

Blair hissed softly up at the older, and apparently more nimble, man, "I never liked you." Jim reached down, grabbed his wrist and hauled him bodily onto the platform. Blair was impressed with Jim's strength and agility, and grateful for the hand up, but he wouldn't admit it.

The ghost of fog rolled past, and they took a moment to admire the transcendent beauty of the starry vista laid out above them. When Blair's breathing had returned to normal--or as normal as his fear of heights would allow, he asked, "And how does this fit into the game plan?"

"Oh, it doesn't," Jim responded warmly. "We came for the view." From his contoured backpack, he pulled a bottle of champagne, followed by exquisite champagne flutes wrapped in velvet. He popped the cork in one motion, and it sailed to its watery doom. Blair couldn't help but watch. One more fluid motion to pour both glasses--he handed one to his partner, toasting: "To thieves. Thieves and liars."

Although he appeared uncertain, Blair clinked the glasses together anyway. "Same here, Big Guy."

Slowly, Jim reached into an inside pocket, watching to see if Blair would flinch. The dark blue eyes did flicker, then filled with relief when Ellison withdrew nothing more threatening than a handful of shiny stones.

"Do you like diamonds, Sandburg?"

Jim held out his hand for Blair to see. Sandburg wrapped his gloved fingers around Jim's warm wrist to steady him, bringing them close to his slightly myopic eyes. In Jim's palm were nine fiery diamonds reflecting the moonlight, so large, so exquisite, Blair's couldn't take his eyes off them.

"You asked me if the machine makes gold. Well, for your information, gold is shit. It's six thousand dollars a pound. Worth your weight in gold...?" His eyes travelled knowingly over Blair's body, seeing clearly in the darkness. "That would put you at nine hundred thousand."

"Would you pay it, Jim?" Fingers still wrapped around Ellison's wrist.

Jim considered this. It looked like this was a question he hadn't anticipated, "There are times, Lover, when I'd pay that and more."

Blair was speechless for a moment, then nervously turned the conversation back to business, "The machine. That we're... stealing... makes diamonds?"

Jim didn't answer, just stared at the diamonds in his palm.

"Real ones?"

Finally Jim responded, the need-to-know portion of his game at an end, "Gem quality. First ever. Made in Japan."

He toasted Japan to the east, downed a goodly portion of his Champagne and began the long-awaited explanation. "Inside the machine, a diamond reactor takes graphite, runs it through a combination of lasers and electron beams. It uses a krypton-fluorine laser with a new isotope of krypton." Jim focused on the diamonds in his palm, then closed his fist around them. Blair let go of his wrist. "The atoms are rearranged, and the molecule of graphite becomes a molecule of..." He turned his fist upside down. And let go! Blair gasped as the brilliant stones fell toward the sea. For long silent moments they gazed at the spot where the diamonds had hit the water.

Then, "God, I hate it when you make a point, man."

~~~~~

HMSS Royal Page, Dock, Bali, Indonesia

The embarking passengers at the foot of the gangplank waited for their turn to be processed. The Steward checked their passports carefully, "All right, then, Mr. Elliott and Mr. Sanderson. All set." He handed back the passports, smiling thinly at the pair.

The partners were dressed as tropical tourists. Blair was behaving in a subdued, but undeniably effeminate manner. The Steward swept them with a single, knowing glance--older man, handsome young boy, single luxury cabin. He scarcely concealed his disdain, saying, "We will keep your passports in our safe until Jakarta."

"Of course."

Handing them electronic keys, the Steward continued, "You are Suite 16."

"...and never been kissed," Blair sang with a leer.

The Steward didn't get it. Blair shrugged.

"We had booked Suite 9," Jim complained.

"Sixteen is our Honeymoon Suite," the Steward explained. "Far superior. Trust me."

Jim consented, a little wary, a little embarrassed.

"Your luggage is in the room. The housekeeper will show you there now."

"Oh. Can't we stroll around the port?" Blair pouted at Jim. "Just a little?"

The Steward checked his watch. "You must be on board in forty minutes. Just to be safe."

Blair smiled sweetly at Jim, ignoring the Steward. "Better safe than sorry."

Jim and Blair strolled down the gangway to the seedy, dangerous-looking wharf. At the bottom a wooden board marked the whereabouts of each guest. Every stateroom had a peg which could be moved to "aboard" or "ashore". Jim moved the peg for 16 to the "aboard" position.

And off they went.

