Never Trust A Lady

Chapter 11

For the second day in a row, Jane found herself bone-tired and unable to sleep. After delivering his terrible revelation, Tom had gone into his room and shut the door, leaving her standing in her own doorway, appalled and trembling, icy with shock. Inside her room now, she paced, thoroughly rattled and furious, too. And frustrated. Furious with him for doing such a cruel thing to her, and frustrated because how, after all, could she be angry with someone who’d suffered so devastating a loss?

The cold inside her would not go away. A nice hot soak in the tub seemed the most sensible remedy, but first she had to compose herself enough to try calling the girls again. She sat on the edge of the bed and counted seconds up to sixty, then picked up the phone and dialed. The machine answered on the third ring. She was almost glad, and left the same message she’d left earlier. “Hi, this is Mom, I’ll try again in the morning, Love you, Bye.”

She did not leave the number where she could be reached, because she couldn’t think how to explain what she was doing on an island in North Carolina’s Outer Banks, when she was supposed to be in Washington, D.C. She wasn’t accustomed to lying to her children, but how could she tell them about any of this?

Perhaps, she thought, there were just some things about their parents children were better off not knowing. And vice versa.

While the tub was filling, she emptied the contents of her tote bag onto the bed. The painting and Roy Rogers six-shooter she set aside in their jumbled brown paper, to be rewrapped later. She checked the batteries in the flashlight, made a mental note to put in new ones as soon as she got home, and threw the cookie and peanut wrappers in the trash. Everything else went back into the bag except for her hairbrush, toothpaste and toothbrush, and the little zippered pouch in which she carried tiny sample bottles of deodorant and hand lotion, and the packets of shampoo and conditioner she’d taken from the hotel in Arlington. Had it only been this morning? It seemed a lifetime ago.

She undressed and hung her clothes neatly on the motel hangers, except for her knee-high nylons and bra and panties, which she was determined to wash, even if it meant she had to put them on wet tomorrow. She brushed her teeth, unable to avoid her reflection in the mirror and vaguely disheartened by it, having reached an age where it was sometimes a shock to see herself, especially like this, tired and without makeup. She’d already made the discovery everyone makes, sooner or later, which was that the human heart is ageless; on the inside she still felt exactly the same as she’d felt when she was eighteen. So how is it, she wondered as she contemplated her tired-looking eyes and the parentheses of lines at the corners of her mouth, that I have this middle-aged face?

She lowered herself into the tub slowly, her body shuddering and cringing with delight at the heat, and as she closed her eyes and lay back in the warm water’s embrace, something inside her gave in and let go, and tears began to seep between her lashes.

She knew it was silly, even shameful that she should feel so bad about such a thing, but that knowledge didn’t change the fact that she did, not one bit. The truth was, Tom Hawkins had touched her, and it had felt wonderful. And every nerve and cell in her body waited, ached, begged and screamed for him to do it again.

How did this happen? she wondered. How could I have gotten so desperately hungry, and not have known it?

Sex had been one of the few things about her marriage that had seemed to work, until the last few years, anyway. David had prided himself on being a vigorous and imaginative lover; it was part of his self-image. Satisfying his wife in bed had been important to him, and over the years he’d learned just which of her buttons to push in order to elicit the physical response he desired. Emotional response wasn’t something he required, or understood, and if Jane had often found their lovemaking lacking in tenderness, or joy, and if she’d ever tried to tell him so, he wouldn’t have known what on earth she was talking about.

Oh, but how was it that those few kisses of Tom’s in the back of a moving truck, and now just the touch of his hand on her cheek, for God’s sake, could have elicited from her more emotion, more tenderness, more joy, more anguish, than twenty-one years of regular and abundant sex with David ever had?

Having admitted to herself that she wanted Tom Hawkins, she tortured herself further by allowing herself to think about him that way, to imagine his body, for instance, to wonder what it would look like without clothes. He was tall and lean, that much she knew, and she rather imagined his build would be wiry, his proportions naturally pleasing, not artificially pumped up and filled out from lifting weights, or some such narcissistic pursuit. He didn’t have the stiff, straight, almost militaristic posture she associated with most of the law enforcement people she knew, seeming much more casual in his bearing, with a slight stoop to his shoulders, as if he’d spent a lifetime listening carefully to people who were shorter than he was. And he moved, even with the smallest of motions, like opening a menu, or holding a door, or lifting her tote bag onto his shoulder, with the completely unselfconscious grace of a cat.

