Текст книги "Operation Barracuda (2005)"

Автор книги: David Michaels

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At that point I hear steps on the gangplank as someone runs out of the yacht and onto the dock. In a few seconds I see him running toward Mindanao Way. It's Eddie Wu, abandoning ship. I'm just able to aim the Five-seveN from my prone position and get off a shot in his direction. The round chips the wood beneath his feet but doesn't do any damage to him. Wu disappears around a corner and there's no way that I can pursue him. Why didn't the sniper shoot him? Unless the killer is on Wu's side . . .

Moving around to the dockside of the yacht is impossible with the sniper over there. He doesn't seem to have any intention of moving. I have no choice but to reach into my backpack and grab a frag grenade. It's my last one–I should have stocked up when I was with Lambert and Coen yesterday. That's one of the problems with taking detours when you're on the way home from an assignment. You don't always follow the normal routine of debriefing and restocking.

Okay, this one has to count. I pull the pin, stand, and throw the grenade over the top of the yacht toward the barrels. The sniper fires again while I'm visible and he catches the top of my backpack. Luckily I'm in the act of dropping to a crouch position–if I'd lingered at full height for a split second longer I'd be a dead man.

The grenade explodes, momentarily brightening the pier with a blinding flash of lightning. I wait a good ten seconds before I carefully peer around the foredeck again. Nothing happens. With the night vision on, I see that the barrels are smashed to bits and there's a hole in the boardwalk. No sniper.

"Do you see the shooter on the SAT image?" I ask, pressing my throat implant.

"Negative," Coen answers. "Either you got him or he slipped away under cover."

"What about Wu? Don't tell me you lost him."

"I'm afraid he's merged into traffic patterns."

"Great."

I stand and cautiously move around the deck to the gangway and go inside the boat. The Chinese guard that caught the CS grenade in the face is lying dead on the plastic sheet next to Kehoe. I kneel and examine the FBI agent and see that they really worked him over. He apparently suffered some serious damage to the inside of his mouth. What did they do? Then I notice the pair of bloody pliers on the floor next to the chair in which Wu was sitting. I can't help but grimace when I see at least three of Kehoe's teeth lying next to the pliers, the roots torn and mangled. And . . . oh, no, it's the agent's tongue lying on the plastic sheet beside his head. The poor guy bled to death.

There's an open bottle of bourbon sitting on the dining table. I can't help grabbing it and taking a swig. I've seen some terrible things in my time and this has to be in the top ten.

Pressing on my implant, I say, "Frances?"

"Sam?"

"Shit, Frances, tell the FBI that Kehoe has been tortured and killed."

"What's the pier number?"

"Pier Forty-four, Marina Del Rey. I'm on the yacht Lady Lotus. It's pretty bad."

"Are you all right?"

"Yeah, I'm fine." I'm a little shaken from the sniper attack and seeing Kehoe in such a condition but I don't mention that.

"I'll get on to Kehoe's people right away."

She says the FBI will pick up their boy and clean up the mess. I need to disappear, and fast. As I return to the deck I carefully scan the pier with my thermal vision turned on and see no trace of the sniper. The cops will probably be here any minute, thanks to the noise of the grenades.

I scuttle down the ramp and run to the smashed barrels. As I search the boardwalk for any clues indicating the identity of the sniper, I find three spent shells. I take one of them and recognize it as a 7.62mm NATO–a common round used in sniper rifles. This rings a bell somewhere in the back of my head but at the moment I don't know what it is. I pocket the shell and head for the marina exit before the cavalry arrives, all the while slightly paranoid that a damned competent assassin most likely has his eye on me.

27

ANDREIZdrok had experienced many setbacks and successes in his long career as an international criminal. While he maintained his status as an extremely wealthy man, the ups and downs of his business constantly drove him into states of unbearable anxiety and worry. He was often surprised that he had never developed ulcers.

To his comrades, Zdrok was very good at exhibiting a self-confident persona regardless of what turmoil the Shop might be suffering. This character trait was essential for leadership. His fellow board members–Prokofiev, Antipov, and Herzog–were aware of the hardships the Shop had faced over the past year and in many instances displayed despair and fatalism in the face of an uncertain future. Not Zdrok. He continued to push his team into new frontiers and new partnerships in order to put the Shop on the map again. Zdrok knew his fellow workers perceived him as a crotchety and humorless slave driver, but that pressure was what kept the Shop alive.