~~~~~

Jim alternated his gaze between the instrument panel and the cockpit window as he piloted the de Haviland DHC-53 across the endless black of the Indian Ocean. Shouting to be heard over the roar of the engines, he indicated a spot far below to his companion. "Down there. Ten o'clock."

Blair observed a tiny group of lights against the darkness, wondering what the other man could see. Jim switched on the autopilot and moved to the back of the plane. Blair followed, zipping up his flightsuit as he slipped into the area beside the jump door. The area was filled with large packs of gear. Blair had fear in his eyes tonight; he was running on pure adrenaline.

"Are you dumping fuel?" Blair shouted, trying for nonchalance.

"Changed my mind. There's nothing on the instruments downrange. The longer we fly before ditching, the less chance they notice on the bridge."

Blair began to strap the huge pack onto the front of his body, his parachute already attached at the back. He looked pretty damn unwieldy.

Making a last check of his own gear, Ellison yelled over his shoulder, "You should lose the oxygen tank at 8,000 feet."

"And how do I judge that? Fag's Intuition?"

Ignoring the jibe, Jim pointed to an altimeter device on his wrist. It said 12,000 feet. He cut the young thief a look.

"So what, man? I just ask you on the way down? Or were you planning to email me?"

Jim pulled out an identical device and fastened it to Blair's left wrist. "I hate a crybaby," he admonished, but held Blair's wrist tenderly for a moment in both hands, caressing before letting go.

He strapped the even larger pack to his own chest before checking the path of the tiny lights far below. Then, looking in his accomplice's nervous eyes, he said simply, "You can do this." Not merely reassurance--affection, something connective between them.

Jim pulled on his oxygen mask and goggles. Blair did the same as Jim opened the door, air blasting in. One more look down below, he turned back to Blair, holding up ten fingers. Counted them down, nine... eight....

Blair moved into position, his eyes never leaving Jim's digital countdown. When all ten fingers were folded down, it left Jim brandishing two fists at his partner--strangely evocative of a prize-fighter ready to take his first swing. Blair shook off the impression, then turned quickly and arched out into the starry void, experiencing once again the unholy panic of falling, coupled with the incomparable rush of freefall. He strained to see Jim following in the darkness above. For a long moment, the fear and exhilaration were replaced with a feeling of total abandonment; then Jim's form appeared in the door, dark framed in light, and leaped after him. Jim skilfully altered his position to gain on Blair, coming close.

Sandburg checked his altimeter and, opening the clamps, watched his oxygen tank fall away. Far beneath them, the lights bobbing on the ocean began to take the shape of a freighter. His gaze returned to Ellison just as the older man pulled his chute and jolted to what looked like a full stop far above his long-haired partner.

Blair yanked his own his cord once, without result. Panicking, he tugged the cord sharply again and again as he rocketed down, His eyes turned desperately to his partner, seeking salvation of one kind or another. Above him, Jim made exaggerated cutting motions across his body which Blair gratefully realized meant pull the other cord. He closed his eyes and pulled his secondary chute, which popped open, jarring him violently. He was well below Jim now, off-course and frantically trying to manipulate his trajectory.

The freighter loomed in the distance, but the sea rushed at him directly below. He slammed into the water, plunging down, twisting, disoriented, and managed to cut his chute loose, struggling not to get tangled. In ever-increasing panic, he broke his light tube, which glowed yellow-green, illuminating the freezing depths. He fit it around his head, then yanked out the small motorized propeller as he kicked himself toward the surface. Fighting against the weight of his gear pack, he flipped the switch, and the turning blades rocketed him upward. He lost his hold on one handgrip, and tried desperately to hang on with one hand, but it wrenched free, shooting off into the blackness without him. For an instant terror glazed his eyes, the full-blown panic attack he'd managed to stave off upon him.

Then Jim was there, driving at him with his propeller. Jim grabbed Blair's jumpsuit by the neck and suddenly they were at the surface, Blair gasping for air. Jim cut his propeller and cradled Blair's body with one strong arm, murmuring in his ear, "It's over. It's over." Blair's eyes were wild, his breathing fast and erratic.

Voice low, but with urgency replacing reassurance in his tone, Jim instructed his young partner, "Catch your breath, quickly. Hang on for the wake."

Focussing, Blair saw the freighter now--a black mountain cutting the sea, a huge wake pluming from its bow. He grabbed Jim's waist hard, yelling, "Do it! Go!"