She realized suddenly that her tears had stopped, and that she was smiling, her body relaxed and languid, steeped in sensual pleasure. Thinking about Tom, envisioning him naked, was a joy, it seemed, not a torment. The torture, the terrible drumming of her pulse, the pressure, the ache and the fire, only began when she recalled the way he’d touched her body. When she felt again his body’s heat against hers, the brush of his fingers across her skin. When she remembered how she’d tasted his mouth, breathed his breath, and finally surrendered to the mastery of his tongue.

And then…when she saw in her memory’s eye that same mouth tilt sideways in that poignant remnant of a smile, and, glimpsed almost by accident, the unimaginable pain in his eyes, the ache inside her became like a knife twisting in her heart.

Oh, God, help me, she thought, gasping with the pain. What am I going to do?

Hawk put through a call to Interpol headquarters, and while he waited for someone to locate Devore at such an hour on a Saturday night, opened the fresh pack of cigarettes he’d bought at the ferry terminal, tapped one out and lit it. After the first puff, he looked at the lighted end with disgust and thought he really ought to do something about the damn things.

He’d actually given up smoking once, before Jason was born, mainly because it made Jen sick. He’d taken it up again after they’d died, and until this moment hadn’t given even the smallest thought to quitting. He wondered why he should think of it now.

Devore came on the line, sounding far away and annoyed. “About time you called. Why the devil did it take you so long to get settled in? I thought that was a very small island.”

“It is, and there are no superhighways on it, either,” Hawk said in a surly growl. “And we stopped for dinner. Anyway, I’m here now, and I’m tired as hell. What have you got for me?”

“I’ve got someone tracking down the auction company’s records. We should have the names and addresses of the buyers of the other paintings by tomorrow morning. Oh-and Fritz will be there for you at eight-be ready. How soon can you get here?”

“One stop.” said Hawk, squinting through smoke. “Probably Greenville. Got to drop Mrs. Carlysle where she can catch a shuttle or something to Raleigh-Durham. Then I’ll be on my way.” Something he’d detected in the bureau chief’s tone made him ask with quickening pulse, “Why, what’s up? You got something?”

“We’ve heard from Lyons-just about an hour ago, right after you called, as a matter of fact. It seems Loizeau’s body has yielded some interesting bits, in spite of your mucking about. Quite a number of fibers. Most of them appear to be from those little blankets airlines provide.”

“Which only tells us our shooter might have recently taken a flight, probably of long duration,” Hawk observed. “Which doesn’t narrow it down much.”

“True. But a few of the others might be a bit more significant, I think. Merino wool, which I believe is a component of better-quality outer garments.”

“Sweaters,” muttered Hawk. “Topcoat, maybe?”

“I doubt it,” said Devore dryly. “These happen to be pink.”

“pink?”

“That is what I said.”

“Pink.”

“Yes. Pink.”

“Are you telling me,” said Hawk slowly, while his belly tied itself in knots, “that we could be looking at a woman?”

“It is a possibility that must be considered,” said Devore, with enough diffidence in his voice to make Hawk very uneasy.

“There’s something else,” he growled. “Let’s have it.”

There was a moment’s hesitation, and then, “Yes, there is something else. Hawk, I must ask you to get for me a set of Mrs. Carlysle’s fingerprints.”

“Why?” He exhaled sharply and reached to stub out his cigarette, breaking it in half.

“I know you have told me you believe she is not involved, but we must be certain. You know that. We must at least eliminate-”

“Eliminate? From what? Are you telling me you have a print?”

“We do have a print, yes. Several, actually. Most are smudged, but there is one very good one-a thumbprint.”

“My God. Where was it?”

“On some papers in one of Loizeau’s pockets. He had some small things-a grocery list from his wife among them. The pocket was buttoned. Possibly the shooter had difficulty opening the button with gloves on, took them off, rifled through the papers, then was in a rush, perhaps-you said you arrived only moments after he-or she-had left. And made a mistake.” There was a pause. “A fatal one, let us hope.”

“Don’t tell me,” said Hawk on an exhalation of disbelief. Rarely in his experience were forensics scientists, particularly fingerprints experts, blessed with such luck. “You have a match?”

