"It's been my experience," Annja Creed said, "that the motives of private industry and those of the public don't usually make for good bedfellows." She reclined a bit farther back into the deep chocolate leather of her armchair and waited for the man sitting across from her to respond.

"That's a pretty narrow way to look at things." Derek Wainman took a sip from a steaming mug of coffee before setting it on the frosted-glass table. "After all, it's in our best interests to work with the public to make sure they don't feel slighted. These are, after all, potential customers."

Annja considered the map in front of her. This time of year, most of the Northwest Territories of Canada was frozen. The arctic tundra was a mass of brittle green amid the snows and winds. She shivered just thinking about how cold it was out there.

But it couldn't be worse than Antarctica, could it? She smiled at the memories of that adventure and then noticed Derek watching.

"You okay?"

"The cold weather makes me reminisce about the other times I've been in the thick of it," she said.

Derek took another sip of his coffee. "That's been quite often, hasn't it?"

Annja looked at him. He smirked and waved his hand.

"Don't be so concerned. We take great pains to find out all we can about people we might be interested in working with. And there's never been anything that the right amount of money can't purchase. Information especially."

Annja smiled. She was one hundred percent positive there was at least one small nugget of intelligence that their money hadn't been able to procure—the presence of the sword that she always