FORTY

Upon entering the kitchen, Cadel took careful note of where the toaster, blinds, and smoke detector were situated.

He was pleased with what he saw.

"My word," Prosper remarked, gazing around at all the stainless-steel appliances and expanses of granite counter-top, "no expense spared, I see."

"Vadi said there were eggs." Cadel opened the fridge. "I could scramble a few for Sonja."

"My dear boy, are you mad? I wouldn't let you anywhere near a pan full of hot eggs! Might as well give you a deep-fat fryer and have done with it." Prosper sounded amused. "I'll cook the breakfast. You can take care of your Pop-Tarts—whatever they might require. Nothing that involves an exposed flame, I trust?"

"You stick 'em in a toaster," Cadel replied. He had relinquished the fridge to Prosper, and had moved to the pantry cupboard—where an unopened box of Pop-Tarts was sitting on the bottom shelf. They were cherry-flavored.

He didn't much like cherry-flavored food of any description, but that didn't matter. Under the circumstances, he resolved to force down as much as he could.

"Let's see." Prosper reached into the fridge. "Milk. Butter. Bacon. Eggs."

"I'll get the frying pan," Cadel offered.

"You'll do nothing of the sort." Prosper's whiplash response made Cadel start. "You'll stay away from anything remotely resembling a kitchen utensil—I don't care what it is. Just stand there. Right there. And don't move."

Cadel froze, still clutching the packet of Pop-Tarts. He waited while Prosper produced from various kitchen drawers a spatula, a mixing bowl, a frying pan, and a whisk. At no point during this process did Prosper lose sight of Cadel for more than two or three seconds at a stretch.

"I promise I won't stick a paper towel in the toaster," Cadel said at last, sarcastically. And Prosper smiled.

"No chance of that, dear boy," he declared, cracking eggs with a breezy confidence. "I've got my eye on you."

"So what about my Pop-Tarts? Can't I heat them up? Will I have to eat them cold?" Cadel rattled the box under Prosper's nose. "They are meant to go in the toaster, see? It says so right here."

Prosper set down his last broken eggshell. Then he took the box and scanned the instructions printed on its back. "How many do you want?" he queried, ripping it open.

"Uh ... two?"Cadel suggested.

"Two it is." Having crossed to the expanse of gleaming counter that separated the sink from the stove, Prosper deposited two Pop-Tarts into the four-slice toaster and pressed down the switch. He left the box on the counter before returning to his mixing bowl. "There are plates in that cupboard," he said. "Get out three. But no funny business—I didn't get much sleep last night."

Cadel refrained from commenting. As he retrieved three plates from a low shelf, Prosper studied him, adding milk to the eggs. "You're very quiet," Prosper finally observed. "Isn't there anything you want to ask?"

Cadel carefully laid three white plates beside the toaster. "Will you tell me where we're going?" he said when he'd finished.

"No."

"Well, then." Cadel shrugged. "Not much to talk about, is there?"

"Don't you want to talk about Niobe?" Seeing Cadel stiffen, Prosper gave a wicked grin. "Yes," he said, energetically whisking. "I thought you might be wondering about her."

Cadel swallowed. "You haven't—?"

"No. I have not." Prosper dumped his egg mixture into the pan. "Yet."

"It wasn't your idea, then? That whole—assassination attempt?"

"Oddly enough, it wasn't. Though of course I took full advantage of it." Prosper was awkwardly placed. Because of the way the stove was positioned, he couldn't scramble his eggs in comfort if he wanted to watch Cadel at the same time. Doing both meant facing away from the pan, and cutting quick glances back at it occasionally. "We didn't have much notice, what with one thing and another, but I think we did very well. Considering all the time constraints."

"What about Niobe?" Cadel demanded, though not because he cared. He was trying to engage Prosper's attention while he himself absentmindedly picked up the box of Pop-Tarts. "Where is she now?"

"That I can't tell you."

"Can't or won't?"

"Can't. At this stage."

"She did you a favor," Cadel opined, easing more Pop-Tarts out of the box. After removing one from its plastic packet, he began to fiddle with it in a distracted kind of way, squeezing it, twirling it, tossing it from hand to hand. All the while, he didn't take his eyes off Prosper. "If she hadn't killed that guard, there would never have been a hearing at the Coroner's Court. And you would never have escaped."

"Of course I would have escaped. Do you think I'm a fool? There would have been other opportunities. I had several irons in the fire; if I hadn't, I never would have been able to take advantage of that fortuitous visit to the Coroner's Court." Prosper frowned suddenly. "For god's sake, will you stop playing with the food? It's very ill-bred. Not to say irritating."

Cadel put down the Pop-Tart with some deliberation, noting as he did so that the nearby electric kettle was full of water.

Good, he thought.

"Bring me two of those plates," said Prosper. "Put them right here. That's it. Will your little friend be having bacon?"