Jim booted the propeller to life and they zoomed off, bursting through the towering wake to the freighter's looming hull. Speeding alongside, Jim located a series of metal rungs which began twelve feet above the waterline, climbing the dizzying height to the freighter's deck, far above. Jim removed a Kevlar rope with a grappling hook from a pocket on Blair's pack, and, throwing it high, deftly caught a rung.

"Hold tight!" he instructed.

"If you fucking insist!" Blair responded, a small portion of his equilibrium returning.

Jim released the propeller, pulling both of them, laden with gear, out of the water with sheer brute strength. Planting his feet against the outward curve of the hull, he climbed with all his strength, hand over hand, until he finally grasped the bottom rung. He pulled them up until Blair could get a handhold. For a moment, they just held onto the bottom rung, and to each other, then Jim attached them both with metal carabineer clips.

Using one shaking hand to rub sea water from his eyes, Ellison scrutinized his dripping partner, the darkness posing no problem for his unusual eyesight. "If I were you, Chief, I'd watch the desserts."

"Boy, I'll bet you were in shape before you got old." Blair grinned wickedly, the harsh panting ruining the sarcastic effect.

"Too long ago to remember," Jim muttered, already turning his attention back to the task at hand. He pulled himself up to the second rung and offered Blair his hand.

"I can take it from here, thanks."

"Suit yourself."

They began to climb up the rungs, like a tilted backwards ladder, reattaching their clips as they went.

Up, up, and stop. Halfway to the top was a large circular hatch, thirty feet away. Jim turned his back to allow Blair to extract their suction cup gear from his pack. With practiced speed they fastened cups to the balls of their feet, took hold of the hand rods with cups attached, and Jim took the lead as they began to move laterally across the hull's surface toward the hatch. Jim was amazingly agile at the arduous process, scuttling sideways like a crab across the precariously tilted-back hull. Blair was determined, but fell well behind, intent on making every suction seal a solid one. Dark water raced by beneath them. By the time he looked up at the hatch, Jim was gone.

"Anytime you're ready, Spidey."

Blair looked up sharply. Jim was above the hatch, attached to the hull by the balls of his feet, hanging down like a bat. At his astonishment, Jim explained, "Better angle."

The older thief dug out a battery-operated air wrench from his pack, and with a menacing whirr--thankfully masked by the ship's engines--he began to swiftly pop the rivets around the hatch.

Blair hauled out the slender welding tool they'd practiced with in the shower and began cutting through the metal seals around the hatch's rim.

"Quite the rim job, eh, Ellison." But if Jim heard, he didn't answer.

At the crucial moment, Jim called out dryly, "You might want to move aside there, Chief."

Blair jumped just as the six-hundred-pound hatch door plummeted past him to the sea, its huge splash covered by the freighter's wake.

Entering the cavernous interior of the maximum security hold, their yellow-green headlamps revealed the shadowy multitude of platforms, swaying dramatically with the plunging of the ship. The bright yellow forklift was parked across the hold. Overwrought and overwhelmed, Blair just stood and stared for a moment.

Jim quirked one eyebrow skyward. "Are you planning on giving me the light? Or would you rather just dance?"

Slightly embarrassed at his lack of split-second efficiency, Blair retrieved the small halogen lantern from his thinning pack which, when flicked on, brought ghostly illumination to most of the hold.

Ellison scanned the platforms, then pointed to a crate wrapped in three-ply heavy-duty plastic membrane. "Coal into diamonds," Jim remarked, as blandly as one could when yelling over the noise of the engines. "A wealth machine."

"How do you know that's it?" Sandburg moved towards the crate in question. "I'd sure hate to go to all this trouble to steal a fancy fax machine."

Rolling his eyes, Jim replied, "Isn't it obvious, Sandburg? It's twelve by nine by seven feet like the planograms say. And it's the only thing worth waterproofing, in case the ship sinks."

"...you asshole." Blair added.

"What?!?" Jim roared angrily, spinning to face the deflated young man.

"I'm just finishing your sentence, man. The 'you asshole' is implied." Blair sighed heavily, calling after the retreating back, "Can't you answer a question without making me feel stupid?"

Jim headed toward the swaying platforms, calling back over his shoulder: "Why would I bother?" He climbed onto a lower platform, vaulting easily up to the crate containing the magic machine. Blair followed, but it wasn't as easy as the ex-Army Ranger made it look.

Jim pulled six rubber pouches from his gear; they attached the pouches to the top and sides of the crate. The plunging of the ship had the platform really rocking.

"They don't look like flotation bags..." Blair said dubiously.

