Van’s crushed hand flew straight to his beard. He stroked it thoughtfully. Hickok didn’t seem to notice his shock. After a moment, Van had steadied himself. So here he was at last then, Michael Hickok, that hustler, that ruthless mercenary, showing up at the office like a bad penny. Jeez, no wonder Hickok never took that briefcase off—he was wandering around just like that lost atomic lunatic in Repo Man. A cynical operator with a thirteen-billion-dollar political liability that he was trying to dump on the first available sucker. And he’d already successfully put the charm on Van’s naive young secretary. If Tony Carew hadn’t bent the rules to warn him . . .