"Seems like you're asking all the questions," Mallory said. Still sweating.

"And I have a reason," the American said. His tone turned ominous. "I got to tell you, pal. I don't like what I am hearing."

The last of the boxes were stacked in the van. Mallory stepped back. The American slammed the first door shut, then the second. As the second door closed, Mallory saw the driver standing there. The woman. She had been standing behind the door.

"I don't like it either," she said. She was wearing fatigues, army surplus stuff. Baggy trousers and high-laced boots. A bulky green jacket. Heavy gloves. Dark glasses.

"Now wait a minute," the American said.

"Give me your cell phone," she said. Holding out her hand for it. Her other hand was behind her back. As if she had a gun.

"Why?"

"Give it to me."

"Why?"

"I want to look at it, that's why."

"There's nothing unusual"

"Give it to me."

The American pulled the cell phone out of his pocket and handed it to her. Instead of taking it, she grabbed his wrist and pulled him toward her. The cell phone clattered to the ground. She brought her other hand from around her back and quickly gripped the side of his neck with her gloved hand. She held him with both hands around his neck, as if she were strangling him.

For a moment he was stunned; then he began to struggle. "What the fuck are you doing?" he said. "What are youhey!" He knocked her hands away and jumped back as if he had been burned. "What was that? What did you do?"

He touched his neck. A tiny trickle of blood ran down, just a few drops. There was red on his fingertips. Almost nothing.

"What did you do?" he said.

"Nothing." She was stripping off her gloves. Mallory could see she was doing it carefully. As if something were in the glove. Something she did not want to touch.

"Nothing?" the American said. "Nothing? Son of a bitch!" Abruptly, he turned and began to run up the ramp toward the street outside.