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when the president-elect said that Russia must cease supplying Iran with nuclear materials. Moscow’s reply was less than reassuring. The Russian foreign minister said that Washington was provoking Russia and any display of force would be met with force. This could signal two different strategies with dealing with both Russia and Middle East, a possibility that concerns some experts.”
    One “concerned expert” spoke for a few seconds in a monotone that could anesthetize surgery patients about how confusing it must be for Russia to receive two conflicting political agendas. Outgoing President Ballard put his full faith in diplomacy, while the incoming president-elect, a rock-ribbed Republican, had begun to talk openly of “stopping the threat with direct action.”
    Screw that , Collin thought. He wanted to see more pictures of the daughter. Images of her never failed to pique his interest. Prim, even prudish looking, he bet she was a wildcat in bed. The buttoned-up ones always were.
    The door opened and with a gust of frigid air, Omar Koss stepped inside. Finally. Collin tried not to look too relieved. He was dressed like an American in jeans and a sweater. Collin was clothed similarly to avoid notice, but it still seemed odd to see Omar in jeans instead of his Armani suits, handmade Savile Row shirts, and a platinum watch. Claiming the bar stool beside him, Omar ordered a Negro Modelo from the attractive bartendress. Another American affectation, and one that Collin could not bring himself to commit; he chose a dignified Irish whiskey.
    The bartendress slid the beer across the bar with a little smile.
    Koss didn’t acknowledge the friendliness. He stared at her coldly until she turned away and busied herself behind the bar.
    â€œI’m delivering the map of the keys to Europe tonight. After today’s mistake, we can’t wait.”
    Though he tried to suppress all reaction, like Omar himself, Collin felt annoyed by the rebuke in Koss’s words. Collin was, after all, a professional; he felt no guilt for what he had been forced to do this afternoon to that kid. He had foolishly hoped Koss might be pleased, ebullient even, that he had so masterfully handled such an enormous problem. He had been forced to think quickly; the improvised death of Antoine Campbell had seemed both efficient and elegant. Why didn’t Koss appreciate it?
    Collin lifted his whiskey, holding it under his nose for a second. “You’re delivering the map of the keys yourself?” He sensed a lie in Koss’s words, though he would never confront him directly. He swallowed the shot, enjoying the fire on the way down, then set his empty glass on the bar. Only then did he dare regard him directly. Koss’s blue eyes were so pale they were nearly the color of water. Collin involuntarily shivered, despite the soothing heat from the whiskey.
    â€œThis is important enough to handle myself.”
    â€œWhat about the Hughes girl?”
    â€œI’ll take care of her when I return from Europe.”
    â€œWhy wait?”
    â€œBecause I want to do it myself,” Koss replied with ice in his voice.
    Collin shifted his gaze back to the television. Did Koss think it was too big a task for him? Was he losing confidence in Collin’s ability? The possibility angered and frightened Collin. His inability to ask Koss directly shamed him.
    They drank in silence, and after a short time Omar slid off the bar stool and then dropped a hundred dollar bill on the bar. Wordlessly, he left.
    Collin stared after him, wondering how someone could be so utterly inhuman. His cryptic silences and cold, deliberate demeanor were terrifying because Collin knew it wasn’t an act, like some suburban guy’s interpretation of a badass. It was real. Psychopath was the word that rocketed to mind.
    Frankly he wasn’t sure Koss had his priorities straight. Fallon Hughes knew about the map of the keys; that was a