Jim worked fast. "Shit. Well then, let's forget the whole thing, shall we, Sandburg?"

Blair stared at him. Where was all this hostility coming from? Why now? "Okay, it was a dumb question," Blair conceded, by way of apology.

Ice-blue eyes swept up to meet turquoise ones. Jim looked plenty angry. "Let's get one thing straight. I don't work with partners much, because basically, I find most people to be idiots."

Blair swallowed, throat suddenly dry.

Before he could say anything in his own defence, Jim continued, "You, in contrast, are first rate." Jim paused while emotions played across the handsome, expressive face before him.

"And if I think so," Jim went on, "maybe you should start thinking the same. Now move your ass."

Jim returned to his work. He next pulled out two lengths of Kevlar rope and began securing their platform to the one above to minimize the amount of sway. As he struggled with this, he indicated to Sandburg to weld a very small gray box to the top of the crate.

"GPS transponder," he explained in answer to Blair's unasked question. "Sends a scrambled signal by satellite." He touched the device. It beeped. A light glowed red. "Precise coordinates. You could find a golf ball in the Gobi Desert." He rose and jumped down to the floor.

"Where you going?" Not for the first time, he wished that Jim had outlined the plan to him in advance.

"To hotwire that forklift. Finish up on the floaters, will ya?"

Finish up? He looked at the rubber pouches. They seem finished to him. He tugged at a couple, checking the seals. They seemed attached pretty firmly. Across the way, he saw that Jim had started the forklift. The sound of the little truck's engine was indiscernible over the noise of the ship and the sea.

Ellison drove up in the sturdy little vehicle, weaving around crates and equipment, then hopped lightly out. Moving rocks with an unsteady forklift had been one of the oblique skills Jim had insisted Blair master back in California; now he understood why. Blair climbed into the idling truck as Jim clambered up to unbolt the crate's pallet with his air wrench.

Blair moved the forklift into position as Jim braced his legs against neighbouring cargo, straining with all his strength to hold the crate steady.

"How many tries do I get?" Blair called innocently. For once the shoe was on the other foot.

With effort Jim replied, "One, Darwin. Before I beat you senseless, dump you over the side, and donate your share to the Cascade Home for Wayward Boys."

Chuckling, Blair brought the fork up. The crate swayed slightly as he lined up his prongs against the pallet's receiving slots. "Jim, man. You gotta work on that impatient streak." And slipped them straight in--first try. Even Blair was amazed.

He lifted the crate, but the boat lurched at just the wrong moment and he nearly lost it off the fork. He managed to save the load then swung gently around and headed for the open hatchway. He picked up speed, slightly, calling, "Uh, Jim. Thing on the left is the brakes?"

"Or the thing on the right." Jim responded, watching him drive away.

Rolling far too fast toward the open hatchway, Blair shouted, "Ellison, I'm not kidding. It's jammed!"

Jim flew off the platform, chasing after the forklift as it accelerated toward the opening. "Jump, Blair! For Christ's sake!" there was genuine fear in his voice.

The forklift reached the hatchway lip and began to tilt toward the sea. The crate slid off the prongs falling into the sea, then the forklift tumbled out of the hatch after it, just as Jim snatched Blair by his hair, pulling him free of the falling machine. Jim managed to catch the rim of the hatchway with his free hand while Blair screamed in fright and pain, blindly grabbing at Ellison's arm as he was abruptly, thankfully, jerked back to safety.

Trembling and clutching each other tightly, they stared at the sea beneath them, where the crate and the forklift--and almost Sandburg--had disappeared.

They remained like that for long minutes, both pale and shaking. Then Jim cleared his throat harshly and became all business again. "You did activate the floaters, didn't you, Sandburg?"

The young thief's head whipped around, aghast. "Activate. But you didn't say... "

"I said, 'Finish up on the floaters.' You heard me!"

Blair's life flashed before his eyes. Again.

Jim stared out the open hatch again, trying to figure the direction the crate would have drifted. A mile away, almost obscured by the ship, the crate bobbed to the surface. The tiny red light on the transponder glowed like a beacon to Jim's enhanced sight. "Oh. Okay. I can see it, Chief. Just off the starboard bow. Guess I activated them myself."

Pushed beyond his limits by this last unnecessary bit of drama, Blair started whaling on his partner with his fists. Practically hysterical, he laughed so hard he barely managed to get in a few good shots before Jim was able to grasp his flailing wrists. Blair spat in his face. Shocked for a second, Jim froze, then kissed him hard. The lithe young man struggled for a beat, then let him.