“We do.” Another pause, longer this time. “You will not like this, Hawk.”

Impatient, he said through clenched teeth, “Tell me.”

Devore made a sound that was almost a sigh. “The print lifted from the shopping list in Loizeau’s pocket matches perfectly one found on bomb fragments recovered from the wreckage of Flight 310-the plane that went down off Sicily five years ago. If you recall-”

“I remember,” said Hawk in a tone as leaden as his heart. He remembered it as he remembered his own name, his own signature, because the bomb that had brought Flight 310 to a premature end, along with the lives of all hundred eighty-three people on board, had born the same signature as the one left on a merry-go-round in Marseilles.

“So,” Devore was saying, “you will do this-get us something with Mrs. Carlysle’s prints on it? Just to be sure.”

“Yeah,” said Hawk. “Sure.” His thoughts were spinning crazily. He was trying to imagine Jane wearing pink. Problem was, he thought she’d look terrific in it.

The knock on her door came as Jane was raking off the skimpy motel shower cap, shaking her head and combing through her hair with her fingers. Her heart skidded and began to pound.

“Oh, God,” she whimpered to herself as her naked body froze in a posture of panic and indecision. Her clothes were hanging within reach, but her underwear was dripping on the towel bar in the bathroom. The motel towels were typically skimpy. Impossibly skimpy.

“Who is it?” her voice quavered. Stupid, she thought, who would it be?

The answer came muffled. “It’s Tom. Sorry to bother you…”

“Just a minute…” Breathing like a cornered fugitive, she quickly wrapped the extra towel around her waist and rolled the top edge down to secure it, then grabbed the damp one from the floor and covered her top half in the same fashion. Finally, hoping her pounding heart wouldn’t shake the towels loose, she gave her sweat-damp hair a futile pat and opened the door a crack.

“Hi,” she gasped through the gap. “Sorry-I was just…”

Tom was standing there with his hands in his pockets. “Maybe I’d better come back,” he said. “When you’re, uh…” His forehead creased in a scowl of Godzillian proportions. But he looked as if he wanted to say something and was making no move to go.

She shrugged her bare shoulders, keeping a death grip on the top of the towel that covered her breasts as she stuttered, “It’s okay-if there’s-did you want…can I help you?”

She opened the door wider and he slipped into the room, moving stiffly, without his usual grace. “I, uh, just wanted to say I’m sorry.” He was looking around her stock motel room as if he’d never seen one like it before. Looking anywhere but at her.

“Sorry?” As she closed the door, a trickle of sweat emerged from her hair and began a journey across her forehead toward one eyebrow. She mopped it self-consciously with the back of her hand as she turned back to him. “What for?”

He waved a hand in a vaguely self-disgusted sort of way. “For saying what I did-earlier. I shouldn’t have thrown it at you like that. I’d been trying to think how to tell you.”

“It’s okay,” Jane murmured. “Really. I’m just…so terribly sorry.”

He nodded, finally looking at her. Cloaked in terry cloth from her armpits to her knees, she’d never felt so utterly naked. “It’s not something I normally tell people,” he said.

Another sweat trickle traced its way between her eyebrows, and his glance flicked at it, his eyes alert while his body remained still, like a lazy cat following the dartings of a fly.

She lost track of time and space; it might have been an hour or a second before he said, in a voice like a rock slide, “I was wondering…you don’t happen to have any toothpaste, do you? That tote bag of yours…” His smile tilted. Her heart did, too.

“Oh, sure. As a matter of fact, I do.” A laugh jerked her body like a hiccup. “I’ll just…” Amazed that her legs still functioned, she padded to the bathroom on bare feet, her knees all but creaking with self-awareness. “It’s…in here. You’re welcome to it. I’m, uh, finished…” Returning, she thrust the tube of toothpaste at him. “So you might as well keep it. Sorry I don’t have a spare toothbrush.” Her smile and shrug were nervous and apologetic.

“That’s okay-I’ll make do.” He grinned as he held up a finger and made brushing motions across his teeth with it. The smile slipped back into its customary place as he added, “This’ll help a lot-thanks, I ’preciate it.”

Smiling brilliantly, Jane murmured, “Oh, no problem. Glad I could help. Any time.” I hate this, she thought. Hate it. Why did this have to happen?

