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the door open, Frank backed into the shadows. A trace of light flickered over Frank's face while his uncle reached into the pocket of a suit and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. Then the door slid halfway closed again.
    Had his uncle seen him?
    Feodor paced impatiently as Hunt unfolded the paper. The dark-haired Russian stood at the balcony door, then turned to face the room. Frank squatted in the closet, trying to stay out of sight. It was useless. All Feodor had to do was look in his direction. There was nowhere for Frank to run or hide.
    To Frank's relief, Feodor turned again to look out the balcony. He stared down at the street and, with a grunt of anger, stiffened.
    Tied to the railing was a long nylon cord!
    Feodor spun around, drawing his pistol with the silencer. "Someone has been here," he said darkly. "Search the apartment." Then his eyes narrowed. He peered into the darkness of the closet.
    "Come out," he ordered, waving the pistol. "Hands up."
    Frank stepped from the closet with his hands cupped behind his head. If his uncle recognized him, it didn't show in the man's face.
    Feodor's eyes narrowed. "Come here." Frank stepped slowly toward him.
    "Look out!" the Russian named Oleg screamed. Feodor jerked his gaze to Oleg, and in that instant, Frank's hands came out from behind his head.
    The wire hanger Frank had concealed behind him flew like a boomerang from his hand to Feodor's face. Frank knew the slap of metal couldn't hurt the Russian, but Feodor stepped back, stunned, as the hanger struck his forehead.
    With a savage cry, Frank leaped forward, kicking the pistol from Feodor's hands. He spun quickly, smashing his other foot into the big Russian's shoulder. Father toppled. Frank dived at the fallen pistol and scooped it up.
    The click of a gun being drawn sounded behind him. "Please set the pistol down," Oleg said.
    Sighing, Frank turned the gun over to Feodor, who knelt before him with one hand out. There was murder in Feodor's eyes.
    Without a word, Feodor pressed the pistol against Frank's chest.
    "No!" Hunt shouted. Feodor glared at him, and Oleg swung his pistol to cover him. "Don't worry. I won't give you any trouble," he continued calmly. "I just don't want you to kill him here. Take him somewhere else."
    Feodor nodded and smiled. Oleg strolled to the balcony and pulled the cord free from the railing. In moments he had Frank bound with it. Frank's uncle watched impassively, but made no move to intervene.
    "We will drop him off a bridge," Feodor suggested. "Just one more soul taking his own life."
    The three men laughed and led Frank from the apartment.

Chapter 7
    When Joe Hardy woke, the air smelled of fresh-brewed coffee, and his head was throbbing. He could feel the rough rope that was wrapped around his wrists, which were tied behind him. But he couldn't feel his hands. They were numb because the circulation had been cut off by the rope. His feet were pressed together, and he couldn't move them apart. So they had to be bound, too.
    He felt lucky to be alive.
    He was indoors, lying on an old Persian carpet, staring at a hundred-year-old black marble fireplace. Must be one of the fine old houses of San Francisco, he thought. Everything he could see had the look of a finely crafted antique. Everything except the woman.
    She lounged in an armchair, legs crossed, sipping a cup of coffee. She had changed into stretch pants and a loose yellow sweatshirt that brought out the blond in her hair. Her bright blue eyes were fixed on Joe, and the corners of her mouth were curled up slightly.
    "Joe Hardy," she said. "You're finally awake."
    "How — ?" he began, until he saw her dangling his wallet. "So you know my name. Do I get to know yours?"
    She giggled, charmingly pressing her fingers to her lips to smother the sound. In a voice that reminded Joe of crystal wind chimes, she said, "Call me Charity. We're going to be very good friends."
    "No, thanks. I've met your friends," Joe said. "I'm not sure I could