Wrenching themselves away from the searing kiss, Jim gently grasped the tab of the zipper of Blair's waterproof jumpsuit, slowly unzipping it all the way down to his partner's crotch. Pulling it off his shoulders, Blair steadied himself with one hand on Jim's shoulder as he stepped out of the garment to reveal his tuxedo, a custom-made, wrinkle-free Armani. Blair stepped back to watch admiringly as Jim unzipped his dark blue flight-suit, revealing formal wear of his own beneath.

After first removing their dress shoes from Blair's pack, Jim stuffed the flightsuits in carelessly then flung both packs into the black ocean.

"Oops, Jim. I don't think you should have done that."

Jim looked really stunned. And scared.

"Excuse me?"

"Well... I saw our suction things. Lying... over... there?" He points to where no suction things are lying... so I put 'em in my pack."

Jim's eyes widened.

"Or maybe, I put 'em there." Sandburg pointed to them lying in a dark corner. He tilted his head and gave his mentor a great big smile.

"I like a quick study, Darwin." was all Jim said, but Blair knew he'd pay for that later.

~~~~~

HMSS Royal Page, at sea

A half dozen really old couples waltzed around the ship's elegantly appointed ballroom to a three piece Filipino ensemble. Blair and Jim sat at a side table oblivious of the dancers, their gaze only for each other. To the casual observer they appeared very much in love. The surrounding geezers made comments to each other at different levels of disapproval, disgust and envy.

"No matter how many stones we make, Sweetheart, the diamonds are just the appetizer." Jim ran gentle fingers over the back of Blair's hand.

"And the main course, Lover?" Blair's eyes are hooded, dreamy.

"My contract. With deBeers."

"Oh. My. God." Blair stiffened, a frisson crawling up his spine as his instantly realized the implications of Jim's simple statement.

"Sensible folks, deBeers." Jim ran his thumb lightly along Blair's jawbone. "A world monopoly in diamonds based on one simple principle: something's only priceless if it's scarce. These guys dig up all the diamonds on the planet. Just to keep them out of circulation. Otherwise, you could buy 'em at the five and dime."

"Hey, man. You're showing your age. They don't have dime stores anymore."

"At the dollar store then." Jim refused to let Blair distract him from his rambling explanation. "Imagine the chaos we could cause."

"You said 'contract'?"

"Let's not think of ourselves as thieves, Robin Hood. I'd prefer 'bounty hunters'."

Blair liked the ring of that; his ocean-dark eyes danced with delight. "So in actuality, Jim, our machine is worth far more dead than alive."

"Glad to see you're both alive."

Startled by the intruder, the lovers turned to find the officious steward from this afternoon, now in black tie, checking on his passengers.

"When you missed cocktails..." he continued, "...and supper, I thought of knocking on your door...."

Blair sent the prying interloper a lazy smile. "Oh, I wish you had. We love having strangers join us! Don't we, John? Maybe later?"

Jim turned so that he faced the flummoxed steward across Blair's shoulder, and smiling, said, "We can promise you an interesting time." His smile widened, taking on a predatory note, "Or my name's not John Elliott."

The steward beat a hasty retreat, leaving them to return to their world of two.

~~~~~

Jim and Blair moved down the softly lit hallway past the burnished doors of luxury suites. Jim's arms were wrapped around Blair's shoulders, their bodies close together.

"Well, Darlin'," Jim drawled, "I'd ask what you're doing with the rest of your life. But that's your own business, isn't it?"

"Yeah. Anyway, Jim, before you get too choked up on the farewell. I feel I owe you a confession." Blair looked up into Jim's hopeful eyes. "Time has come to tell you what business I'm actually in."