Again he nodded, saying nothing. And then his eyes dropped unexpectedly to her chest, to the spot where her fingers were knotted in the join of her towel. Her pulse throbbed so loudly in her ears that when he spoke she heard the words as if she were underwater.

“Were you able to get hold of your family?”

“There’s just the girls. They were still out. I left another message.”

“Ah. Well, at least they won’t worry.”

Her smile was as lopsided as his. “I just hope somebody remembers they have to pick me up at the airport.”

“You’ll probably be able to get them in the morning.”

He was moving toward her, moving toward the door. She stepped aside to let him pass, every muscle, nerve and sinew groaning in protest. Close to her he paused…intolerably close, close enough to touch, close enough that she could hear him breathing, breathing as if he’d just been running hard. Her eyes found and clung to his mouth, and though she fought it desperately, of course the memories had to come, too. Tormenting memories of how it had felt on hers, the way it had tasted.

“Well, thanks again for the toothpaste. See you in the morning. Seven o’clock, right?”

“Right”

‘“Night.”

“Good night.” It was almost a gasp, as if she’d been in desperate need of air.

And then he was gone, and she slid the security chain into place and leaned against the door, limp and exhausted, trembling, wishing to God she could cry.

Twenty-one years of a bad marriage, five years divorced…I thought I knew what loneliness was. Dear God, I thought knew.

But lying in bed that still, dark night, with seabirds calling in the marshes and Tom lying near enough to touch but for a few cruel inches of wall, she understood that she’d only begun to know real loneliness. Only begun.

They left the island in a single-engine Cessna, lifting into a lovely pink and lavender haze that reminded Jane of cotton candy. She did not get airsick; in fact, she enjoyed the flight so much she thought she might even decide to take flying lessons. After this, she was definitely going to need something exciting and new in her life. Something big enough to fill a void created by a man she hadn’t even known existed until two days ago. Except she was very much afraid there wasn’t anything in the world big enough to fill that particular void.

Tom had very little to say to her that morning, brooding in silence on the flight to Greenville while Jane chatted with Fritz, the pilot, a serious young man with a blond crewcut and a military manner who somehow seemed too American to be with Interpol. She wondered, but didn’t ask, if he might be FBI. In any event, by the end of the flight he’d warmed up and softened enough that he gave her the names of two people he knew of in North Carolina who might be willing to teach her to fly. He’d have taught her himself, he said, except he was a little too far away for her convenience.

“Wasn’t he nice!” Jane said to Tom as he walked her to the terminal, Fritz having stayed with the plane, which was idling on the tarmac.

His only reply was an ambiguous grunt, which she didn’t try to interpret. She was determined to keep herself cheerful, the tone of their leave-taking casual and light. Which had proved to be easier than she’d expected, because after the trauma of the previous evening she felt quite numb. She felt that she’d learned a valuable lesson, and that never again would she allow herself to be so vulnerable. So needy. Never again.

“Did you manage to get hold of your kids this morning?” Tom’s voice was like a truckload of gravel-about normal, for him.

“Oh, no,” she said politely. “But that’s all right. I didn’t want to disturb them on a Sunday morning until I knew what flight I’d be coming in on. I’ll buy my ticket first, then call. By that time, they might even be up.” She said it with a smile, inviting him to join her, but his face remained somber.

“So,” he said, “you sure you’ll be okay? Anything you need?”

“Quite sure. Thanks for everything.” She stuck out her hand, and though he looked momentarily startled, he took it. Steeling herself against the warmth of his grasp, she said brightly, “Listen, good luck. I hope you find…the whatever-it-is you’re looking for.”

“Yeah,” said Tom, “me, too.”

“Well, so long.” She managed not to add, “It’s been fun.”

“See ya.”

No, thought Jane. We both know that you won’t

She watched him walk away, and the numbness held. She turned and began to make her way toward the USAir ticket counter, and it occurred to her suddenly that Tom still had her toothpaste. Well, of course, it was Connie’s toothpaste, actually.

That was when her legs got wobbly, and she had to go and sit down for a while and wait until the trembling stopped.

Hawk had never liked FBI headquarters much. Something about the long, polished corridors and closed doors, and so many improbably fit and unsmiling people gliding silently and efficiently about their business made him think of some futuristic society where all the people had become machines. He wasn’t sure why that was so; most of the FBI agents he was personally acquainted with were okay people.

