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Two weeks later she read a news item saying that Tom Palieu had been killed by a Konv. The assassin’s identity was unknown, but agents were working on the case.

She knew. She had found a gun in Earl’s desk.

She took the paper into Earl’s room. “Did you do this?”

He turned away from her. “It doesn’t matter whether I did or not. They will suspect me. His name was on the list.”

“They will,” she agreed. “It doesn’t matter who the Konv is, now that an Agent has been killed. The one in Bangkok will tell them about you and the list of names, and it’s all they need.”

“Well, what else can he do?” Earl asked. “After all, he is an Agent. If one of them is killed, he will have to tell what he knows.”

“You’re defending him? Why?” she cried. “Tell me why!”

He removed her hand from his arm. Her nails were digging into his flesh. “I don’t know why. Mother, I’m sorry, but Agents are just people to me. I can’t hate them the way you do.”

Mrs. Jamieson’s face colored, then drained white.

Suddenly, with a wide, furious sweep of her hand, she slapped his face. So much strength and rage was in her arm that the blow almost sent him spinning. They faced each other, she breathing hard from the exertion, Earl stunned immobile—not by the blow, but from the knowledge that she could hate so suddenly, viciously.