"Not here," Jim ordered, turning suddenly and heading down another corridor, practically dragging Blair with him.

~~~~~

Ellison steered Blair along the empty moonlit deck to the bowsprit; the long, narrow platform, ringed only by a flimsy railing, jutting far out above the churning sea. The whipping of the wind made it all the more precarious.

"So what?" Blair asked. "We're the kings of the world?"

Ignoring the Titanic reference, Jim held out his hand. "It only looks dangerous."

Blair hesitated, unsure of the sudden change in his partner. What if....

"You couldn't fall off... unless someone threw you over. But I guess I shouldn't joke. How's that fear of heights of yours, anyway?"

Pissed at the way this was going, Blair leapt up onto the platform. Jim hopped up beside, him and, placing a hand at the small of his back, guided him down the bowsprit's length to the end.

Leaning back casually against the slender railing, Jim commented dryly. "This is so much more intimate, don't you think, Chief. Perfect for a confession. 'Father, forgive me for I have sinned.'"

Blair ignored the jibe, gazing out to sea, clenching the railing in a white-knuckled grip.

After several long moments passed, Jim finally prodded, "Now, what business are you actually in?"

Blair turned to meet his eyes. "Well, I'm not an 'Art and Antiquities Acquisition Advisor'."

"Of course not, Chief. You're a cop." Without pausing, Jim carried on, ignoring Blair's look of shock. "An insurance investigator for Webber Assurance. Your boss is a spy-wannabe named Hector Cruz whose career has stalled at forty. You've been there four years and ten months. You're quite the rising star."

"Nope." Blair responded coolly crossing his arms over his chest.

"Nope, Chief?" Jim quirked one eyebrow toward the night sky.

"I'm a thief, Jim. Always have been. Learned it from my Mom. She supported us for years by cons, scams and out-and-out thievery. Never held a full time job. Always on the lam. When I finally split with her at sixteen, I put myself through nearly ten years of university running numbers and errands of questionable legality for her brother. See, kinda runs in the family." Blair paused for breath. He'd never told anyone any of this before. "Webber Assurance is all part of the master plan. For almost five years, I've used their databases to plan my jobs--museums, banks, jewellers, rich people. I have floor plans, alarm codes, passwords, the works."

Jim's face was absolutely neutral--unreadable. "And?"

"I've made a fortune. But it's not enough."

"Why not?"

"You're fabulously and legitimately wealthy, Jim. Why isn't it enough for you?"

Not really expecting an answer, Sandburg continued, "You know the Oracle Bone that was stolen from Ventriss Tower?" Jim nodded. "That was my job. I scaled the building using electromagnets that sure beat the shit outta those suction cup thingies you had us using tonight. And I got back out by parachuting down an air shaft." A small smile of pride graced his full lips, then back to business. "And as a stroke of true genius, in case I was... apprehended, I didn't take the Bone out with me. I mailed it from the apartment to... where we're going next, actually."

Quietly, Jim said, "We?" He raked his gaze over his companion.

"Yeah, 'we'. You passed the audition." A grin broke out on his handsome face.

"Imagine my relief," Jim responded wryly.

"Mine too, James." Blair's grin widened as he warmed to his topic. "I need a partner. For the biggest, smartest job. Ever. The one you retire off. Because nothing else could ever compare with the rush."

"Ever is a very long time, Chief."

"This is a job that can only be done in one place, in one split-second in human history. If we miss that instant, we lose."

"And it's worth...?" Jim was interested, but not quite hooked yet.

"Eight billion dollars. That's eight thousand million."

"How much in pennies?"

"You're not a real trusting guy, Ellison."

"And I tried so hard to hide that."

"It's actually two jobs. The first one was to steal the Oracle Bone, which I've done. Without your divine help, thank you very much. Then we trade that in for our ticket to the show."

Blair paused for a second to let Jim puzzle it out. Small revenge for the times Jim had left him out of the loop.

Schooled not to let his emotions show, Jim's face remained neutral. Finally he asked, "One moment in time? What moment?"

"Midnight, July 1, 1997. Eight days from now. The moment that Hong Kong is annexed by China." At last he had the older thief's interest. "Eighty-twenty split, Big Guy."

"Don't be so hard on yourself. It's your plan, you should take at least thirty percent."

Blair rolled his eyes. He should have expected this. "My eighty, your twenty. Asshole."

Jim thought this over. "Fifty-fifty. Or you can swim to Taipei."

Sandburg was not impressed. Or afraid.

Still working it out, Jim asked, "What are you gonna do with six billion dollars that you can't do with four?"

"Hold the record," Blair murmured reverently. "Alone."

"So, Einstein, your share is fifty percent. And one dollar." And he leaned in to seal the bargain with a kiss.

Holding Jim away with a strong hand to the chest, Sandburg stared at Ellison, considering, then smiled--just barely. Wrapped in Jim's arms, Blair asked, "Did you like what I left behind in the hold?"

"You... I... No. I missed that." Ellison sputtered; caught off guard.

"Couldn't leave without an Ellison calling card, now could we? It's tradition." Blair paused for effect, drawing out his moment of triumph. "I left a lump of coal, a pair of pliers, and a note that said, 'Squeeze hard'."

Jim's barked out a harsh note of laughter, his eyes crinkling at the corner with admiration and possibly love. He leaned down and kissed Blair, who grabbed his hand and placed it on the crotch of his tuxedo trousers, right over his steel-hard erection, whispering, "Hey, Old Man. Squeeze hard!"