Just when it seemed that the organization was back on its feet in the Far East and making progress toward becoming a powerful force in the arms black market, the Shop had suffered another setback. It was clear that the Lucky Dragons were no longer their allies. America's National Security Agency, Central Intelligence Agency, and Federal Bureau of Investigation were sniffing around in the Shop's Asian headquarters, not to mention interference from Interpol, the Hong Kong police, the Red Chinese, the GRU, MI6, and countless other intelligence and law enforcement agencies around the world.

In short, the Shop was on the run again.

Zdrok had packed up his flat on the Peak and disappeared before the authorities came looking for him. The antique shop on Cat Street was now a crime scene and completely inaccessible. The Triad that protected him had turned their backs on him.

The Benefactor was his only friend and it was to him that Zdrok fled.

ZDROKtook the glass of bourbon from the Benefactor and thanked him for the hospitality.

"Don't worry, Andrei," the Benefactor said. "You've been in worse scrapes. It won't be long and we'll be out of Hong Kong."

"Going to China seems more like jumping from the frying pan and into the fire."

"That's a very good English expression, Andrei. Your English is getting better."

"But my Chinese is shit. I don't even know how to curse in Chinese."

"That you'll learn quickly, my friend."

Zdrok looked at his ally and studied him. It was such an unlikely relationship. Who would have thought the Shop would benefit from a man so well connected with the organization's enemies?

"Have you heard anything from the police?" he asked.

The Benefactor shook his head. "No more than what I told you last night. They know the antique store was a front for the Shop. They're probably tearing apart your computers and looking into the facility up in the New Territories. They're searching for you but they won't find you. And since Mr. Herzog got away safely there are less of you for them to chase. When does he arrive in America?"

"Tomorrow."

"Let's hope for our sake he gets the guidance system from that Triad fellow and gets to China with it in one piece."

"That's putting it lightly," Zdrok said. "If Herzog fails to do that, then the Shop is forever dead. I might as well go to Siberia, find a nice iceberg to sit on, and freeze to death." He took a sip of bourbon and then asked, "What does your friend in Washington have to say about all this?"

The Benefactor gave Zdrok a sharp look. "Leave my Washington friend out of this. Suffice it to say our ally there is fully aware of the situation and is monitoring it closely. If help is needed, then our friend will supply it."

Zdrok often wondered who the Benefactor's contact in the American government really was. The person had powerful connections. It was because of this "friend" that Mike Wu had been able to become Mike Chan and secure a job within the NSA.

"Have you heard from Putnik yet?" the Benefactor asked.

"No. I have to assume he's located Fisher and is putting together a plan to wipe the man off the face of the earth."

"Putnik is the best at what he does. He'll succeed."

Zdrok stood with his drink in hand and looked out the Benefactor's hotel room window and tried to admire the Hong Kong skyline. "You realize what General Tun will do if he doesn't get the guidance system?"

"Yes."

Zdrok turned to his friend and said, "He will crush us. He will alert the Chinese authorities to our presence and we'll be doomed. Not just me. You, too, you know."

"I'm aware of that. A lot rides on this deal, Andrei."

"The general is already unhappy that the system is late. It should have been in his hands days ago. The MRUUVs have been built and are ready for use." Zdrok turned back to the window. "I can't wait to see them work. They are formidable weapons. Operation Barracuda, if it ever gets off the ground, will take the world by surprise. When it's discovered that the Shop brokered the deal to create them, we will be back at the top of the game. Yes, a lot rides on the deal. That's putting it mildly."

INanother part of Hong Kong, Jon Ming awoke in his spacious master bedroom also feeling anxious. He wasn't afraid of the law, though. His home, a fortified mansion just south of the border between Kowloon and the New Territories, was perhaps the most secure private residence in the colony. Surrounded by an electrified security fence and watched by four armed guards around the clock, safety was not a cause for the Cho Kun's concern. He was easily one of the most powerful men in Hong Kong. He was beyond the reach of the law. He had the respect of the politicians and judges. In fact, he could give themorders.