"No." Cadel cleared his throat. "She's not very good at chewing meat."

"Ah."

"She can have toast, though. If it's cut up into pieces and has lots of butter on it." Glancing toward the kitchen door, Cadel was shaken by an unexpected stab of guilt. "Can't I just go and check on her?" he pleaded.

"All in good time."

Prosper scraped his eggs onto the two plates. Then he proceeded to fry bacon with a careless ease that both surprised and impressed Cadel, who had somehow never imagined Prosper cooking, any more than he would have expected to see the Devil watering houseplants.

Cadel was about to remark on this when the toaster ejected his Pop-Tarts with a soft clunk. It was the signal he'd been waiting for.

The success of his plan now depended on split-second timing.

"So are you going to let us watch television?" he asked, moving toward the toaster. "Or do you think I'm going to—ow! Ouch!" He dropped the first Pop-Tart (which was, indeed, very hot), so that it landed on the counter. "Damn!"

"Don't burn your fingers," Prosper warned. "Just wait a moment."

"No, no. It's all right." Grabbing a tea towel, Cadel used it to pick up his fallen Pop-Tart. Simultaneously he retrieved the unheated Pop-Tart, hiding it beneath the limp screen of checked cotton in order to transfer it to the toaster. He did this under the pretext of collecting his other toasted Pop-Tart, which soon lay on his plate beside Pop-Tart number one.

Prosper didn't appear to notice Cadel's sleight of hand. Perhaps he was too busy turning rashers. Certainly the sizzle of frying was so loud that it completely masked the muffled clunk of the toaster switch being reset; Cadel didn't have to cough or speak to conceal the telltale noise that occurred as he put down his tea towel—which he left precisely where it would conceal the depressed switch.

But the trickiest step was still to come.

"Don't even think about eating that yet," Prosper recommended, lifting his pan off the stove. Immediately the splutter of hot fat died away. "You'll burn your tongue."

"I'll just try it."

"Cadel—"

"I'm hungry,"" Cadel snapped, and bit into a Pop-Tart. "Aagh!"

This time there was no pretense; he really did burn his tongue on the sugary filling. Spitting it onto the counter was more of a reflex action than a well-considered ploy.

"There. What did I tell you?" said Prosper.

"Sorry." Cadel returned the offending Pop-Tart to his plate and began to wipe up the mess. In doing so, he had to retrieve the tea towel and shift the electric kettle slightly, until the bottom edge of its handle was resting on the depressed toaster switch.

Then he discarded the tea towel and took possession of his plate.

"Can I go back in now?" he lisped, pointing at the door to the living room. He was anxious that Prosper should follow him. But Prosper said, "Wait."

There was a nerve-racking delay while he distributed rashers of bacon and searched through the cutlery drawer for knives and forks. It looked as if he might even cross to the sink with his dirty frying pan—and perhaps spot Cadel's trick on the way. To prevent this, Cadel began to edge out of the room.

He felt as if he was trying to haul an enormous fish into a rowboat. Come on, he prayed. Come on, come on!

"You do realize that Sonja's not actually going anywhere, don't you?" Prosper drawled. With a plate in each hand, he approached Cadel, who was standing on the threshold, trying not to look as nervous as he felt. "I can't understand why you're so worried. It's not as if she can get into any mischief."

"She'll be scared," Cadel countered. He didn't know exactly how long it would be before the Pop-Tart caught fire. On the Internet, the timing of Pop-Tart blowtorch experiments varied enormously—owing, perhaps, to the difference in toasters or fillings. It could take up to eleven minutes for the sugar to ignite, or as little as two minutes.

Cadel was also concerned about the smell. He thought it unlikely that the rich aroma of bacon and eggs would long disguise the stench of burning. But he didn't want to shut the kitchen door, lest Prosper become suspicious.

So he resigned himself to an uncertain outcome and settled himself on the floor beside Sonja—who flung out an arm toward him.

Her wide, fixed gaze left him in no doubt as to how she was feeling.

"It's all right," he said, abandoning his plate to catch at her hand. "I'm here. Don't worry."

"I hope you're not expecting me to feed her?" Prosper drawled. He was standing over them both, still holding plates like a waiter. "If so, you're about to be sadly disappointed."

Cadel couldn't suppress a sniff. "You?" he scoffed. "I wouldn't trust you to tie her shoes, let alone feed her." And he was startled to see Prosper smile.

"How well you know me, dear boy" Stooping to rid himself of her plate, Prosper addressed Sonja with veiled malice. "You shouldn't expect any help from me," he said. "For instance, I shan't be changing your diapers. That will be Cadel's job. So don't be surprised if he starts to display a little less enthusiasm for your company in the future. You couldn't exactly blame him, could you?"

Sonja's eyes filled with tears. Cadel saw them, and his rage nearly choked him—because certain subjects were of such unspeakable delicacy that Cadel had never raised them with Sonja. Instead, they were simply handled in silence. As if they didn't relate to her at all.