Devore met him at the security station. “I thought it would be simplest to meet here,” he said by way of a greeting as Hawk pinned an ID tag to the front of his shirt. “We will have the results of the fingerprint analysis directly from IAFIS the moment they are available,” he said, referring to the FBI’s extensive fingerprint data bank.

“Fritz delivered the sample okay, then. I assume,” Hawk drawled. It hadn’t made him happy, letting that tube of toothpaste out of his sight.

“Approximately one hour ago.” Devore looked at his watch. “Meanwhile, they are expecting us upstairs-come.” His wheelchair hummed softly as he led the way across the foyer to the bank of elevators.

Andreas Devore was Belgian, a large-boned, gaunt man with shaggy hair, an aristocratic nose and a long, rather cruel mouth women found attractive. Before the helicopter crash that had broken his back and mottled his skin with burn scars, he’d been one of Interpol’s best field agents. Now he headed ATDI-the Antiterrorism Division’s Washington bureau-and acted as chief liaison between ATDI and DECCA-the FBI’s Development of Espionage, Counterintelligence and Counterterrorism Awareness. But Hawk had no doubt that Andreas Devore still knew more about how to play the game than any man alive. He’d learned a lot from him. Especially patience.

The DECCA coordinator was waiting for them in the doorway to his office. He ushered them across the hall into a carpeted meeting room furnished with a large polished table and a dozen or so comfortable chairs. On the other side of the room, windows looked down on the old Ford’s Theater, but Hawk wasn’t interested in the view. One of the four chairs drawn up to the table was already occupied by a young man wearing a mediumgray suit and starched white shirt, and a maroon tie with silver stripes. His eyes were black as bullet holes, and he had the nose and bearing of an Arab prince.

“Our field agent on the case,” the DECCA coordinator said, beginning the introductions.

“We’ve met.” Hawk managed to keep his face impassive as he leaned across the table to shake Aaron Campbell’s hand.

“Well,” said the coordinator briskly as he took the chair at the head of the table, “let’s not waste any more time. Just to recap, so we know we’ve all got the same information up to this point.” He picked up the file in front of him, set it down again and laced his fingers together on top of it as he gave everyone at the table his eyes in turn.

“On March fifteenth, our agents in Kuwait received a, uh, communication purporting to be from Jarek Singh, who, as you know, was an Indian computer expert reported missing and presumed kidnapped from his home in Cairo at the end of the Gulf War.”

Devore said, “Ours came to our bureau in Ankara.”

“They were apparently identical. We know Scotland Yard, the CIA and the Israelis each got one, too. We don’t know how many others. In the. uh, communication-” which Hawk knew had come via computer, in the mysterious and incomprehensible manner fully understood only by hackers and wizards “-Mr. Singh claims to have been kidnapped by agents of Saddam Hussein and forced to design and program the security system for an elaborate secret facility built as a hideaway for Hussein’s stockpile of chemical and biological weapons. Most of which, as you know, did not turn up during our inspections after the war. We know they existed. Where are they now? Mr. Singh claims to know exactly where, as well as how to circumvent the facility’s security system, and has offered this information to the highest bidder. Unfortunately-” he paused as Devore coughed and shifted in his seat “-we have reason to believe this offer was also made to some very undesirable and dangerous bidders.”

“Khadafy, for one,” said Devore.

The coordinator nodded. “For one. North Korea and China, almost certainly. Others we can only guess at.” He looked unspeakably glum.

“In all fairness to Singh,” Campbell remarked, speaking for the first time, “he must have known he was a marked man. It would have taken a lot of money to put himself and his family out of Saddam’s reach.”

“He expected Saddam to pay him off,” said Devore, “with the promise that, if he didn’t, or if anything happened to him in the meantime, the information would go elsewhere.”

“Something like that. We can’t know precisely what Singh had in mind. We know he delivered only enough with his offer to demonstrate the probable accuracy and authenticity of what he had. The rest is inaccessible except with a key, which is what he was offering for sale. It was a clever enough plan.”

“Except,” muttered Hawk, “Singh wound up dead anyway.”

Once again the coordinator nodded. “His body turned up in an alley not far from his home in Cairo on March seventeenth. Estimates are he’d been dead at least three days. So apparently, Saddam’s agents caught up with Singh before his communication reached Baghdad.”