What worried Jon Ming was something more personal, more political, and more nationalistic. Taiwan was under the threat of Red China. Ming, as a dedicated Triad leader, was violently opposed to China's government and sociological philosophy. The Communist ideology was anathema to him and to every other Triad on the face of the earth. The Triads had a long-standing tradition of nationalism and the expression of freedom. In the ancient times, the Triads were secret societies formed to bring about a regime change in the Chinese government. Today the Triads still believed in a China ruled by an emperor, for only in a capitalistic state could a criminal enterprise such as a Triad exist.

Jon Ming knew of General Tun. General Lan Tun was the equivalent of the warmongering right-wing hawks that were so prevalent in the United States military these days. Tun was also a bigot. He looked down his nose at the Taiwanese and considered them to be inferior to the Communist Chinese on the mainland, even though they were of the same race. The fact that Taiwan had managed to stay independent of China for so many years irked him and he was very vocal about what should be done about it. General Tun was about to make good on his threats.

The Cho Kun had another personal reason for opposing General Tun. Jon Ming's mother was Taiwanese and lived in a nursing home in Taipei. Although physically frail, she had full use of her mental faculties. Ming often spoke with her and had promised that one day he would move his "business" to Taiwan before she was gone. He knew that was unlikely but he dreamed of at least creating that illusion for her so she would believe he was near. He wanted to be able to visit his mother frequently before she slipped away.

Thus, it was imperative that General Tun not be allowed to attack Taiwan. Operation Barracuda, as Tun and the Shop called it, would be a foolproof and deadly means by which China could conquer Taiwan without interference from the West. Ming felt terrible that he had been instrumental in helping to bring about the situation. When he learned that the Shop was selling the Operation Barracuda designs and specifications to General Tun, he'd nearly had a heart attack. How could the Shop betray them after Ming had done so much to help the organization reestablish itself in Hong Kong? Ming cursed Andrei Zdrok and vowed to bring about the Shop's destruction.

Ming was forced to close down GyroTechnics, the Triad's technological development firm in the United States. This was a preemptive strike performed to stop the sale of the final piece of Professor Jeinsen's creation to General Tun. The MRUUV guidance system was the most important component, and the Lucky Dragons had nearly unwittingly delivered it into the hands of the Triad's mortal enemy!

The two Triad brothers in Los Angeles were now the targets of his wrath. One of them was in custody and would probably never be heard from again. No doubt he was singing to the authorities and revealing everything about his relationship with the Lucky Dragons. The other brother was hiding somewhere in L.A. and had the guidance system in hand. Ming had issued orders to the remaining Lucky Dragons in southern California to find Eddie Wu and recover the device before the traitor could sell it to the Shop directly. Surely by now Zdrok had sent a minion to California to pick it up. If Ming's people failed to stop the exchange, then Ming would have no choice but to consider assembling a small army of loyal Triads to take on General Tun before the attack on Taiwan commenced.

Ironically, it was thanks to the Shop and their arms deals with the Triad that it was entirely possible for the Lucky Dragons to take on a Chinese army. Ming knew his men were fierce and loyal fighters. They would do anything he asked. He was the Cho Kun. Just last night there had been an initiation ceremony in one of the Triad's many Lodges scattered throughout the colony. The three new recruits swore blood oaths to defend the principles of the Lucky Dragons. They were not like their American counterparts in California's Chinatowns. American society had corrupted the Wu brothers, who were too easily swayed into betraying the Triad. The native Chinese Lucky Dragons would never do that.

Whatever the Cho Kun asked them to do, they would perform to the best of their ability. If it meant fighting to the death, then so be it.

28

ASI'm driving back to the hotel, Lambert speaks to me through the implants.

"Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"We have information on upcoming American Airline flights from Hong Kong to LAX. The first one arrives around three o'clock today. There's another at five. We have the passenger lists but nothing is raising a red flag."

"Anyone can use an alias," I reply. "What about security cameras at the points of origin?"

"Haven't got 'em yet. There's a lot of red tape involved in getting hold of those things quickly. We should have them in hand by the time the flights arrive. I want you to be at LAX and meet the first flight. If there's no luck with that one, stick around for the other one."

"Will do, Colonel."

He gives me the airline and flight information. "Now you can go get some rest."

"I want to get this empty shell to you. I'm dying to find out who the bastard is that shot at me."

"Put it in an envelope, write 'Frances Coen' on it, and leave it at the front desk at your hotel. She'll come by this morning and pick it up before we head back to D.C."

"You're leaving today?"

