The opulence of the Hotel Palacio Guardes was understated in the dossier Heather was given before she left for Brazil, and as she stood at the entrance, she was amazed that a country in relatively poor economic standing would host something so magnificent.  The exterior was covered in stones resembling mother-of-pearl, with an Art Deco design and fountains of various sizes scattered around the courtyard.  This was the best-known piece of architecture in Vitória, a palace of sin and seduction, the perfect setting for a theatre of mercenary terrorists.

            “Sinclaire… code name Sinclaire.  Please respond.”, she heard echoed under her dress.  Her mike was attached carefully to her bra, and she deftly pulled it out without being noticed.

            “I’m here.”, she answered, hoping her nervousness didn’t show in her voice. 

            “Aston’s in the coop… ready to conquer Greece?”, the voice asked, betraying a scoche of dry humor.

            “I’m ready…”, she said, and immediately saw her partner strutting across the courtyard.  Gaudy red suit, black shirt, patent leather shoes, flashy watch and shades.  “He’s pimped out and ready to roll.”.

            It was highly unusual for the FBI to even consider sending a psychologist into a live investigation, but this was a highly unusual – and intriguing – individual.  Based on the notes Heather had been given, Castor Troy was an enigma of irrationality… without a basic understanding of his motives, there was no realistic way of capturing him.  Countless resources had already been wasted on past missions, and it was at the suggestion of Erron Miles, her supervisor (and one of the few agents who has had a close encounter with Troy and lived to tell about it), that she was put on the case.  With other, more experienced agents close by, her only task was to be at the right place, at the right time, and ask the right questions.  But how would they get closer to him?

            Heather tucked her microphone back inside her cleavage and joined Aston at the marble steps leading to the entrance of the hotel.  She was wearing a lavender satin gown, strapless.  Compared to her high-struttin’ partner, she was regal and refined.  He paid little attention to her dress, but instead fidgeted with his own mike.  “Goddamnit… the tape’s stuck to my chest hair… ****!”, he muttered as they walked through the entrance.  The hotel lobby was warm and elegant, rich in gold and burgundy opulence, and for a few seconds both agents felt out of place.  Here and there, guests crossed the marble floors to the restaurant, casino and sauna, while others were walking up the winding staircase or taking the elevator.  It would be quite difficult to discern who among them were terrorists, but they would find out soon enough – based on the information provided, the party would be in room 1705.  Heather and Aston wasted no time getting there, with a cautious silence that had followed them all the way up in the elevator.

            Turning down the hallway, they expected to hear raucous music but instead heard nothing… three doors down from the elevator, two men in gray suits stood with their backs against the wall, indifferent to their presence at first.  As they approached the door, Aston spoke up.        

            “Gentlemen… hope we’re not late.  Don’t want to miss out on anything.”.

            The men said nothing, but looked him over with mild amusement, then thinly veiled disgust.  “Card, please.”, one of them replied succinctly.

            Aston whipped out his wallet – snakeskin, nice touch!, Heather sneered silently – with a flourish and produced a small invitation on glossy ivory cardstock, its borders embossed with copper filigree. 

            Both men looked it over carefully, then one of them pushed it in his coat pocket as the other frisked them quickly, then unlocked the door.  The room itself was much like the lobby – lots of glitz, flocked wallpaper, marble flooring - and as their eyes adjusted to the light of the chandelier in the main room, hanging over a large poker table, they were greeted with buoyant cheer from one of the players.

            “Aston!  Sinclaire!  What kept you?  I’m ready to fold… are your hands hot yet?”, he laughed.  Heather immediately recognized him – another agent.  He had better fashion sense than Aston, wearing a navy blue suit with matching shirt, open a bit at the top.  It complimented the gray-silver streaks in his thinning hair.  “Get the hell over here and give me a break already!  I need a drink.”.  Aston crossed the room and slapped him on the back as he got up and headed for the wet bar, taking his place at the table as fresh cards were passed out.

            There were five other people in the room besides the agents – two women, three men.  The two ladies, dressed in trashy sequined numbers and huge earrings, were standing on the balcony laughing like tipsy hyenas at God knows what… the three men were seated at the table, each with a pile of money at their side.  She didn’t recognize any of them, but they all dressed in similar fashion to Aston… one in particular caught her eye right away.  His back turned to her, his long trim frame dressed in an electric blue suit with a black shirt underneath, he dealt the cards with a cool but careless hand.  As she watched him with interest, Aston and the other two players introduced themselves to each other… finally the man to his right, a portly South American man with a goatee, nodded his head towards her dispassionately. 

            “Who’s your friend?”, he asked quietly.

            As she opened her mouth to speak, the man dealing the cards turned around to face her, a fat cigar in his mouth.  It could have been the color of his suit, but he leveled on her with the most breathtakingly dangerous blue eyes she’d ever seen, a small astute smile planted on his understatedly handsome, clean-cut face.  His hair, combed in a short Caesar, framed his cheekbones perfectly.  It was him.  He had a bushy moustache in the photos she’d seen in the dossier, but those eyes… it was Castor Troy.  Her heart leaped and she swallowed hard when their eyes met, and she was almost certain that he saw her fists clench nervously but neither of then acknowledged it.  In fact, aside from a cursory glance down her body before returning to the game, he didn’t acknowledge her.  Aston introduced her to the others, but she didn’t listen… the plan was in motion now. 

            “Before we begin, gentlemen, I’d like to toss a little something on the table that all of you will probably find very interesting.”, the other agent – Selkirk – announced from the wet bar, where he was pouring himself a Scotch.  From the back room, the man who had frisked them earlier came out of the back room with a small rectangular leather case and brought it to him.  With slightly shaky hands, he unlatched the lid and held it up for full view of the others.  It was a pair of gold-plated .45s, gleaming and glinting in the crystal light of the room.  “It seems that I’m a bit short on cash this evening, so with everyone’s approval I’m offering this instead.  Hope that’s alright with all of you…”, his voice trailed off as the men eyed the pistols greedily.  Selkirk had ‘em hooked.  Heather knew nothing about guns, but suspected that these were incredibly valuable… not just intrinsically, but as a status symbol.  All of the men, even Aston, were one step short of drooling all over the table as he closed the case with a loud snap and stuffed it under the bar carefully.  The man from outside stood at the bar and polished off Selkirk’s drink, but he paid no mind.  After sitting back down at the table, he glanced at Heather knowingly, his face saying one thing… make your move.

            “Let me make you a drink before you get started… for good luck.”, Heather offered to Aston and Selkirk.  She turned to the others at the table.  “Anyone else need anything?”.  The stocky Hispanic said nothing.  The man to Aston’s left – a lanky, baby-faced quiet guy with dirty blonde hair and glasses – shook his head but said nothing, his shoulders stooped over reticently.  Finally she looked up at Castor, but didn’t have to speak.  “What’s your poison?”, Selkirk asked him, nudging him slightly and drawing back when he responded with a cool glare, then looked up at Heather somewhat beseechingly.  For the first time, she noticed his cufflinks, glassy and winking… they looked like tiny ornate hubcaps.  “RC Cola and Colt .45…”, he said in a breathy voice, adding, “I’m feeling rather… ghetto fabulous this evening.”.