nearby facility, then looked at his watch. “Do make it quick, please, French. I want some faces to fax by the end of the day.”
She nodded and followed Hazelton from the room. Henry hoped he wouldn’t get too distracted by the woman when he was trying to conjure the faces of the terrorists. “Just my luck,” he said under his breath.
“What’s that, Gibbs?” asked Hayes brusquely. “You have a problem?”
“Not at all, sir,” said Henry.
#
Sarah French returned to the room in fifteen minutes flat. She’d changed into blue jeans and a bulky green sweater whose sleeves were pushed up to her elbows. She was carrying a smal black case that Henry assumed must contain her sketching materials.
Hayes ushered the pair of them into an adjacent meeting room, performing a perfunctory introduction as he did so. Turning back to the door, he looked at Henry and said, “Do your best, Gibbs.”
Sarah and Henry looked at each other with embarrassed smiles. She sat down and opened her black case, flipped open a pocket, and pulled out a thin electric cord with a small black box attached to it.
“Plug?” she said, searching the baseboards.
Henry noticed a wall outlet behind her chair. “Right behind you.” Thank God for the backup generators. Instead of drawing materials, the woman was carrying a laptop computer. On its lid, stamped in white, was: “Property of the FBI.”
Sarah plugged in the laptop and inserted a CD-ROM disk from a pocket in the computer case. It, too, was marked with an FBI stamp. Henry sat next to her, quietly watching her put together the gear. After she was satisfied everything was connected right, she pushed a button, sat back and looked at him. “Almost ready.”
He hoped she didn’t realize he’d developed a ferocious hard-on. He smiled desperately at her, trying to act nonchalant, trying desperately to remain mindless of his body’s urgings. Half his mind was attempting to figure out why he’d had that reaction to her setting up her electronic gear; the other half knew why. She bent over, you dope.
“Hard trip?” he said.
She moved her head pertly in response to his question, then smiled. “Boring,” she said. “But rippin’.”
Then she became absorbed again in her computer as images began to glow on the screen. She punched a few keys and squinted.
“I thought you were an artist?”
“I am,” she said. “I use a computer. I’m a Mac- head.”
“A what?” He crossed his legs.
“We use computer graphics to make people, these days.” She picked up the laptop and pushed her chair back from the table so that she was facing him. Fixing her gaze squarely on his eyes, she crossed her own legs and said, “Okay. Let’s do it.”
Henry blushed.
Sarah noticed the colour-change. “What? Nervous or something?”
“No, ma’am,” said Henry. “What do, um, I do?”
“First tell me about the people you saw. You know. What type of people they were. Tell me things like – oh, long faces or short faces. Did the guy have a long thin face or a short fat one? Stuff like that. You know. Race. . .”
Henry did his best to wrench his mind back to being shot, out there on the big ice. He felt betrayed by his manhood. He knew the importance of their job. The world was waiting outside the door to beam the electronic image she produced to law-enforcement agencies all over the world.
He took a deep breath.
If the truth were told, the face of the man who’d shot him was always before him, engraved in a horrible way in his memory. Carved in stone. Full colour. 3-D.
“He had a dark complexion. Round face. He had a parka hood up so I can’t say about his hair. I remember his face, though.”
“A good start. Go, Henry.” Her fingers clicked the computer keys.
As he concentrated on the face of his would-be killer, his body forgot the woman. Suddenly he noticed he was free of his erection. The thought of the terrorist clearly had an adverse effect on his libido. Oh, my, I must
She nodded and followed Hazelton from the room. Henry hoped he wouldn’t get too distracted by the woman when he was trying to conjure the faces of the terrorists. “Just my luck,” he said under his breath.
“What’s that, Gibbs?” asked Hayes brusquely. “You have a problem?”
“Not at all, sir,” said Henry.
#
Sarah French returned to the room in fifteen minutes flat. She’d changed into blue jeans and a bulky green sweater whose sleeves were pushed up to her elbows. She was carrying a smal black case that Henry assumed must contain her sketching materials.
Hayes ushered the pair of them into an adjacent meeting room, performing a perfunctory introduction as he did so. Turning back to the door, he looked at Henry and said, “Do your best, Gibbs.”
Sarah and Henry looked at each other with embarrassed smiles. She sat down and opened her black case, flipped open a pocket, and pulled out a thin electric cord with a small black box attached to it.
“Plug?” she said, searching the baseboards.
Henry noticed a wall outlet behind her chair. “Right behind you.” Thank God for the backup generators. Instead of drawing materials, the woman was carrying a laptop computer. On its lid, stamped in white, was: “Property of the FBI.”
Sarah plugged in the laptop and inserted a CD-ROM disk from a pocket in the computer case. It, too, was marked with an FBI stamp. Henry sat next to her, quietly watching her put together the gear. After she was satisfied everything was connected right, she pushed a button, sat back and looked at him. “Almost ready.”
He hoped she didn’t realize he’d developed a ferocious hard-on. He smiled desperately at her, trying to act nonchalant, trying desperately to remain mindless of his body’s urgings. Half his mind was attempting to figure out why he’d had that reaction to her setting up her electronic gear; the other half knew why. She bent over, you dope.
“Hard trip?” he said.
She moved her head pertly in response to his question, then smiled. “Boring,” she said. “But rippin’.”
Then she became absorbed again in her computer as images began to glow on the screen. She punched a few keys and squinted.
“I thought you were an artist?”
“I am,” she said. “I use a computer. I’m a Mac- head.”
“A what?” He crossed his legs.
“We use computer graphics to make people, these days.” She picked up the laptop and pushed her chair back from the table so that she was facing him. Fixing her gaze squarely on his eyes, she crossed her own legs and said, “Okay. Let’s do it.”
Henry blushed.
Sarah noticed the colour-change. “What? Nervous or something?”
“No, ma’am,” said Henry. “What do, um, I do?”
“First tell me about the people you saw. You know. What type of people they were. Tell me things like – oh, long faces or short faces. Did the guy have a long thin face or a short fat one? Stuff like that. You know. Race. . .”
Henry did his best to wrench his mind back to being shot, out there on the big ice. He felt betrayed by his manhood. He knew the importance of their job. The world was waiting outside the door to beam the electronic image she produced to law-enforcement agencies all over the world.
He took a deep breath.
If the truth were told, the face of the man who’d shot him was always before him, engraved in a horrible way in his memory. Carved in stone. Full colour. 3-D.
“He had a dark complexion. Round face. He had a parka hood up so I can’t say about his hair. I remember his face, though.”
“A good start. Go, Henry.” Her fingers clicked the computer keys.
As he concentrated on the face of his would-be killer, his body forgot the woman. Suddenly he noticed he was free of his erection. The thought of the terrorist clearly had an adverse effect on his libido. Oh, my, I must
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