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always been puzzled about the difficulty I ran into when I was trying to pull strings to get the heat off Morgan."
    "Puzzled?"
    "It should have been easier. I'm no amateur when it comes to getting my own way with politicians and bureaucrats, but I ran into a stone wall when I mentioned his name."
    "They were trying to protect their asses."
    "Maybe. Or maybe not."
    "Look, do you want to use him or not?"
    Another silence. "If you really think he's the best man for the job. When will I know if he consents to do it?"
    "When I do."
    "And you think he'll go for it?"
    "It's hard to tell. Judd's always been hard to read. I've got a hunch he'll-- I don't know. I have to let him mull it over. I'll call you." He hung up the phone. He wasn't about to commit himself to Logan. Even though Galen's instincts were telling him he'd made an impact, Judd might still turn him down.
    It had to be instinct. Judd's face had all the expression of a slab of granite, and he sure as hell wasn't predictable. Elena would testify to that fact. She'd probably never forgive him for the Chavez deal.
    Elena. At the thought of her, his foot pressed harder on the accelerator. Forget about Judd and Alex Graham and everyone else. If he could get a quick flight out of Boston, he might be home with Elena tonight.
    It was done.
    God, he was tired. Judd rubbed his eyes as he propped his feet on the coffee table. It must be close to three in the morning, and he'd been working on the painting since Galen left hours ago.
    Was it good? How the hell did he know? He supposed it was the best he could do at this particular stage. It was certainly better than he'd been able to do a year ago. He'd been sketching faces for years, but when he'd fled the Company and started to dedicate himself to painting, he'd been unable to do anything but landscapes and still lifes. It was only recently he'd begun to bring people back into the mix, and now portraiture was becoming an obsession. It was fascinating to delve deep, to tear through the layers and find what lay beneath. Not many people were at all what they seemed on the surface, and painting them was like exploring a new territory. His gaze met the eyes of the assassin in the picture. He'd denied to Galen that this particular painting was a form of therapy, but perhaps he'd lied. He lifted his coffee cup in a toast and murmured, "Hello, brother."
    He took a drink of coffee and then grimaced. Cold and bitter. He should have made a fresh pot. He set the cup on the coffee table beside the envelope Galen had tossed there.
    Arapahoe Dam.
    Ignore the envelope. He had to look out for his own neck.
    Arapahoe Junction.
    What the devil did he care if the woman was idiot enough to think she could tilt at windmills? He'd already made a decision that there was no way he was going to open that Pandora's box. He was in enough trouble.
    What had she seen at Arapahoe Dam?
    Oh, what the hell. He opened the envelope and drew out the dossier and three photos. He wouldn't look at the photos. He had found as long as he didn't look at the faces he could keep himself remote and unemotional.
    He scanned the opening paragraphs, which described the events that had led to Logan's offer, and then the dossier itself.
    Alex Graham, age twenty-nine. Born and raised in Westacre, New Jersey, of middle-class parents who divorced when she was thirteen. Her mother, Ellen, was a computer information-systems specialist with IBM and her father, Michael, a fireman with the Newark fire department. A civil enough divorce. Though her mother retained custody, she'd spent every other weekend with her father. She won a photo contest sponsored by National Geographic at sixteen and was awarded a journalism scholarship to Columbia University when she graduated from high school. She'd quit college in her junior year and gone to photograph the horrendous earthquake in Tibet. The resulting photos had earned her acclaim and a place on the staff of Newsweek. From that point on it had