A knock on the door late the next morning interrupted Michael's martial arts practice. He heard Sam and Fiona's voices and opened the door to reveal a daisy-fresh Fiona in a short, perky, yellow sundress and a very rumpled, hung-over Sam, who was clutching a paper bag. The contrast couldn't have been more stark. Sam groaned and pushed past him, heading for the fridge. "Got any beer? I need a little hair of the dog."

"What's with him?"

Fiona smirked. "I think he went overbudget on his mojito allowance." Continuing past him into the flat, she plopped herself down on the bed. She leaned back on her arms and crossed one leg casually over the other, swinging her sandal idly.

Sam let out a sigh of relief after he had swallowed half the bottle. "Ahhhh, that's better. I was doing all right last night until the guy next to me started buying me drinks. I think he was a little pissed when I left with Fiona."

"I went through your mystery woman's apartment," remarked Fiona. "I must say, either she's been watching the wrong home decorating shows or she's seriously paranoid. She's put security grates on all the windows, the front door has not one but two bars across it, and…" she paused. "Oh, yes, there's flour scattered inside and outside the front door. I barely noticed it in time."

Michael nodded. Flour was a quick and cheap way of telling if anyone had paid you a visit while you were out.

"You'd like her style, Michael," Fiona added slyly. "She has even less furniture than you do. I didn't think that was possible. There's nothing but a mat, a chair, a sleeping bag, and a few clothes."

He raised his eyebrows. "No personal items?"

Fiona shook her head. "Other than clothes and some toiletries…nothing. No ID, no pictures, no documents, no medicine bottles. Nothing with a name on it. Nothing with any text on it, for that matter. Even the clothes and toiletries are nothing special; just generic stuff from chain stores."

Sam said, "I didn't find out much more than Fiona, but I brought you a present." He opened the paper bag on the counter and carefully removed a dirty glass, holding it proudly by the rim.

"Thanks, but that's not the pattern I registered for," said Michael.

"Very funny. It's from the last mojito she made me. I have a buddy at Miami-Dade who might be able to get some prints off it, but I'm gonna have to grease the wheels, if you know what I mean."

"Yeah, I do know what you mean." Michael resignedly handed him another bunch of bills. He could see already that this was shaping up to be one of those times when he turned into a human ATM.

Sam saluted him with the cash before he stuffed it into his pocket. "Other than the glass, I got zip. She's definitely had bartending experience." He smacked his lips at the memory. "Best mojitos I've had in a long time. But she's not your typical bartender. Oh, she's efficient and professional, but she never interacts with customers. I tried to start conversations, and she just walked away."

Fiona called from her perch on the bed, "Maybe you're losing your touch, too, Sam."

He ignored her. "The other bartenders mentioned it, too, when I asked about the new face behind the bar. One said the staff calls her 'Ms. Roboto': she knows her stuff, but she never smiles or interacts with anyone on more than a formal level."

"Oh, and here's an interesting little detail," broke in Fiona. "She's missing about half of her left little finger, and it looks fairly recent." She exchanged a knowing look with Michael.

"Yubitsume," said Michael.

Sam looked from one friend to the other in confusion. "What?"

"It's Japanese," said Michael. "Literally, it means 'finger shortening'. What it really means is Zan managed to get herself on the wrong side of the Yakuza, or more likely someone who's been watching too many mob movies. It's a ritual punishment for disappointing someone." He shoved himself away from the workbench where he'd been leaning as they talked. The whole situation was odd, and he didn't like odd. "See what you can get off the glass, Sam," he threw over his shoulder, as he went to resume his interrupted workout.

**

Later that day, Michael's cell rang as he sat in the Charger with Fiona, conducting surveillance on their latest job, which involved helping a lowly personal assistant being framed for her boss's embezzlement. Currently, they were parked in front of the boss's mistress's house, waiting to tail him.

"Yeah, Sam."

"My contact at Miami-Dade ran those prints for me and got a hit from the DOD. Your neighbor's name is Suzanna Hagen, she's 42, and she's a freelance computer systems security analyst. One of the top ones in the country, apparently."

"You mean, she's a hacker."

"Well, yeah, but she gets paid for it. I did a little research into her background. She was an emancipated minor when she was 16, worked her way through college, and then she disappeared for about five years. She got busted for a couple of well-known hacks, did a little federal time, and then got a doctorate in computer science at Berkeley. About 12 years ago, she started her own company based in Orlando, testing corporate security. I talked to a couple of former clients, you know, like I was checking her references, and they all highly recommended her. Apparently, she's some kinda whiz at breaching supposedly unbreachable systems. And she's trusted…she does so much consulting for the DOD that they gave her a top-level security clearance."

Michael took off his sunglasses and massaged the bridge of his nose tiredly. "Did you get anything else? Any other personal data?"

"Not much. Just that she was involved with a guy for fifteen years but never married. They had a kid."

"Was?" Michael repeated.

"Her…partner…I guess you'd call him…and the daughter died a couple of months ago in a car accident. The police report called it a hit and run. It doesn't look like she has any other family."

"Thanks, Sam. Let me know if you find out anything else."

"You know, Mikey, I had a brainstorm today. This Hagen lady could help you find out who put out the burn notice on you. Might be faster than waiting for Carla to come through."

Mindful that he was on an unsecure cell, Michael responded, "Ask her to hack my former employer? Does she strike you as the kind of person who would do that?"

"It's just a thought, Mikey. I didn't say it was a good one."

"Goodbye, Sam." He snapped the phone shut and stared thoughtfully out the front window.

"Problems?" Fiona asked from the passenger seat, where she had been snoozing.

"My neighbor's a professional hacker, and it looks like she's on the run from someone." He filled Fiona in on Sam's information.

"So she's hiding out. So what?" Fiona said. "It's not a crime," she added pointedly.

"What are the chances that a nationally known hacker with high-level government clearance would just happen to end up living downstairs from me? And why bartend, when you have those kinds of skills?"

She rolled her head toward him a moment. "Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar, Michael. There's nothing that says coincidences can't happen."

"We both know 'coincidences' can be carefully arranged, Fi. I just want to make sure this isn't one of those times."

They both turned back to their job, Fiona closing her eyes again and Michael resuming his bored scrutiny of the boss's mistress's house.

**

During the surveillance, Michael had more than enough time to ponder the idea Sam had proposed. He knew it was possible, in theory, to penetrate some of the CIA's systems, at least those that weren't isolated from the outside, but he wondered how much useful information he might get from such a preemptive move. Disturb a hornets' nest, and you're bound to get stung, but he was also getting frustrated with the way Carla was playing him. Maybe it was time for more direct action.

Suzanna's arrival might after all be a coincidence, he conceded, but it was an amazingly fortuitous one.

Two days later, he found an opportunity for a proposal, which didn't turn out quite the way he'd planned.