002.

"I will say that I'm still curious as to your part in this, Mr. Hart. Ferracorps has done business with Michaels & Stein before, and they hadn't felt the need to bring in a third party before. Why you, and why now?"

Donovan took a sip from his glass of water and studied the woman across from him. Straight red hair, more from a dye job than genetics. A few rings on her fingers, but nothing of significance. This was their second meeting, but Donovan knew many things about her. Helena Adams. Divorced a few years ago, with no children, but kept her married name. She had been with Michaels & Stein for five years, an impressive tour of duty for account managers in this turbulent time. Before that, SBS Industries for eight years. She was known to be a straight shooter, but not the best in contract negotiations.

"I'd like to think that it's the changing face of business," he said. "There are a growing number of advisory companies for mergers and acquisitions, these days."

"I'm familiar with M&A companies and professional advisers. What I'm wondering is why I'm at a restaurant talking to a one-man negotiation team retained by the company instead of a board room of officers and trustees. Not that I'm complaining." She smiled into her wine glass, her eyes watching for any reveal on his face.

"Look," he said, reaching his hand across the table, not touching hers, but offering. "Your company and Ferracorps have a good history of working together. But you're expanding and that's pushing you into their consumer territory. The suits at Ferracorps have some reservations, not to mention some pride to overcome. Instead of some heated arguments in a board room, I'm brought in to make sure things run smoothly, whether the deal happens or not."

"So you're here to sweep me off my feet and take my company for every dime?" They shared a laugh.

"Not exactly. But if I can get a favorable deal for my client while keeping you happy, I think I get a bonus."

"I bet you will," she replied, her cheeks slightly reddened.

Donovan pondered the night before him. Once business was done, he could take her to a hotel and "seal the deal" if he wanted. The invitation was there: her subtle shifts in posture opening herself to him; the slight pursing of her lips; even the purring tone of her voice told him as much. It wasn't the gentlemanly course of action, but negotiations of this sort weren't the norm. Still, he had to look out for reputations, both his and hers. He'd never let news of a tryst slip out, but she would, especially if the deal went south. He could see that she had a possessive side to her. Not enough to stalk him, but enough to anger her once he didn't spend the night. No, this night he would sleep alone. Better to keep her intrigued, and possibly hungry for more.

"I've heard wonderful things about the salmon here," he began, but trailed off as he noted the surprise in her eyes. Something behind him held her gaze. He craned his head and spotted a man approaching from the front of the restaurant.

The man was in his late forties and of a swarthy complexion, probably of Indian or Middle Eastern descent. He wore one of those traditional, loose cloth garments dyed crimson and white. He drew attention due his staggering steps and the amount of perspiration on his face and soaking through his robe. Donovan could sense the overwhelming pain throughout his features. Donovan considered rising from his seat to see if the man needed assistance, but it was improper. Best not to get involved if there was a problem. The restaurant staff could help the man should he need it.

Donovan shifted back to look at Helena, who was still enraptured by the dark-skinned man. Suddenly the table shifted, as the man collapsed beside him, pulling the tablecloth down several inches. Surprised gasps could be heard from the neighboring tables. Donovan started to slide his chair back in retreat, but the man had grasped his leg around the ankle.

"You. Talmakt ah-shan," he said in a wet, ragged breath.

Donovan wanted to leap free, to kick him away. He knew the man was dying, and his instincts warned him to free himself, yet he could not.

"Sir, what can I do to help you?" he asked gently, reaching his hand down. The man took his hand in his own, which still held a surprising strength. His grasp was slick with perspiration. The man blew a few hairs of his white beard from his mouth and continued to speak in foreign tongue. "Gushar seitmotiv kun, talmakt ah-shan.

Donovan's vision swam as the man spoke, and then he felt the grip on his hand relax. The man's eyes went glassy, yet kept their focus on Donovan as he descended into death. As he pulled back his hand, Donovan realized that he held a ring, no doubt having slid from the old man's sweaty fingers. It was an ornate thing, holding a smooth black stone and rimmed with a coiling tail like some dragon from the current offering of childrens' movies. He deposited the ring in a pocket on the man's robe.

Wiping his hands on his slacks, Donovan swallowed hard, wrestling with a fear of disease. He wasn't the only one, as those at nearby tables withdrew, muttering words such as 'sickness' and 'terrorist'. Fear and mystery always brought out the best in others. As the maitre'd and other staff moved to help, he turned back to Helena, who was standing up, silent.

"I think we'll need to wait on that bonus."