I shoot him a glance. His face is locked in a grim expression, the same kind of tight control you see on the faces of point-men in Desert Wars gun-cam footage—and again I know he’s thinking the same thing I am. Well, frag, some-body’s got to say it. "The fragging elves, who else? The Tir Tairngire contingent, including chummer Nemo. Too much of a coincidence otherwise." I shrug again. "Anyway, they had the best opportunity to set it up. Two meets with Blake and the others—at least two—in a Cutters safe house. The first meet to release the bug into the air, or get it into the food, or whatever. The second to cast the triggering spell." A new thought hits like a nine-mil hollow-point, and I feel suddenly very, very cold. "I was around for the first meet ..."