Ustinov stared at the one place he could find, the beautiful, rounded tops of her wonderful breasts that bobbed with each word, with each blow on his poor desktop. “I have no idea what you are so mad about, Marina. What is the problem?”

She sputtered and hissed some more, but must have realized that Ustinov was not a good enough actor to be lying to her with such a straight face. She eased down into Ustinov’s side chair, unaware that her skirt had risen high enough to give him a tantalizing glimpse of the garters at the tops of her stockings and her luscious white thighs.

“Uncle Boris contacted me this morning. Someone tried to kill Catherine Goldman last night after she left us at the restaurant. A taxicab tried to run her down on the street.”

Ustinov shuddered. The implications were not lost on him. “Are you sure it was not an accident? Is she okay?”

“It was deliberate. The police say that she is all right. The cab got away and was found abandoned over on Washington Street. Alstair McLain is screaming holy murder and the entire staff at the SEC is waiting to descend on us as soon as he gives the word. Do you know what this means, Dmitri?”

The beads of sweat that had already popped out on Ustinov’s forehead confirmed that he did. His spacious office seemed much smaller all of a sudden, the walls closing in on him. He didn’t even notice the flash of exposed flesh when she shifted her legs.

He felt trapped. Why now? Why, when he was so near the glorious success for which he had worked so long and hard? Trapped by chance and bad luck. Someone was trying to kill one of the SEC director’s best inspectors. An inspector who just happened to have been assigned a week before to the OptiMarx project. McLain would doubtless look in their direction first. He would not rest until the guilty bastard was caught. With a much more intense investigation, the chances that someone would find Ustinov’s special work on the OptiMarx system were greatly enhanced. Even if they miraculously missed it, he would have to lie low, put everything on hold until the heat was turned off.

His stomach flip-flopped when he realized what would happen. There was no possible way to meet Boris Medikov’s ridiculously dangerous schedule now. It could not be done with this latest development. He doubted Medikov would be one bit understanding about the special circumstances.

Nosovitskaya must have been reading his mind. She stood up and stepped back a few steps, as if she wanted to be out of the line of fire should Medikov’s bullets suddenly begin rattling around the office.

The morning light broke through the clouds outside and streamed across her figure, illuminating her face, her golden hair. Ustinov thought of a goddess, someone lifted from Greek mythology.