Crisscross

Releasing the bar, Jack shot to his feet and began pounding on the desk.

"No!" he shouted. "Impossible! No, no, no! I'd never do something like that! Never!"

Aveline's face paled. "Calm down, Jack. As I have told you, it is probably from some past life—"

He pounded harder on the desk. "I don't want to hear that! I don't want a xelton that would be party to such a thing. You're mistaken! It's wrong! Wrong-wrong-wrong!"

The door swung open with a bang and two shaved-headed, burgundy-uniformed men burst in.

The taller of the pair grabbed Jack's arm and said, "Come with us. And don't make a fuss."

"Who are you?" Jack cried, cringing.

"Temple Paladins," Aveline said. "You must go with them."

"Where?"

"The Grand Paladin wants to see you," said the shorter one.

Aveline's eyes widened. "The GP himself? By Noomri!"

"Yeah," said the taller one. "He's had his eye on you since you stepped into the temple this morning."

Just as Jack had expected. He went without a fuss.

4

"My name is Jensen." The big black man said as he loomed over Jack. Jack detected a vaguely African accent filtering through the subway rumble of his voice. "What's yours?"

The two TPs had brought Jack to the third floor, which seemed to house the temple's security forces, and seated him in a chair in a small, windowless room. They made him wait ten minutes or so, probably looking to up his anxiety level. Jack accommodated them by fidgeting and twisting his hands together, doing his best to look like a house cat in a dog pound.

Finally this huge black guy who made Michael Clark Duncan look svelte—hell, he looked like he'd had Michael Clark Duncan for breakfast—swung through the door like a wrecking ball and stopped two feet in front of Jack. None of his bulk looked like flab. The overhead fluorescents gleamed off the bare scalp of a head the size of an official NBA basketball. His black uniform could have doubled as a comforter on a king-sized bed.

Pretty intimidating, Jack thought. If you're into that sort of thing.

He started to stutter a reply. "I-I-I'm—"

"Don't tell me you're 'Jack Farrell,' because we ran a routine check on you and learned there is no Jack Farrell at the address you gave. As a matter of fact, there isn't even a house at that address."

"A-all right," Jack said. "My real name—"

"I don't care what you're real name is. I just want to know your game. What are you up to? You work for that rag, The Light, is that it?"

"No, I've never even heard of whatever it is you're talking about. I'm—"

"Then why are you coming to us under false pretenses? We don't allow lies in Dormentalist temples—only truth."

"But I've a good explanation about why—"

"I don't want to hear it. As of this moment you are officially designated UP and ba

Jensen turned and walked back to the door.

"It's not fair!" Jack cried but Jensen didn't acknowledge him.

As soon as he was gone, the two guards who'd brought Jack here led him back down to the Male RC Changing Room, watched him change, then escorted him out the door to the sidewalk. All without a word.

Jack stood in the late-morning sun, looking dejected, then turned and began walking uptown. Pulled out his wallet and checked the slot where he'd stowed the Jason Amurri ID. The hair he'd tucked around the top of the card was gone.

Perfect.

He hadn't gone three blocks when he spotted the tail. But he wasn't going to try to lose him. He wanted to be followed.

Let the games begin.

5

Jensen's secretary's voice rasped from the speaker on his desk. "TP Peary on line one, sir."

Jensen had told Peary to get into his street clothes and follow this phony bastard Amurri. At first, when the routine background check on "Jack Far-rell" had come up blank—name, address, SSN, none of them had co

Just as Jensen had expected, when he called a raid on "Jack Farrell's" locker during the Reveille Session, they came up with a whole different set of ID. But not the ID of someone who fell easily into the usual categories.

Jason Amurri. Okay. But from Switzerland? That had thrown Jensen. Why would a guy come all the way from Switzerland to join the New York Dormentalist temple under an assumed name? Granted, this temple was the center of the Church, its Vatican, so to speak, but why the lies? And bad lies to boot. Obviously he'd never thought they'd check up on him.

Couldn't let anybody get away with that. Doesn't matter if you're from Switzerland or Peoria—you lie, you get the boot. That was the rule.

Jensen stared at the phone and frowned. Kind of early for Peary to be calling in. He'd only started tailing the Amurri guy a little while ago.

Unless…

He snatched up the receiver. "Don't tell me you lost him."

"No. Only had to follow him to Central Park South. He's staying at the Ritz Carlton."

Another surprise.

"How do you know he's not just visiting someone?"

"Because I called the hotel and asked to be co

The Ritz Carlton? Jesus. Years ago, while the luxury suites were being refurbished here in the temple, Jensen had had to book rooms in the Ritz for visiting Dormentalist celebrities. He remembered how a rear single with a view of a brick wall had cost almost seven hundred a night. And, of course, none of the visiting high rollers wanted that. No, they wanted a park view. Cost a damn fortune.

"What do you want me to do next?" Peary said.

"Come back in."

He hung up. No sense in having Peary waste his time watching a hotel. Jensen now knew where the guy was and who he was.

Well, not really who. Just his name. And home address in Switzerland. And that he was staying at just about the most expensive hotel in the city. That meant he had some bucks. This Jason Amurri was full of surprises.

A worm of unease wriggled in Jensen's gut. He didn't like surprises.

He reached for the buzzer and hesitated. What was his new secretary's name? The brainless little twits came and went so quickly. He seemed to go through them like a fox through chickens. No one applied to be his secretary anymore; they had to be drafted from the volunteer pool. Was he that hard on them? Not that he cared what they thought, it was just that some of them had long learning curves.

He decided he didn't give a shit about her name.

He buzzed and said, "Get me Tony Margiotta."

Jensen loved what computers could do for him but, beyond e-mail, he let other people deal with them. Margiotta was the computer whiz among the TPs. He'd find out what Jensen needed to know.

He just hoped it wasn't something he didn't want to know.