"Yeah, we have to get back. Mike Wu is under wraps and we don't need to babysit you here."

"I hope not."

The sun is just beginning to rise when I arrive at the Sofitel. I leave the Murano with the parking valet, enter the lobby, and ask the concierge for some hotel stationery. I drop the shell into the envelope, write Coen's name on it, seal it, and give it to the nice lady at the front desk.

I then go up to the room and quietly let myself in. The bed is empty and unmade but I hear a feminine voice humming in the bathroom.

"Katia?"

The door flies open and there she is, naked as the day she was born and more beautiful than I can describe.

"Damn, it's Aphrodite herself!" I manage to say.

"Don't tell me . . . Apollo?" she says, pointing at me with feigned surprise. "Mars? Zeus?"

"Pick one and that's who I'll be."

She saunters over to me and helps me take off the uniform. She notices the bullet hole in the top of the backpack and wrinkles her brow. "Sam?"

"Don't worry about it," I whisper, taking her by the back of the neck and pulling her close. "Everything is fine." And I kiss her.

WEfall asleep again after a couple hours of fiery lovemaking. When I wake up the digital clock tells me it's nearly eleven. Having skipped breakfast, I'm famished. Katia stirs beside me and must be thinking the same thing, for the first words out of her mouth are, "Where are the eggs and toast?"

I suggest exploring the outside world for a while, perhaps find a nice place to have brunch, and maybe go shopping for an hour. I express the desire to buy her something.

"You don't have to buy me anything."

"I know I don't have to. What I want to do and have to do are always two different things. But in this case, I want to andI have to. Besides, I have to be at LAX at three o'clock."

Her eyes widen and she asks, "Are you leaving?"

"No. I have to meet a plane. Business."

"Oh. So you'll be back."

"Definitely."

"All right then. In that case we don't have much time." We take a shower together, soap each other up, and resist the temptation to heat things up again. She spends ten minutes in the bathroom primping. I kick her out to shave and she goes upstairs to her own room to find a new change of clothes. Fifteen minutes later we meet in the lobby. To save time we elect to go to the hotel's restaurant, Gigi's Brasserie. It's French cuisine with a good selection of breakfast and lunch items. We order eggs and share a plate of fruit, cheese, and bread. The coffee and juice are tasty and we agree that it was a good choice.

"We'll go over to Beverly Center," I say. "Let's find you something you like, something women enjoy buying. Shoes? Jewelry? Lingerie?"

She kicks me under the table. "Lingerie is something men enjoy buying."

"Okay, let's buy that, then."

While we're eating I can't help but be constantly aware of our surroundings. Am I being too paranoid? With that sniper loose in the city, there's no telling where he'll show up next. If I was indeed his primary target then how did he know I would be at the pier? There's no way. I have to believe he was after Eddie Wu. Maybe he was sent by the Triad to eliminate the guy for turning coat. I just happened to be in the way. That seems to be a very logical explanation of what happened and the more I repeat it to myself, the more I believe it. I'm trained to detect when I'm in danger and right now the internal radar simply isn't beeping. This makes me feel more secure in going out in public with Katia but I can't be too careful. I'll just make sure that we stick to indoor places, avoid walking on the street, and spend our time in shops. We should be fine.

When we're done, I pay the bill and take a look outside while she uses the ladies' room. Traffic is typically busy for a midweek midday. Katia comes out in a moment, gives me a big smile, and we head outside. I take her hand as we walk to the corner, wait for the light, and cross the boulevard. I've said it before–I hate malls. I can't stand them. But for some strange reason, entering one with Katia is a different experience. I'm suddenly one of the normal Americans who don't have to think about national security, counterintelligence, and terrorism on a daily basis. I could be another average Joe, out at the shopping mall with his wife, the kids at home with a sitter or at school, with nothing on my mind but car payments and taxes.

Yikes.

I put those thoughts right out of my head and concentrate on pleasing Katia. We go into Adrienne Vittadini and she spends some time looking at clothes. Next we visit Banana Republic and she spends some time looking at . . . clothes. She then decides to go into Macy's to look at moreclothes, so I pop over to Niessing to look at the jewelry. I feel like being extravagant for the first time in years so I buy her a unique pearl necklace. The pearls are framed in black, white, gray, and yellow gold. It sets me back a tidy sum but I don't give it a second thought. She's worth it. I have it gift wrapped and I suddenly feel that funny warmth in the center of my chest. It's been so long since I've experienced that particular sensation I've almost forgotten what it is. Am I falling in love? Is it just infatuation? A little of both?

