The Poisoners

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Nobody was supposed to meet me at the Los Angeles Airport, and nobody did. I made sure of this, although I wasn't really expecting to attract attention so soon. It was highly unlikely that anyone in the area, friendly or unfriendly, could have learned that I was arriving, if only because there had been no time. I was running an errand, for which I'd been selected on a moment's notice, chiefly because I was the only agent Mac had had available within easy flying distance of the West Coast-at least the only one without more important things to do.

"Anyway," he'd told me over the phone, calling from Washington, "you know the girl; you recruited her for us. If she does manage to talk-the doctors don't have much hope that she'll regain consciousness-she might tell you something she wouldn't confess to a stranger."

"Confess?" I said. "Is she supposed to have something to confess?"

He hesitated, a couple of thousand miles away. When he answered, his voice had a kind of baffled shrug in it.

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