“And so,” Devore said dryly, “begins the treasure hunt.”

“Some treasure,” said Hawk,

“A treasure map, certainly. The map to enough chemical and biological agents to wipe out the entire population of the globe several times over. And unlike conventional weapons, almost impossible to detect by existing security systems. A vial the size of a cigarette, a few drops of a deadly virus in the water supply of a major city…”

The coordinator took a breath and went on, “It’s absolutely imperative that Jarek Singh’s key doesn’t fall into the wrong hands. We searched Singh’s house immediately, of course; it had been ransacked before we got there.” His eyes flicked to Devore and settled appraisingly on Hawk.

Hawk said nothing. Devore sat forward in his wheelchair, leaning one forearm on the table as he quietly said, “We also found it so. However, our agent-” he indicated Hawk with a nod “-observed a faint marking on one wall, which suggested a painting had hung there-a mark that did not fit any painting in the house. It seemed reasonable to assume that whoever had broken into the place had taken it, but when asked about it, Mrs. Singh said her husband had suddenly shown up the day before the communications from him began arriving-”

“That would be the day we assume he was killed,” said Campbell.

“Right According to Singh’s wife, he was very excited about something, and in a great hurry. She thought he seemed frightened, as well. Anyway, he packed up this particular painting and told her to mail it, then pack her things and go stay with her mother in Giza until she heard from him. He gave her the address of an antiques dealer in Marseilles-”

“Loizeau,” the coordinator offered, although everyone there knew the name.

Devore nodded. “Then Mr. Singh left again and that was the last his wife saw of him. She did as he’d told her and went off to her mother’s, stayed there until she learned of her husband’s death, when she returned to find her house a shambles.” He raised his eyebrows at Hawk. “Would you like to take it from here?”

Hawk didn’t say anything for a moment. He’d rather not have been there at all, if the truth were told. He hated meetings like this, always had. In his opinion, they were a waste of time. He knew where he needed to be, which was out there tracking down those other paintings. Most of which, it appeared, according to the records of the auction house, were in a town called Cooper’s Mill, North Carolina.

Sprawled in his chair, idly spinning a pencil on the polished tabletop, he looked across at Campbell and said casually, “You know, something else Mrs. Singh couldn’t seem to find was the shipping receipt from when she mailed that painting. She said she came straight back home to pack, and left it on top of the dresser in the bedroom. You guys take it?”

Campbell and the coordinator looked at each other. Campbell said quietly, “We found out about Loizeau’s having the painting the same way you did. Mrs. Singh told us.”

“So,” said Hawk, sitting up straight, “that means whoever trashed Singh’s place probably found it, went straight to Loizeau’s. got the information about the auction from him and then killed him. I’d be curious to know,” he added, looking across at Campbell, “how you guys found out about that auction.”

There was another uncomfortable silence; rival law enforcement agencies never enjoyed revealing their sources and methods. This time it was the coordinator who said, without expression, “We had immediately placed Loizeau’s shop under electronic surveillance.”

“Ah,” said Hawk, smiling slightly. Phone tap, of course.

“I’d like to ask you that same question,” said Campbell, his eyes glittering. “Loizeau was dead when you got there?”

“That’s right,” said Hawk evenly, showing his teeth.

“So, it would appear,” said the DECCA coordinator, unnecessarily shuffling through the file in front of him, “that only three people were able to follow the trail as far as Rathskeller’s. The two of us-” his nod took in Hawk as well as Devore “-and whoever ransacked Singh’s house and killed Loizeau. Are we in agreement that those two are most likely one and the same?”

Three nods answered. “All right, then-”

But whatever the DECCA coordinator had been about to say would have to wait, because right then someone’s beeper went off. The coordinator reached for his, checked the number and handed it to Campbell. “It’s IAFIS.”

Alarm ran through Hawk like an electrical charge. It couldn’t be his sample, the prints lifted from Jane’s tube of toothpaste. It was too soon. A futile search through the millions of prints in the FBI’s data banks should take hours, even days.

Campbell went to a phone on the wall near the door and punched in a number. He spoke quietly, then listened, eyes on the floor. After a moment or two, those same eyes, glittering bright, found Hawk across the room. And then, carelessly covering the mouthpiece with his hand, he said, “That fingerprint sample you delivered this afternoon? It seems IAFIS has a match.”