Screw it. Stop analyzing and let it flow. Whatever happens is what happens. I've lived too many years to know not to try to predict things. One thing is certain–I feel great and it makes me happy to buy the gift for her.

I find her looking at shoes in Macy's and present the package to her. She nearly cries when she opens it and sees what's inside. I help her put it on and she gives me a big hug and kiss right there in the middle of the store. An elderly shopper mutters, "Aw, isn't that sweet?" and I think I'm supposed to be embarrassed but I'm not.

Katia is beaming when we leave Macy's. The gift has overwhelmed her and she can't concentrate on shopping anymore, so we wander around the mall looking in windows. I still have a little over an hour before I have to leave for LAX so I suggest we go back to the hotel. She thinks that's a marvelous idea.

We go down the big escalator that empties onto the street and prepare to cross Beverly, but I hold her back for a second while I take a look.

"What is it?"

"Just being cautious," I say. "It's in my nature."

"You really do dangerous stuff for the government, don't you." It's a statement, not a question.

"Let's not talk about it, Katia."

We start to cross the boulevard and I scan the buildings in front of us. The hotel swimming pool is on the roof of the building next to the Sofitel and I can see something glittering at the edge. The sun reflects off a metal object and for a split second I think it's the sniper. I grab Katia and pull her back.

"Sam!" she shrieks as I push her, perhaps a little too roughly, back under cover next to the escalator. "What the hell?"

"I thought . . . I thought I saw something," I say. My heart is pounding as I look up to the roof again. Then I realize it's just some kid with sunglasses playing with a squirt gun. I silently curse and apologize.

"You scared me," she says.

"It won't happen again," I reply but of course that's not true. It will always happen again. Suddenly, all the doubts and fears of being in a relationship come rushing back to me. I've put Katia in danger simply for being near me. It's no good. Everything I'd been feeling for the past several hours vanishes in the blink of an eye. My heart hardens once again and I dread having to tell her that whatever it is we're doing must stop. But perhaps I can put it off until we're back home in Maryland. Yeah, that's it. No need to spoil her vacation. No need to wreck my last hour with her. We'll say, "See you soon," and then I'll wait until a better time to break it off. That way we can both retreat to our private lives in Towson and do whatever grieving needs to be done.

"Come on, let's try that street-cross again, shall we?" I smile and take her arm.

She laughs and says, "They say practice makes perfect."

As we stand at the corner of Beverly and La Cienega to wait for the light, I'm suddenly aware of everything around me moving in slow motion. Katia turns to me and begins to close in for a kiss. At the same instant the traffic on La Cienega moves forward and out of the corner of my eye I notice a white van crossing the intersection much too slowly. Two men are inside–one driving, of course, and the passenger, who is holding what appears to be a rifle out the window.

Oh, my God, it isa rifle!

Katia's face is suddenly obstructing my view. I can't stop her as her lips meet mine. I instinctively push her away as the harsh crack of gunfire rings through the air. Katia's body jerks as I throw her to the street. I leap on top of her to shield her from the sniper, then roll my head back to look at the van. I can just see the face of the gunman as the vehicle zips through the intersection and disappears, blocked by Beverly Center.

It all makes perfect sense now. The gunman is Yvan Putnik, the Shop assassin. No wonder those 7.62mm shells rang a bell.

Turning back to Katia, I shout, "Are you all right? Did I hurt you?"

I roll her over to face me and I see that her eyes are open but staring blankly. She must have been stunned by the fall so I lightly pat her cheek. "Katia, it's all right. They've gone."

But she doesn't move. I panic, roll her to her side, and then I see it. The bullet meant for me struck her between the shoulder blades.

FROMthis point on, everything is a blur. I seem to remember crying out in anguish. A couple of pedestrians leaving the mall ask if they can help. I remember telling them to call an ambulance.

In a case like this, Third Echelon protocol calls for me to leave the scene as quickly as possible. I'm not supposed to get involved with local law enforcement, whether it's in a foreign country or here at home. I'm trained to simply get up, walk away, and let others clean up after me. This time, however, I'm unable to do so. I continue to kneel beside Katia and cradle her in my arms. I gently close her eyes and then hold her head against my chest. I feel the new pearl necklace against my sternum so I press her even harder into me, perhaps so the necklace will make a permanent indentation in my skin.

