The Face

need.”
        In full Queeg von Hindenburg mode, Trotter wore pessimism with the grim authority of Nostradamus in his darkest mood. His bloated [516] face sagged like a deflating balloon, and his protuberant eyes were wild with visions of doom. “We’re screwed in this fog.”
        “It’s not that thick yet. Just enough to give us extra cover. It’s perfect. The trip is short, the target easily identifiable even in a medium fog.”
        “We’ll be seen before we’re half ready to go.”
        “This property’s on a knoll. No houses have a view down on it. We’re surrounded by trees, can’t be seen from the street.”
        Trotter insisted on disaster: “We’re damn sure to be seen by someone between here and there.”
        “Maybe,” Corky acknowledged. “But what will they make of what they’ve seen between palisades of fog?”
        “Palisades?”
        “I have an interest in literature, the beauty of the language,” Corky said. “Anyway, your entire mission time is probably seven or eight minutes. You’ll be back here, out of here, on the road before anyone can figure where your staging area was. Besides, I’ve got agents all over these hills, and they won’t let cops get near you.”
        “And when I split from Malibu, I disappear from all government records. Me and all the names I’ve used.”
        “That’s the deal. But you’d better get your ass in gear. The clock is ticking.”
        Grimacing like a man in an advertisement for a diarrhea remedy, Trotter looked Corky up and down, then said, “What the hell do you call that getup you’re wearing?”
        “Weatherproof,” Corky said.
        Now, more than an hour later, Trotter and his two-man crew had nearly completed preparations.
        During that time, Corky had entertained himself by studying the ruins of the half-demolished chateau from numerous angles.
        He had not, of course, worked with Trotter and his men. As Robin Goodfellow, he was a highly trained human weapon, a valued [517] government agent. Robin had signed up to pursue truth, justice, and adventure, but had never agreed to perform menial labor of any kind. James Bond does not dust furniture or do windows.
        Without his assistance, however, the blimp had been fully inflated.

CHAPTER 82
        
        
        THE THIRD NETMAIL WAS FROM MR. HACHETTE.
        INSPECTOR TRUMAN: I MYSELF BITTERLY EXPRESS HEREWITH EXTREME DISPLEASURE AT BEING EXPECTED TO CREATE THE MOST SUPERIOR OF HAUTE CUISINE THAT I AM CAPABLE ON A MOMENT’S NOTICE FOR THE BOTTOMLESS STOMACH OF A GUEST WHOSE PRESENCE IN THE HOUSE ISN’T REVEALED UNTIL HE APPEARS IN MY KITCHEN, SURPRISING ME LIKE A WEEVIL IN THE FLOUR SUPPLY. MR. WHISTLER’S MAGNIFICENT TASTE IN FOOD AND HIS PRAISE FOR MY UNIQUE COQUILLES ST. JACQUES, AS FOR EVERY REFINED DISH OF MY DIFFICULT PREPARATION, IS PLEASING BUT DOES NOT GLUE TOGETHER MY SHATTERED NERVES, WHICH I WARN YOU ARE DEVASTATED AND FRAYED. IF THIS IS DONE TO ME AGAIN, BY YOU, I MUST RESIGN WITH CONSEQUENCES OF UNSPEAKABLE EXTREMITY. I AM ALSO DISPLEASED TO ANNOUNCE THAT THE BOY CLAIMS TO HAVE MADE HAM SANDWICHES IN MY KITCHEN WITHOUT PERMISSION, AND THAT I AM SHARPLY INVENTORYING THE PANTRY AT THIS TIME TO LEARN THE EXTENT OF HIS DESTRUCTION. HOPING THAT THESE OUTRAGES MUST NEVER BE REPEATED, I REMAIN, CHEF HACHETTE.
        Dead Dunny had moved right in. And with an appetite.
        This was crazy. Ethan wanted to laugh, but he couldn’t work up as much as a smile. His mouth had gone dry. His palms were damp.
        He went back to Yorn’s message: FRIC IS MAKING HIMSELF A [519] HIDEY-HOLE IN THE CONSERVATORY… YOUR FRIEND WHISTLER BROUGHT IT TO MY ATTENTION… BOYS PLAY AT ROBINSON CRUSOE… WHISTLER SCRAPES MY NERVES…
        During Hannah’s battle with cancer, Ethan had felt helpless as never before. He had always been able to take care of the people who mattered to him, to do everything for them that needed to be done. But he couldn’t save Hannah, she who had been the dearest to him.
        Once more, he felt control slipping out of his hands. With a state-of-the-art security system, on-site guards, and well-conceived security protocols, with full diligence, he could not keep Dunny off the estate, out of the house. Man or ghost, or a force to which no easy label applied, Dunny somehow had a connection with Reynerd and probably with the professor about whom Reynerd had written in his screenplay. Dunny must be part of