Josette smuggled the dog in, keeping an eye out for the manager, and hoping it was one of her bingo hall nights. At this hour, nobody was around, and it was easy to encourage the dog to follow her in.

The apartment was a small one bedroom, but neat, and made all the cheerier by the framed movie posters and tidy stacks of art journals around the faded furniture. She looked at the dog and sighed. “So this is it. I guess we ought to look at your shoulder and maybe get you some water, huh?”

The dog politely wagged his tail twice and sat near the coffeetable, looking around. Josette had the oddest feeling he was . . . shy. She went into the tiny kitchen and came back a few minutes later with a bowl of water and a first aid kit. When she set the bowl on the floor, the dog looked at it, then at her. She looked back.

“You don’t like water?”

Then she noted the dog was looking at the coffeetable, and feeling amused, Josette picked the bowl up and set it there. The dog came over and began to drink in neat laps as she watched. “Ah, I get it—you’re a mannered dog. I should have known. All right, let’s have a look at your leg . . . “

He was slightly skittish, but Josette spoke soothingly to him, and gradually she managed to sit on the carpet next to him and run a gentle hand along his left front leg. There didn’t seem to be any cut or break, but she felt some swelling where Luis’s foot had struck. The dog flinched a little, licking his nose when she touched the tenderness.

“Sorry about that boy—I really am,” Josette told him softly. “But you saved me when you showed up and I’m very grateful. I don’t think anything’s broken, but you’re going to be sore for a while, and I don’t think I can give you anything for it—I’m pretty sure most of the medications in here aren’t good for dogs. Would you like some bologna instead?”

A few more tail wags assured her that would be lovely, and Josette laughed to herself, feeling that somehow her furry guest understood her words. He was looking at her with his big brown eyes, his doggy expression earnest and slightly sweet; Josette smiled at him, and gently stroked his head.

“All right then. You certainly are a well-behaved dog, that’s for sure. Let’s see what’s in my fridge.”

There was bologna, and Josette found herself heating several slices in her microwave, feeling foolish for doing so, but handing this nice dog a cold plate of lunch meat just didn’t seem right. She brought it out and set it on the coffeetable; the dog looked at her for a moment.

“Go ahead; I’m having a banana,” she told him, and then immediately laughed at herself for reassuring a dog.

He hesitated a moment longer, then ate, neatly slurping down the slices from the plate with a minimum of noise and fuss. Josette finished her banana and set the peel on the empty plate, sighing. She looked again at the dog, this time more carefully.

The dog was large and a bit heavy, Josette admitted to herself. With his sort of rib padding, he had to be someone’s pet and not a feral off the street. His fur was glossy and his coat slightly wavy; like a setter’s, but in a dark brown. He had the long muzzle and erect ears of a German shepherd, but his color was the single, solid brown, and he had no collar marks. When Josette checked him, he squirmed a bit and she got the impression he was slightly ticklish.

Either that, or embarrassed, despite the quick wags of his tail.

She sighed. “Look, you’re a great dog, and I’m so glad you were there tonight, but I can’t keep you. This place has a serious ‘no pets’ policy and if Mrs. Phornsavan found you here, I’d be out on my rump pronto.”

The dog blinked a little, rose, and went to the door. Astonished, Josette watched him, and then scrambled to her feet. “Hey! I’m not throwing you out!”

He looked over his shoulder at her, patient and slightly confused; she came over to the door and squatted down on her haunches, cupping the dog’s warm muzzle in the palm of one hand. “The streets of Las Vegas are no place for a dog, my friend. You obviously belong to someone, and I want to make sure you get returned to them. I’ll keep you tonight, and in the morning I’ll see what I can do about calling one of the dog rescue groups I see at the pet stores, okay? I’ll get you home safe and sound, big guy—I promise.”

The dog blinked again, and snuffled her hands, licking them in a quick gentle gesture of gratitude that warmed her lonely heart. She lightly petted him again and whispered, “You are a much better date than Luis Ramon, and that’s a fact.”

For a second, Josette had the impression that the dog was definitely pleased about her comment.

Mr. Peppermint had always been a methodical man; the sort to plan for contingencies not immediately apparent to the rest of the world. Given his profession, it was logical to do so, and at the moment he was glad that he had.

There would be Shop protocols too; looking out over the glow coming from the northern horizon, Mr. Peppermint knew Miss Lollipop would set those into motion when it was determined he was compromised. Lightly he rubbed the back of his neck; they could track him, but finding him might still be problematical.

