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the crest and found out it was from the OSS, the Office of Strategic Services, the World War II predecessor of the CIA.
    Feliks had white hair and appeared to be in his mid-sixties, but Lake didn’t know for sure—the man could be a dozen years either way. Lake didn’t know much about Feliks other than the cigarette case. No one at the Ranch did. Feliks was as tall as Lake and his skin was very white, as if he spent little time out of doors.
    The first question Feliks asked was the one Lake knew he would ask. “Do you believe they were on their own?”
    “No.”
    “Why not?”
    “Those bozos couldn’t plan a trip to the bathroom,” Lake said. “They also had plenty of money to spread around. You knew that when I picked up the weapons and sold them. Someone was financing them and making the plans. Before he died, Preston told me they were recruited over the Internet. Their specific instructions and money probably went directly to Starry in a dead drop.”
    Feliks nodded. “The Internet’s an avenue we can check. The FBI has been monitoring that and has records. What about the Japanese evidence planted in the van?” Feliks asked.
    “I don’t know. Probably put there to throw the FBI off track when they found the van, I suppose.”
    “There’s a lot of people who’d like to whip up a little hatred for the Japanese,” Feliks noted.
    “Yeah.” Lake pulled off his soaked clothes and slipped on the one piece coverall one of Feliks’ men had brought over. “Take a look at the body I brought in.” He smoked his cigarette while Feliks walked over, then came back.
    “Doesn’t look like good Aryan Patriot material,” Feliks noted.
    “Nope. And he tried to shoot me as soon as I was on board. I don’t think he was down there to rescue us. I think he was down there to close out the loose ends.”
    Feliks was an unmoving figure as Lake continued.
    “Like I said, those idiots were just doing what they were ordered. They might have had their own thoughts as to why they were doing it, but the people giving the orders probably had different ones. That’s one of the curses of being a peon,” Lake added, giving Feliks a hard stare. “You never know what’s really going on.”
    Feliks returned the look. “And?”
    “And what?” Lake was tired. He’d been up all night. The adrenaline rush was gone and the nicotine didn’t quite make up the gap.
    “Any idea who the mastermind is?”
    “No.” Lake handed the cigarette case back to Feliks.
    “Well, we certainly can’t ask anyone you ran into, can we?” Feliks said sarcastically. “You couldn’t take him alive?” he asked, pointing at the van where the boat driver’s body had been taken. “You couldn’t take anyone alive?” Feliks amended the question.
    “Starry was getting ready to let whatever was in that glass container loose when I shot him. I don’t think the citizens of San Francisco would be too happy if I’d let him live another two seconds.”
    Feliks nodded. “Randkin’s with the van. He thinks it might be anthrax, but he’ll have to take it back to the Ranch and test it to make sure. One of my other operatives has a line on someone who might be working for the Patriots making biological agents. We’ll have to see if we can connect the dots, then roll up the puzzle.”
    “The jar had Japanese markings,” Lake repeated.
    “Yes. I saw it. But we know that the men were Patriots,” Feliks said. “I really doubt the possibility of a link between the Patriots and the Japanese. That would be like the FBI and the CIA sharing information.”
    “The Patriots could be getting used,” Lake noted. “It’s happened before. The guy in the boat had to be from somewhere.”
    “Even the Patriots can tell Japanese markings,” Feliks said. “They wouldn’t use that stuff unless they had a reason.”
    Lake continued his report, not wanting to discuss theory with Feliks. “The other man, Preston, didn’t know shit and taking him alive would