~~~~~

Shilling District, Taipei

The Shilling District of Taipei was an ugly section of an ugly town. It was comprised largely of unmarked warehouses and alleyways teeming with food stalls. It stank.

A motorcycle zoomed around a dirty corner, barely missing an old man taking a leak into a pile of discarded cardboard. Blair was driving, graced with a disgusted-looking Jim as passenger, arms wrapped securely around the driver's waist. Blair drove far too fast for the litter-strewn alleys--showing off, trying to get a little revenge for all the shit Ellison had put him through over the last few weeks.

They turned down a blind alley, slowing slightly as Sandburg guided the bike smoothly into an open freight elevator and came to a jarring halt. Jim climbed off gingerly. The freight elevator clanged upward.

"You look very sexy on that bike, you know." Jim whispered as the elevator jolted to a stop.

Blair favoured his partner with a wary glance as he dismounted. He pulled the heavy lever on the wall and the door slid noisily open to reveal a spacious loft. Not a "loft-style condo" at all; this was definitely a converted warehouse, the conversion apparently restricted to the addition of a fridge and stove. It was largely empty space with a few pieces of furniture arranged in one corner. A low futon-style bed resided beneath a skylight.

Blair flicked on a dim light and strolled in, leaving the bike in the freight elevator as if he were the only one to ever use it. Jim followed, surveying the place with military acumen. A pile of mail sat on a rickety-looking table. Sandburg must have someone look after the place--such as it was--when he wasn't there.

Blair bent over the stack, sorted through it, then picked up an unopened padded mailing envelope. Turning to Jim, he said lightly, "Wanna buy a Chinese Oracle Bone?"

"Rather steal it." Jim replied.

"Been there, done that," Blair chuckled as he glanced through the rest of the mail.

Jim wandered over to his partner and ran a hand over the brown curls, flattened now by the motorcycle helmet.

Without looking up, Blair asked, ever the gracious host, "You need to eat something, or you ready for sex?"

A moment's pause, then Jim sighed in a long-suffering manner, "The options are so limited."

But Blair was already walking toward the waiting futon, stripping off his shirt as he went. Behind him Jim moved as silently as a jungle cat. He'd made his choice--among limited options.

~~~~~

Blair's Loft, Taipei

Next morning Ellison woke alone, streaks of sunlight filtering through the ancient shutters. Lying on the empty pillow beside him was the purloined Oracle Bone, resting in its foam-lined box. Pinned to the box was a note that read: "This lovely parting gift can be yours. If the price is right."

"Chief...?"

Rising from the low sleeping platform, he went in search of his partner, finding him standing on a precarious-looking balcony on the far side of the loft.

"Morning, Chief."

Blair startled slightly, said nothing.

"Quite a parting gift. I would have settled for roses, you know."

"It's a joke, Ellison. You know, a joke? People who have a sense of humour make them?"

Jim leaned down, stroking Blair's hair very gently. "Relax. It's only eight billion dollars."

He joined Blair in staring out the window, then continued, "Is it easier now? Not pretending?"

"Not pretending what, Ellison?"

"Not pretending you're an innocent. Not pretending you... like me."

Blair's eyes widened a fraction, but he gave no answer.

"Here's a tip from an old-timer. Never forget who you are." He moved closer to Blair, bodies touching. "It gives you someone to be... when you stop pretending. Okay?"

Blair nodded, slowly, his eyes moving over Jim's face. A variety of feelings fled across his expressive visage. Finally, he turned to gaze at the street running by the loft, his long hair hiding his face from view.

When he finally responded, it wasn't to Jim's comments about feelings, about the two of them, it was about the next heist--the eight billion dollar one. Blair's job.

"We've got five days to trade the Bone for the scan and pull our eight billion out of Hong Kong. Once midnight passes on July first, it's too late."

~~~~~

Statue Square, Hong Kong

Hong Kong's bustling Statue Square was the hub of countless feeder streets and alleyways, billboards everywhere. Some Western businesses announced "We'll still be here for you". Others, primarily British, sent farewells instead, gratitude for past patronage. China-sponsored depictions of happy Hong Kong and Chinese citizens proclaimed one country, two systems.