He needed a cell phone.

Fortunately the hulking fisherman who’d been the single person pacing up and down on the deck hadn’t been a particularly good fighter, and at the moment was unconscious, rolled up in a heavy fishing net on the deck. Mr. Peppermint stood over him easily, looking around for a moment more, aware that there was smoke on the night air, and no other boats within sight.

It was a beautiful night otherwise, and for a moment he savored it. Then he squatted down and hunted through the thug’s pockets. It was a distasteful job, but in the end it netted him not only the cell phone, but also the man’s wallet. He didn’t find any of his own possessions anywhere on the man. Mr. Peppermint pulled out the bills from the thug’s wallet and left the rest of it, tucking the thing back into the man’s pocket.

He turned the cell phone on, and dialed a number, the string of digits well beyond those of a simple call. Mr. Peppermint was greeted by a prompt, and he spoke his codeword into the cell phone clearly. After a few seconds, he received a second prompt and he spoke the second codeword. After a pause and a beep, he began speaking his instructions, keeping his words clear. “I will be on the front steps of the Bibliotheca de Cabo San Lucas at ten AM tomorrow.”

Satisfied the message had been recorded, Mr. Peppermint hung up, and then hesitated, staring at the phone in his hand. If he made the other call he so desperately wanted to make, it would mean destroying the phone afterwards, and risking stealing another one if necessary. He would have only one shot---

Carefully he dialed again, and listened for anything. The frustrating triple tone of non-connection blared in his ear followed by an apologetic recording in Spanish, informing him that his service plan was not authorized to connect to that particular number. Cursing slightly, Mr. Peppermint tossed the phone overboard and into the dark waves, watching it sink out of sight in the dim twilight. He went to the boathouse and looked over the dials and switches, speaking softly aloud to himself as he weighed his options.

“Whoever hired this goon holding me will be nervous about being out of touch and will show up to see what’s happened. I have maybe two hours before that. Haul anchor and sail up the coast? Not a good idea in the dark.”

He sighed, wishing Miss Chocolate was beside him—undoubtedly she would have chosen sailing without a moment’s hesitation. Mr. Peppermint spoke again. “ I have an appointment in town in about twelve hours, so ideally, I should pull up the anchor, start the engine and head to land. I can let the boat drift off once I get close enough to wade in.”

But first, a search of the boat. He snagged the flashlight that hung on a hook of the back wall of the boathouse and using it, went below, looking around carefully. An untidy bunk; a few porn magazines; a collection of beer cans. Under the bunk mattress, Mr. Peppermint found a semiautomatic and a piece of paper with a photocopied picture of himself. He stared at it, feeling the first inkling of concern, since it was of him coming out of the front doors of Truman Tower.

A recent photo apparently, taken with a telescopic lens. He’d been under someone’s surveillance then. This was a bigger breech of security than he’d realized, and Mr. Peppermint felt a sense of panic for his fellow confectioners.

Taking a calming breath, he folded the paper and tucked it in his pocket, then finished his search of the boat, finding nothing of interest or use. Carefully he climbed back up to the boathouse and made his way to the bow to haul up the anchor, cranking it free of the silty fathoms below. He started the engine and turned the wheel, steering the fishing boat towards the faint glow along the horizon, his face calm, but his worry growing under the surface of his expression.

It took nearly two hours to reach the shore, and the swell of the waves rolling onto the long, sloping beach left the boat rocking unsteadily. Annoyed, Mr. Peppermint realized he would have to swim the remaining distance; an unpleasant prospect, but one that couldn’t be helped. He packed his shoes and socks in a ziplock bag and tucked them inside his shirt, buttoning it up to keep the bundle secure. He brought the boat parallel to the shore, then waited for the trough of the next wave before stepping off into the water.

Cold, but not impossibly so. He kicked, and rode the rising swell of the wave as much as he could, then came up for air and began to dogpaddle, saving his strength. The tide was coming in, and the extra push of the water brought him to the sloping beach quickly; he clambered out on hands and knees, undignified, but safe. Once he made it onto the moonlit beach, Mr. Peppermint panted a little, and looked back towards the boat.

It was already starting to drift back out towards the deeper waters, the backpull of the waves moving it quickly into the gloom.

He sighed, and looked around. The long stretch of beach was deserted at this late hour, but there were lights up along the various hotels and resorts further inland, along a formation of rocks where he could wring water out of his clothes and possibly sleep for an hour or two before beginning the long walk into the city to the library.

Eleven people sat quietly around the empty conference table, all of them alert and tense.