"Sam?"

It's Coen's voice but I ignore it.

"Sam, you have to get out of there."

I can't leave Katia. She's not dead. She's going to make it. Where's the fucking ambulance?

This time Lambert gets on the horn. "Sam! Get out of there! That's an order!"

This gives me the presence of mind to grasp Katia's wrist and feel for a pulse. There isn't one.

"Sam, you're to stand up, cross the street, and go inside the hotel," Lambert says. "Go straight to your room and gather your things. Frances and I will be there in five minutes. Do it now, man!"

I brush the curly hair off of Katia's face and kiss her lightly. I'm unable to say anything to her so I gently lay her body back on the street and stand. Paying no attention to whether or not the traffic light is against me, I walk across the boulevard. A small crowd has gathered around Katia and some of the people shout at me. I enter the hotel and go straight to the elevator. As soon as I'm in my room, I put my head in my hands and begin to curse. I damn them all to hell–the Shop, the Lucky Dragons, the NSA, Third Echelon, Colonel Lambert . . .

But I save the worst of the obscenities for myself.

29

Isit numbly in the passenger seat of Frances Coen's Lexus. We're on our way to LAX. Colonel Lambert is in the backseat.

The last couple of hours slipped by seemingly without my participating in them. I remember Coen and Lambert showing up at the hotel and picking me up. Lambert insisted I wear a bulletproof vest beneath my civilian clothes just in case the sniper was still around, so I took a moment to put it on. I also held on to my backpack. There was no way I was letting them have it. We left the Murano in the hotel's garage for some other NSA flunky to take care of. Other government bureaucrats are dealing with the police and clearing me of any involvement with Katia's murder. It's the kind of cover-up the U.S. government is good at. All the alphabet organizations–the CIA, the FBI, the NSA, you name it–have damage control teams in place that immediately jump into sensitive situations like this one. From this point onward, as far as the Los Angeles Police Department is concerned, I was never at the Sofitel and didn't know Katia Loenstern. The poor woman was the apparent victim of a random shooting.

After handing Coen my duffel bag and equipment, I was quickly ushered into her car and now here we are.

Coen and Lambert are unaware of how I felt about Katia but they suspect something. We drive in silence for a long while–traffic is typically heavy on the 405 heading south–until finally Lambert speaks up.

"Sam, this woman, was she your girlfriend?"

At first I don't answer. I continue to stare out the window and play mindless games such as counting all the red cars.

"Sam?"

"Colonel?"

"This woman. Was she your girlfriend?"

"Not really," I answer. "She was my Krav Maga instructor in Towson."

"Why were you with her in L.A.?"

I shrug. "She happened to be at the same hotel as me."

Lambert sighs and waits a moment before he continues. "Sam, we know you were seeing her. We know she was in your hotel room last night. It's our job to know these things."

"I know."

"So you don't have to hide anything from us."

"Why would I want to hide anything?" I ask. "If you know everything already then there's nothing to hide."

"Sam, I'm sorry about Ms. Loenstern. Really. If she meant something to you then it's all the more reason why we need to continue the job at hand. We're close to ending it, Sam. We can put these people out of business for good."

My heart is currently somewhere else and I just don't feel like chasing Shop personnel. That said, I wouldlike to find Yvan Putnik and shove his head down a toilet, flush it, and let him drown in his own filth.

"Sam, we'll be at LAX in ten minutes. You're the only man that can do this job at the moment. No other Splinter Cells are in the vicinity; they're all overseas. You're familiar with the case, you know the people involved. I understand how you feel but the best thing for you to do is to leap right back into the action. It'll help get your mind off of–"

"What the hell do you know what the best thing for me is, Colonel?" I snap. "You don't know a damn thing about how I feel!"

Lambert is used to occasional spats between us. He ignores what I realize is an overreaction and says, "That may be true but you have to snap out of it, Sam. Perhaps you need to go on psych leave as soon as we're done, and then you can go on a long vacation. You'll feel differently then."

We begin to approach the LAX exits. Of course Lambert's right. I just don't feel like walking away from Katia and pretending that nothing happened. I'm going to blame myself, dammit, and I wantto blame myself. I needto blame myself. I want the time to do that.