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Conway recalled the day of Paul Devincent's funeral. His wife had died three years before of cancer, and now that he was gone, his two small boys, ages eight and six, would go to live with an uncle in San Francisco. Conway would never forget the haunted look on the boys' faces as they watched their father's coffin being lowered into the ground.
    Paul Devincent shouldn't have died. If I had done my goddamn job, then those kids wouldn't be orphans.
    "What do you want me to do, Stephen? Cancel the meeting and blow our one clear shot at taking this guy off the board?" Bouchard opened his hands in an inviting motion, his tone so patient, so understanding, that it grated on Conway.
    Conway looked out the window. It was mid-October, about two weeks away from Halloween, the blue sky cloudless. Back home in Boston, the air would be cool and filled with the pleasant aroma of leaves and wood-burning smoke blowing from chimneys. But here in Austin, it was going to be another scorcher full of humidity.
    "Stephen?"
    "I voiced my concerns," Conway said.
    "Do you find your team members talented?"
    "Of course."
    "Intelligent? Dependable?"
    "You know I do."
    "Do you trust them?"
    Conway looked back and shot Bouchard a hard look.
    "With my life."
    "Then have faith in me when I tell you all the bases are covered.
    Go skydiving, go to a movie, get him laid go wherever Dixon wants to go today. I want him nice and relaxed when he walks inside the airport with the CD. Dixon's the key to this operation."
    "Understood," Conway said.
    Bouchard leaned forward in his chair.
    "Hindsight's great after the shit's hit the fan," he said.
    "Hindsight loves to tell you what you should have done. I'm here to tell you that there was nothing, Stephen, nothing you or I or anyone else could have done that morning that would have prevented the Armand gig from turning sour. You're lucky you didn't die."
    But two team members two of my friends did die, and I've also lost the laser rifle. Conway drank some of his coffee. The whole operation had turned FUBAR Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition.
    "I have confidence that it will go smoothly," Bouchard said, and stood up.
    "You should, too. Just focus on Dixon."
    "I won't let you down."
    "You didn't let me down the first time, Stephen." Bouchard opened the door and then shut it behind him, leaving Conway alone in the quiet air-conditioned room.
    Conway went to take a swig of coffee and saw a tiny clump of cream that had settled on the top. He thought of the evasive rat that once again, despite all the intense planning, had managed to thwart the trap and escape with the prized cheese.
    The architectural plans for the penthouse suite were so odd, so unusual, that the condo association, naturally, had balked. But when it was explained that the owner suffered from a compromised immune system, the condo association, fearing a discrimination lawsuit, decided to let it go through. It certainly helped matters that each of the board members had received a handsome cash gift for their assistance.
    The contractor who oversaw the construction had made a copy of the plans and had them framed. The two pictures had hung on the wall inside his home office until a burglar, for reasons unknown, stole them. The contractor died shortly thereafter, in his sleep, the victim of a heart attack.
    The penthouse consists of three floors. The first and second floors are made up of wide, airy rooms with high ceilings and magnificent windows that offer sweeping, breathtaking views of the city of Austin, Texas. The floor is a seam-sealed white laminate called Mepalam; the corners of the room are rounded and leave no crevices, allowing for easier cleaning. Most of the third floor is uninhabitable; it is packed with bulky HEPA air-purification equipment and temperature controls that keeps the air inside the suite cool, even during the winter months. The refrigerated air and the Vesphene/Spor-Klenz cleaning solution keeps any bacteria or germs from incubating.