There was no tea service.

“We’ve got to do something,” Miss Chocolate announced, her tone flat and hard. The other people around the table shifted their gazes from her to the figure at the other end, like spectators at a particularly enthralling tennis match.

“We are doing something. Unfortunately, since we have to deal with the Mexican government, it takes time,” Miss Lollipop admitted in her cool, soft voice. “However, I’ve called in a few favors, and we’re on a direct link to one of the higher ranking officials in the local police department of Cabo San Lucas. It’s chaos down there right now, and nobody has any clear idea of what’s going on,” She sighed, softly. “The impulse to rush down there immediately is strong for all of us, believe me. Every person here owes a great deal to Mr. Peppermint.”

“Great. Now tell me exactly what we’re going to DO,” Miss Chocolate shot back quietly. “Because I for one am not going to sit and wait for the Mexican authorities to find him!”

Miss Lollipop managed a small smile. “YOU are going to lead the search for him, of course. I’m sending you, Jellybean and Jawbreaker off immediately. A private jet will take you three to San Diego, and from there to La Paz where helicopter will take you into Cabo. Bubble Gum has already prepared your passports and Henry has your travel covers.”

Miss Chocolate, who had been ready for a fight was slightly mollified. She gave one curt nod. “Okay then. Good.”

“Yes,” Miss Lollipop agreed. “Jawbreaker speaks enough Spanish and knows the culture well enough to help smooth your way, and Jellybean will . . . pick things up. I expect you to put yourself in Peppermint’s place to work out his probable actions. We’ll be feeding you his chip readings when we have them. Keep in touch hourly. And Sara—good luck.”

Miss Chocolate rose, as did Jawbreaker and Jellybean. They followed her out, and Miss Lollipop didn’t speak again until the door closed behind them. She looked around the table at the remaining confectioners and sighed. “All right. Given that we have no idea if this was deliberate or not, we’re going to go to protocol two and assume our security has been compromised. Any immediate suggestions?”

“I want to look at the chip tracking records for the last three weeks on everyone else in the Shop. I want phone records too,” Sugar Daddy spoke up. “If we’ve got a leak from the inside something will show up there.”

“Henry and I can look over the travel records,” Licorice added. “See if anyone’s been making unauthorized trips anywhere.”

Gum Drop cleared his throat. “I can help Archie monitor the information traffic from Mexico and see if we can find anything helpful.”

Miss Lollipop nodded. “Good. I’m going to contact Mr. Sugar and see if he is aware of anything happening from an outside source. We’ll meet up again in six hours and I want everyone on standby.” She paused, looking around again and asked softly, “Where’s David?”

Josette gave a little sigh. “He hasn’t shown up, ma’am. I’ve left messages for him twice already.”

Miss Lollipop looked sharply at Bubble Gum. “He is chipped, isn’t he?”

The technician nodded. “He was—I’ll see if I can track him.”

“Do so immediately, please. One agent missing is bad. Two is suspicious,” Miss Lollipop murmured. Bubble Gum nodded again, rose and slipped out of the conference room.

Sugar Baby spoke up thoughtfully. “Is there any chance that it’s merely an accident? That Mr. Peppermint was just . . . in the wrong place at the wrong time?”

Miss Lollipop gave this some consideration. “Anything is possible, and yes, there is a chance that as you say, it’s more bad luck than malicious action. However, the fact that three hotels have been hit with arson, and that all three have been used by Mr. Peppermint in the past tends to make me think it’s deliberate. He’s one of our most senior confectioners, and as such, has a few enemies.”

“What about his case? The Russian honeymooners?” Licorice asked suddenly. “Any chance this was about them?”

“Their hotel wasn’t burned,” Miss Lollipop replied. “They were staying at one of the American-built chain hotels. Mr. Peppermint on the other hand, favors independent hostelries, the more local the better.”

Sugar Baby nodded bleakly, and Miss Lollipop drew in a breath. “I will say it here and now: Mr. Peppermint is one of the most resourceful agents we have ever had. I have very little doubt about his capacity to survive, and I have high hopes that we will be hearing from him shortly. And now we have work to do, my candy makers—“

People rose and began to leave; Sugar Daddy waited until he and Miss Lollipop were alone in the conference room. He looked at her, his slightly shaggy brows drawn together, and she moved closer to him.

“Something tells me,” he began conversationally, “that you already have a list of suspects.”

“I do,” she replied, crossing her arms, “and I bet you do too. Let’s see if the names are the same, shall we?”