The grade of the road started to steepen and he maintained his speed, counting driveways as he went up. The idyllic neighborhood wasn’t exactly Afghanistan but that didn’t stop the adrenaline from pumping. Normally, Covert-One ops were planned to the very last detail. By comparison, this one felt hopelessly half-assed. He was still suffering badly from his injuries and probably only functioning at 60 percent of peak. There had been no time to insert a surveillance team to recon the area, he had no backup, and the sum total of his operational experience in Japan consisted of getting shot in the back with a crossbow bolt.

Smith reached for a compact Taser lying in the passenger seat as he turned into Ueda’s driveway. The plan was to shock him, stuff him in the trunk, and get the hell out of there. Three minutes tops, depending on the situation with his wife. As Randi was fond of saying, what could possibly go wrong?

Smith’s normal bias would be to park down the road and go quietly over the wall, but someone was bound to notice a six-foot American wandering around the neighborhood. Particularly when he started climbing fences in broad daylight. Better to try to stay a little closer to the natural rhythms of the area.

He parked behind a Toyota SUV and slipped the Taser into his pocket before stepping from the car. Nice house, nice yard. Nothing out of place.

Not that appearances meant much. If he’d been fighting for the other side, he’d make sure everything looked as normal as possible to draw his opponent in.

There was no bell in evidence next to the door, so Smith gave it a few hard raps with one hand, keeping the other wrapped around the Taser in his jacket.

When footsteps became audible on the other side, he moved back a pace and checked behind him again. A moment later the door was opened by an attractive Japanese woman who looked to be in her midthirties. She seemed genuinely surprised to see an American on her porch, and Smith cautiously took it as a good sign.

According to Star, she’d taken five years of English in secondary school. Based on her grades, though, he decided to enunciate carefully.

“Hello. I’m Professor Jon Richards from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. Is your husband at home?”

Her brow knitted a bit but she seemed to understand. “Please come in. He is here. He is in his…office.”

Smith smiled easily and stepped across the threshold, closing the door behind him.

“Please stay,” she said deliberately, then started toward the back of the house.

He waited for her to disappear and then followed silently, still clutching the Taser. It would have been preferable for her not to be home, but that had probably been too much to hope for. Nothing a little duct tape couldn’t solve.