her.
Bastard, she thought. He could have searched that house himself. Had he sent her to prove his own power, or was there something wrong with him? She'd seen him squeezing his belly.
Reluctantly she acknowledged that Ballieu's cau tion now seemed justified. The woman had come here. She knew something. She was a threat.
Khadija began to move through the darkness, a shadow in black slacks and high-necked black jersey. She was eager to even scores with this woman who had startled her two nights ago, who had come awake and thrown something so unexpectedly and made Khadija fail in her mission. Al most never had she been thwarted in something she set out to do for their cause -- never by another woman.
She would not fail this time. American meddling had deprived her of a homeland. American money had bought the planes and weapons that had killed her mother and little sister. Americans were wolves who fed on the weak. Whether she found the tape or not, killing the Stuart woman would be a triumph for Khadija's people.
Glancing around to make sure she was unobserved, she unscrewed the light on the porch of the bungalow and in only a matter of seconds sprang the lock on the door. The thin black gloves she wore insured there would be no prints. Khadija felt in creasing confidence. She was good at locks. Good at rearranging electrical systems. She would show the old bastard Ballieu how good she was. Then perhaps she would mock him with what she knew.
With penlight in hand she began a methodical search of the bungalow. She found what she was after so quickly, she was almost suspicious. Then she decided that was just like a rich American woman, hiding a valuable tape in the side of a suitcase. It proved how stupid and weak such women were.
Khadija stuffed the tape into her pocket, eyes slit ted with pleasure. The easy part was all that re mained. She removed the electrical switch plate inside the bungalow door. She made a small rear rangement in the electrical wiring. Coming in across the darkened porch, the first thing anyone was likely to do was reach for the light switch. It would look like an accident.
Stepping cautiously, Khadija carried the ice bucket from the dresser into the bathroom, filled it with water, and, when she was safely on the other side, door open behind her, upended it to leave a puddle where the Stuart woman would step. She gave the bucket a toss. It landed agreeably near the wetness, as though it had tipped over, the culprit in all this.
Allowing herself a brief, sullen smile of satisfac tion, Khadija closed the door.
* * *
"Aw, Channing, can't I just play a couple more games?"
Channing sighed, glad to find that Serafin was a normal twelve-year-old, at least when it came to addiction to video games. They'd found the arcade when they went exploring the main lodge complex after dinner.
Now, at the edge of one of the terraces, she considered. He'd be safe in the arcade, and she had her kunjar around her waist. On the way to dinner one of the guests had complimented her on her belt.
"All right," she said, shelling out a couple of dol lars. "Stay there, though. I'll come and find you."
Relieved to leave the party-time noise of the lodge behind her, she made her way down a walk to the twisting path that led to the bungalows. Of all the resort's accommodations, these were the most private, probably designed for honeymooners, Channing thought. Each sat well back from the path and apart from its neighbors. As she reached the point where she'd leave the main path to walk toward her door, Channing stopped.
The light was out. It shouldn't worry her, yet she was starting to have the feeling of too many coinci dences. The break-in, the brown car that had been behind her all the way from L.A., and Ballieu here ... .
"I help you, lady?"
A Mexican maintenance man scrambled up from his knees. He'd been fixing a sprinkler, she saw now. She hadn't noticed him there.
"No ... no, it's all right,
Bastard, she thought. He could have searched that house himself. Had he sent her to prove his own power, or was there something wrong with him? She'd seen him squeezing his belly.
Reluctantly she acknowledged that Ballieu's cau tion now seemed justified. The woman had come here. She knew something. She was a threat.
Khadija began to move through the darkness, a shadow in black slacks and high-necked black jersey. She was eager to even scores with this woman who had startled her two nights ago, who had come awake and thrown something so unexpectedly and made Khadija fail in her mission. Al most never had she been thwarted in something she set out to do for their cause -- never by another woman.
She would not fail this time. American meddling had deprived her of a homeland. American money had bought the planes and weapons that had killed her mother and little sister. Americans were wolves who fed on the weak. Whether she found the tape or not, killing the Stuart woman would be a triumph for Khadija's people.
Glancing around to make sure she was unobserved, she unscrewed the light on the porch of the bungalow and in only a matter of seconds sprang the lock on the door. The thin black gloves she wore insured there would be no prints. Khadija felt in creasing confidence. She was good at locks. Good at rearranging electrical systems. She would show the old bastard Ballieu how good she was. Then perhaps she would mock him with what she knew.
With penlight in hand she began a methodical search of the bungalow. She found what she was after so quickly, she was almost suspicious. Then she decided that was just like a rich American woman, hiding a valuable tape in the side of a suitcase. It proved how stupid and weak such women were.
Khadija stuffed the tape into her pocket, eyes slit ted with pleasure. The easy part was all that re mained. She removed the electrical switch plate inside the bungalow door. She made a small rear rangement in the electrical wiring. Coming in across the darkened porch, the first thing anyone was likely to do was reach for the light switch. It would look like an accident.
Stepping cautiously, Khadija carried the ice bucket from the dresser into the bathroom, filled it with water, and, when she was safely on the other side, door open behind her, upended it to leave a puddle where the Stuart woman would step. She gave the bucket a toss. It landed agreeably near the wetness, as though it had tipped over, the culprit in all this.
Allowing herself a brief, sullen smile of satisfac tion, Khadija closed the door.
* * *
"Aw, Channing, can't I just play a couple more games?"
Channing sighed, glad to find that Serafin was a normal twelve-year-old, at least when it came to addiction to video games. They'd found the arcade when they went exploring the main lodge complex after dinner.
Now, at the edge of one of the terraces, she considered. He'd be safe in the arcade, and she had her kunjar around her waist. On the way to dinner one of the guests had complimented her on her belt.
"All right," she said, shelling out a couple of dol lars. "Stay there, though. I'll come and find you."
Relieved to leave the party-time noise of the lodge behind her, she made her way down a walk to the twisting path that led to the bungalows. Of all the resort's accommodations, these were the most private, probably designed for honeymooners, Channing thought. Each sat well back from the path and apart from its neighbors. As she reached the point where she'd leave the main path to walk toward her door, Channing stopped.
The light was out. It shouldn't worry her, yet she was starting to have the feeling of too many coinci dences. The break-in, the brown car that had been behind her all the way from L.A., and Ballieu here ... .
"I help you, lady?"
A Mexican maintenance man scrambled up from his knees. He'd been fixing a sprinkler, she saw now. She hadn't noticed him there.
"No ... no, it's all right,
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