A British Petroleum billboard featured a huge digital clock overlooking the Square, contrasting harshly with the culture that belonged there. The clock counted down by seconds: "June 29, 1997, 11:32 a.m. One day, 12 hours, 27 minutes, 48 seconds to reunion with China!"

The streets were crowded with moving vans, people pushing carts of belongings, shop signs advertising blowout inventory clearance sales. The traffic defined gridlock. Incredibly long queues formed in front of post offices, American Express, the imposing glass and steel skyscraper named "The Hong Kong and Shanghai Bank Building".

Large groups of uniformed Chinese soldiers marched in the streets. To one side, an orderly demonstration by anti-China protesters, their signs saying "More Democracy" and "Free Hong Kong"; their activities were closely watched by Chinese soldiers, who in turn were watched by British soldiers.

Down in the Square, a couple of guys haggled with a street vendor. Jim purchased a T-shirt. Blair dutifully lifted his arms, and Jim slipped the garment over his head. It read "China got Hong Kong and all I got was this lousy T-shirt".

Blair twirled, modelling for Jim as if wearing an Armani original. Jim smiled his approval, then picked up the Louis Vuitton travel case he had put down to complete the transaction and they moved on. They strolled, chatting until Jim bumped hard into a Chinese soldier, both men reeling with the impact. The soldier carried an identical Louis Vuitton case; the two men set their cases down side-by-side as Jim stepped forward, yelling in Mandarin, "Watch the fuck where you're going, asshole!"

A few people turned to look. Blair tugged on Ellison's arm. "Hey, man. Don't start anything. We're not in Kansas anymore." Jim reluctantly stepped back. The soldier glared at him, then bent and picked up Ellison's case. A parting epithet in Mandarin, and the soldier moved off.

Watching him, Jim unobtrusively fingered a concealed pistol, ready for action. Within a few yards, the soldier stopped and opened the case. He checked out the Oracle Bone right there in the middle of the Square. The two Americans watched from across the crowded square. At last the soldier closed the case and headed back to them.

"I believe I took your case," he said politely in Mandarin. Handing it to Ellison, he leaned forward, and in heavily-accented English, whispered "Twenty-one Old Peak Road. Be there in forty-five minutes."

He exchanged cases with Ellison, leaving with the one he started with.

~~~~~

Qiu's Mansion, Victoria Peak, Hong Kong

A vintage Aston Martin pulled up to a spectacular gated mansion. Sparkling white, the magnificent house was a blend of Edwardian and Regency. Blair leaned over from the driver's seat, spoke into the voice box and the gate swung open. As they pulled up the crushed rock driveway, a butler appeared, as British as the architecture. Jim emerged from the car like a lord, the Vuitton case in hand.

The butler led them around the side of the house. They trailed slowly after, surveying the territory as they walked.

"I like this, Chief," Jim remarked coldly.

"You like what?" Blair asked, ignoring the sarcastic tone.

"Not being told what the fuck we're doing."

"You're on a 'need to know' basis, Ellison. You'll get each step in time to execute it. I thought you agreed to those conditions."

"I like your not trusting me, Sandburg. Because it frees me to do the same."

"As if you ever did, man." Blair muttered, not caring if Jim heard him or not.

Rounding the corner to the spacious grounds behind the mansion, they paused for a moment to admire the breathtaking view, looking down the slope of Victoria Peak toward Hong Kong, the harbour and Kowloon across the water.

Regretting his earlier comment, Blair made an attempt to explain. "I trust you, man. I just need to--"

"Remain in control," Jim cut in. As they passed a row of elegant rosebushes, Jim snapped off a perfect blossom. "Which is a sign of weakness." He handed the rose to Blair. Their eyes met. "I like that, too."

At the edge of the garden, a luncheon table was spread with delicacies. Two servants, also British, danced attendance. Their host remained seated.

"Colonel," Blair said, by way of both greeting and introduction.

Colonel Qiu glanced up from his meal. He wore a green People's Liberation Army uniform, absurdly decorated and contrasting ridiculously with the wraparound Gautier sunglasses.

Qiu gazed at Blair who was attired in softly faded blue jeans and off-white linen shirt, the short sleeves rolled at his biceps. "You look very handsome, Blair. Is the rose for me?"

"Of course," Blair said, and leaned down to fasten it in the buttonhole of the Colonel's lapel--another ornament on the over-decorated chest.

"Colonel Qiu Lai Chuen, this is Jim Ellison." Hearing his real name, Jim cut Blair a sharp look.

Blair smiled warmly at his partner, explaining, "Real names here, James. The