"You don't have to be snippy about it, Roland," said Hans Gunther-Hagen. "And I invite you to remember that not all of us have either the means to leave or anywhere to go." He sighed through his nose. "But. Yes. I will help you."

The connection was rough-edged, but the weariness of his voice came through untouched. "Thank you. I'd have taken you with me if I could, but I didn't think you'd want to take the same out I did."

He snorted a short laugh. "No, I can't say I do." His voice became serious. "You are taking those painkillers I gave you, yes?"

"I felt like I shouldn't, because they were yours and you need them," he muttered, the edges of his words blurred. "And you know how I am, I felt all right without them."

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Gunther-Hagen snapped. "You were on the operating table two weeks ago, and if you weren't a bullheaded idiot you'd still be in bed now, not back at work or making international flights. There's no reason for you to suffer on my account." He paused and added, "And don't ask me if they're safe. They are fine, and you're just trying to dodge the issue. Am I correct?"

"Yes, you are." Gunther-Hagen was the younger of the two by several years, but ter Borcht still sounded rather like a scolded child. Here was a man whose good hard work had put him in a position where he held the mighty Itexicon International Corporation in the palm of his hand, if he only knew it - acting like a scolded child at the advice of a friend. "I took, mm, two before the flight and one during. And one about half an hour ago."

"Well, take more in three hours if you're still awake then," he said, his tone softer. "I'd rather you had something stronger, but that's what we had to work with, I'm afraid. Ask your friend if you need something better. I'm sure he has access to some truly impressive experimental drugs."

He laughed. "Hans, you wouldn't believe some of the things they're working on out here."

He had been worried about his friend's prospects in America, but to hear him laugh boded well, at least a little. "Perhaps you can try me later," he said. "Now, about that help you needed."

"Yes. About that."

At the end of it, ter Borcht fell asleep at one end of the line and Gunther-Hagen hung up on him. He could call back for a proper goodbye if he wanted one.

Gunther-Hagen rolled his shoulders and reached for his crutches, slipping his hands through the cuff to the grip for the leverage to stand. Today his knees felt at once sharply stiff and liquidly unable to take his weight when he stood. No doubt he'd exacerbated the pain by spending all day sitting at his computer and his microscope, but the thrill of a plan almost completed helped to ease the discomfort. And he had already taken more painkillers than he really should have; unless he wanted to make himself sick, there was nothing much to do but grit his teeth and try to push through it.

How much harder it must be for Roland, he thought, as he thumped slowly to the door. I've been like this for so long - and he, less than a week.

The two of them were risking so much with this mad gambit, and what did they stand to win if they succeeded? So little - a death, for certain, and possibly exposing the crimes of a multinational syndicate with unimaginable power. And if they were very lucky, they might pioneer a technology that would extend the lives of millions.

If.

Gunther-Hagen thumbed off his laptop, picked up a pill bottle, set it back down. So much now hung in the balance. He had done his part, in assisting ter Borcht through the development of their plan and getting him out of the country, and now it only remained for him to watch and wait.

There could be no going back now, for either of them. Gunther-Hagen had sealed his fate by cooperating with ter Borcht, and ter Borcht, well - his choice was irrevocable. Mad. Certain to be fatal. And desperately courageous. He was betting everything on two unknowns; one, the ability of his own immune system to adapt to the immense stress he was placing it under.

And the other - Jeb Batchelder's honor.

I hope he understands what he has done.

You can solve a lot of problems by planning your own death.

Consider: Itex had every advantage against one rogue scientist, alone and friendless on the run. They had him outnumbered; there were few countries on Earth where Itex stationed no employees. They had nearly infinite funds. They could very well be everywhere he turned; there was no place he could count as safe, no person who couldn't possibly be on their payroll. They could have him blackbarred from his profession with the flick of a switch. For the love of Christ, they had his DNA on file, and no disguise was clever enough to truly hide that telltale.

And they had the advantage of time. A company does not age. Whatever bolthole he managed to find, however far they chased him before stopping, they had the luxury of simply waiting until he grew old or careless. Like a cat before a mousehole.

This was the only card he held, the only scrap of information he had been able to hide from them:

The only point in his favor, in this game that might otherwise span continents and decades, was that he was dying.

Not quickly. With luck and care, he would live out the year. But where Itex would count the time of his escape in years, perhaps decades, he could only count in months, days, hours.

They could not afford flashy plans; their machinery ground slowly and inexorably in dark places to inevitable ends. They would orchestrate infinite subtleties to catch him and bring him to heel, but here he had the upper hand - before their plans truly began to move, he would be dead, and far beyond their reach at last.

And there was nothing they could do to stop a dead man.