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Bezopasnosti, or Russian Federal Security Service. Her name was Irina Khournikova. And she knew him, too.
    The guy with the head like a cinder block, his voice heavily accented, said, “Everything seems to be running clockwise.”
    The blond guy seemed puzzled. “Er—”
    “Like clockwork,” Khournikova said. “Everything seems to be running like clockwork.” Her English was nearly perfect with only a slight Russian accent.
    “Da. What did I say?”
    “Clockwise. In circles,” said Khournikova.
    The Russian man frowned. “No, no. Like clockwork. Da? Going as planned. On schedule?”
    “It’s looking good,” the blond said cautiously. His hair was so blond it looked almost white, his complexion pale and chalky. Derek wondered if he was an albino.
    The elevator doors opened, and the three agents moved away. Khournikova didn’t look back at him. Derek pushed the cart out of the elevator and headed in the direction of the women’s bathroom. He passed by two more security stations and answered their questions and showed them his paperwork and let them look at his cart. When he finally made it to the women’s bathroom, he knocked on the door to make sure no one was inside, then propped it open with a yellow plastic sign indicating the restroom was closed for repairs. He grabbed his toolbox and went to see what the problem was with the toilet.
    It looked like somebody had tried to flush a tampon, he thought, and went about unclogging the thing. He heard steps behind him and said, “This restroom’s closed temporarily. There’s one—”
    Irina Khournikova stood just inside the doorway, a gun in both hands, aimed directly at him. Her voice was soft. “Hello, Derek. Been a while.”

Chapter 12
    Derek, on his knees in the toilet stall with a plunger in his hand, glanced over his shoulder and raised his eyebrows. He tried to appear nonchalant. “So you’re a bad guy now?”
    Irina narrowed her eyes and stepped farther into the restroom. The restroom was slightly larger than a double-wide trailer, broken into two duplicate sections joined by a foyer. It screamed money and elegance, and Derek thought it was rather silly— wine-colored marble, gold-plated fixtures, frosted-glass light sconces. He tried to act casual, but he kept his eyes on the gun.
    “So,” Irina said, “the U.S. government faked your death— just like they faked Richard Coffee’s death. Perhaps your government should stop doing that.”
    “They probably should. But when it comes to Coffee I’ll take any edge I can get.” Derek turned and clambered to his feet. “Put the gun away, please.”
    Irina shook her head. “There was quite a bit of speculation by both our governments as to whether you were actually a part of The Fallen Angels.”
    Derek took two steps closer to Irina. She backed up, but didn’t lower the gun. “Stay where you are,” she said.
    “You’re questioning my involvement with Coffee? Don’t be an idiot. I have more reason to doubt you than anybody, and you know it. Last time we met you and Coffee disappeared at the same time. That doesn’t inspire confidence. Why are you here?”
    She jerked the gun at him. “Stop moving in on me.”
    “Okay.” He took a fast shuffling step sideways toward a row of maroon marble-topped sinks, momentarily out of her sight. She spun immediately after him. And froze.
    Derek kicked out and swept her legs from under her. She hit the marble floor hard and Derek was immediately on her, one knee pressing down on her wrist, the other on her chest. With her free hand she slammed him in the ribs. With a groan he twisted the gun from her grasp and leapt off her.
    She rolled instantly to her feet in a graceful motion, pulling another semiautomatic from inside her jacket.
    They stood five feet away in identical crouches, guns aimed at each other.
    “I see your knee is better now,” Irina said.
    “Two surgeries. Now tell me, why are you here?” He shuffled slightly to his right. Irina