Cadel had to control his breathing before he could say, in threatening tones, "Back off."

Prosper raised his eyebrows. "I'm just stating the facts."

"Don't you dare."

"Bit of a touchy subject, is it?" Prosper slyly observed, and Cadel lost his cool.

"Shut up!" he cried.

"Hey." A bewildered voice interrupted them. "What's going on?"

It was Alias speaking. But when Cadel swung around, he saw Judith standing nearby. His heart leaped.

"Ah." Prosper straightened. "Excellent. Really excellent."

"I stuck with the same padding," said the long-haired, brightly colored, generously proportioned figure across the room. And Cadel realized that, once again, he was looking at a demonstration of Alias's remarkable skill. "We're lucky she likes such distinctive clothes."

At that instant, Sonja's grip on Cadel's hand tightened convulsively. Turning to look at her—seeing her writhing lips and staring eyes—he realized that she didn't understand. So he tried to clarify matters. "It's not Judith," he said quickly. "It's not Judith; it's Alias. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"Jesus Christ!" Prosper exclaimed, high above his head, with a quite disproportionate degree of frustration. "Would you please stop apologizing? It's such an annoying habit, and one that I utterly abhor!"

Cadel blinked. Even Alias seemed taken aback. Finally Cadel quavered, "That's because you don't have a conscience."

Then something went WHUMP in the kitchen.

Prosper didn't hesitate. Instant comprehension was written all over his face; without directing so much as a snarl at Cadel, he flew out of the room, yelling, "Stay there!" over his shoulder.

Cadel was frantic. He jumped up, edging toward the side table. But he couldn't do anything useful, because Alias was still around.

"Extinguisher! Where is it?" Prosper bellowed, from the kitchen doorway. He was addressing Alias, who winced. Then the fire alarm began to squeal, and Alias put his hands over his ears.

"Oh, shit!" he said.

"Get the extinguisher, damn you!"

Alias disappeared. Prosper rounded on Cadel, his eyes blazing, his teeth exposed in a carnivorous sort of grin.

"Nice try!" he shouted, over the deafening noise. "Bad news is, I'm not stupid! I had Vadi disable the service connection! There's no one monitoring that alarm, and no one close enough to hear it!"

Cadel tried to look disappointed. It wasn't hard. Despite the ominous crackling sounds issuing from the kitchen, Prosper seemed determined to remain where he was—at least until Alias came back.

Cadel was desperately afraid that, despite all his efforts, he wouldn't win for himself a single, unsupervised minute.

"Here! Here it is!" Alias burst onto the scene again, wielding a fire extinguisher. He thrust it at Prosper, who vanished into the kitchen.

It was at this point that Prosper made a mistake.

In the heat of the moment, he didn't tell Alias to stay put. So Alias followed him, leaving Cadel alone with Sonja. It was the window of opportunity that Cadel had been waiting for.

Without a second's delay, he pounced on Vadi's PalmPilot. The case remained where he'd found it, so that no one would realize that its contents were missing. But he whisked the organizer over to where he could attach the appropriate cable. Then he began the clumsy process of entering his message, driven almost to distraction by the outdated equipment's ponderous speed.

"Come on," he whispered. "Come on, come on..."

No one in the kitchen could hear him—not through the wail of the fire alarm. Of that he felt sure. But he was terrified that Prosper might return at any moment.

So he tried to be as brief as possible.

"At Judy's cabin. Cadel." was the message that he tapped out, before sending it through to Fiona's mobile. Each step in the download seemed to take a hundred years. He wasn't even sure that his brilliant idea would actually work. And he wouldn't be in a position to run any checks, either.

But in one respect he was very, very fortunate. By the time Alias had appeared, ordered back into the living room by Prosper, Vadi's little PalmPilot was tucked away behind the television.

And Cadel was sitting beside Sonja, gamely munching on his Pop-Tart.

"Bloody hell," sighed Alias. He was able to speak at a normal volume, because the fire alarm had been turned off. "You're a charming guest, I must say."

"What happened?" asked Cadel.

The response from the kitchen was a bark of mirthless laughter, which he found very unsettling. It also seemed to disturb Alias, who glanced uneasily at the kitchen door and lifted an admonishing hand when Prosper staggered into view.

"Now—let's not get overexcited," Alias beseeched. "There's been no harm done. I mean, nothing that a paint job won't fix..."

Prosper ignored these feeble attempts at conciliation. Tossing aside the extinguisher (which hit the floor with a mighty CLANG), he marched right up to Cadel, his hands on his hips.

Sonja whimpered. Cadel held his breath.

Prosper pursed his lips, then shrugged.

"Not a bad effort," he said. "That blind must have been coated in retardant, or we would have had a bit of a mess on our hands."

Then he bent down and patted Cadel's pale cheek.