Tachyon's eyes widened as he considered a new possibility. "My god, this might be why you were sent here. To bring down the candidate that the Kremlin fears. A Hartmann presidency-"

"What is this nonsense? Have you taken to reading sensational spy fiction? I fled for my life. Even the Kremlin thinks I'm dead."

"How can I believe you? Why should I trust you?"

"Only you can answer those questions. Nothing I say or do will convince you. I'll say only one thing-I would hope that this past year would have at least demonstrated that I am not your enemy."

Polyakov walked to the door. "That's it?"

"It seems pointless to continue a circular argument."

"You waltz in here, and calmly announce that Gregg Hartmann is a killer ace, and then waltz back out again?"

"I've given you all that I have. Now it's up to you, Dancer." He seemed to struggle with himself for a moment, then added, "But if you don't act, be warned-I shall."

After Jack crossed the street, he realized he didn't have to deal with the July heat any longer: he could get back to the Marriott by way of Peachtree Mall. The conditioned air was a relief. He rode the escalator to the top level and came face to face with a group of Charismatic Catholics for Barnett, all walking circles, counting their rosaries, and chanting the Hail Mary while wearing posterboards with their candidate's picture. STOP WILD CARD VIOLENCE, some signs said. This week's cover slogan for Put wild cards in concentration camps.

Weird, Jack thought. Barnett professed the Roman Church a tool of Satan, and here they were praying for him.