Except for the anomaly that’s in the geometric center of the room. A table. A plain, desk-sized, macroplast table. And sitting behind it is a corp-style woman. Long blonde hair pulled back behind pointed ears, suit of severe cut. Instinctively, the wire tracks the H & K in on her, but I don’t fire. She’s sitting there quietly, watching me. Empty hands flat down on the tabletop in front of her. No heat, no bodyguards. Just the three of us—me, her, and the H & K. Jam, priyatel. This lady’s got big brass ones.