Camouflage

having spent the night with her boss. That mitigated against the direct approach, going straight to Poseidon and showing them what they knew about the mysterious employee. Besides the fact of her sexual relationship with the second in command, perhaps a love affair, what they learned about Jack Halliburton did not make them optimistic about his cooperating with the American government, either. He had cynically used the American Navy to put together a pool of talented specialists, hired them away, and quit his commission in an acrimonious scene. He wasn’t even an American citizen anymore.
    The other direct approach, just snatching the woman off the street or from her room, had some merit—they didn’t know it would be easier to “kidnap” a Powell tank—but as they had no legitimate jurisdiction here, they wanted to be a little more subtle. They used a lure, an indirect one.
    Russ had dropped his business card into a box for a once-monthly drawing that awarded a weekend for two at Aggie Grey’s, at either the Wing Room or the PresidentialSuite. He won the Wing Room, the weekend after the honeymooners left.
    They knew they would have to deal with Russ sooner or later. Best do it directly.
    There were three possibilities: Russ would arrive first, or Rae, or they would come in together. The last was not likely, since they were still being discreet. But the CIA team was ready for any of the three, as well as the trivial case where neither showed up.
    If Russ had come through the door first, they would have had to do some fast explanation. But it was the woman.
    The changeling came into the sumptuous room and tossed its overnight bag on the bed, and went into the bathroom to check its hair. It heard a vague sound in the hall, which was a man shoving a wooden wedge between the door and frame, jamming it shut, and the plain sound of another door opening and closing.
    It sped out of the bathroom and saw the man and woman who had just entered from the adjoining room.
    “Don’t make this difficult,” the man said. “You know why we’re here.”
    The changeling answered automatically while considering various options: “You tell me.”
    “You’re not Rae Archer. But you match her so precisely that you must be a clone or something.”
    “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
    “We just talked to the real Rae Archer, in Pasadena. You’re someone else.”
    “Who do you work for?” the changeling said.
    The woman shrugged. “The United States intelligence community.”
    “So you have no jurisdiction here.”
    “We just want to ask you some questions.”
    The changeling picked up its overnight bag. “No.” Halfway to the door it heard a rubber-band sound and felt asting in the middle of its back. It reached back—revealing unusual suppleness—and pulled out a dart with plastic wings.
    The man was holding what looked like a toy gun. “That won’t hurt you. It will just make you a little groggy.”
    The changeling inspected the dart, sniffed it, and shook it next to its ear. “Seems to have a bit left.”
    “Doesn’t take much—” The spy grunted, dropped the pistol, and fell to his knees. The dart was in his neck, deeply imbedded into the carotid artery. He managed to pull it out but his knees gave way and he fell over prone, arms and legs trembling and then twitching.
    “You want to be careful where you inject that.” The changeling tried the door, but it was stuck. It heard the soft sound of metal on leather, and in three leaping steps was on the woman before she could raise the automatic to fire. It jerked her gun hand sideways and heard finger or knuckle bones breaking just before the weapon discharged, almost silent, into the wall, and pulled it out of her hand.
    She screamed in pain and a small man swung out of the door to the adjoining room, pointing a double-barreled shotgun. The changeling leaped sideways just as the first hammer went down, and the hot blast just missed its face. It reached for the weapon and the second blast blew off its left arm at the shoulder.
    In the reverberating silence, blood pulsing from the ragged stump, the changeling raised the pistol to point between the man’s eyes. “Bang,” it said, and dropped the gun.
    Two steps and it vaulted the couch and crashed through the glass balcony door. It hit the balcony railing and tumbled over, falling onto the awning over the hotel entrance.
    Russ was a half block away, and had looked up at the sound of