SMITH WAS WORKING out on the rowing machine in a gym he favored, a blue-collar dive on the third floor of a rundown building. It was handy to have a place in town to work up a sweat, especially one where no one from the office was likely to show up. Today he was driving himself hard, yanking the cable so that the wheel screamed. Already his sweatshirt was soaked, and a couple of guys on the stationary bikes were eyeing him with curiosity or maybe envy. It was always good to stay in top shape, but more importantly he found he did his best thinking when his heart was maxing out at around 180. All that oxygen flooding his system. One of the most revered strategies in warfare was to pit your adversaries against each other. There was a tidy elegance to the equation, Mr. Smith felt, but in this case it was probably simply a necessity. Number Four was making great progress but was by no means ready. That left only Number Three to operate as a remote agent to neutralize Mo Ford and Rebecca Ingalls.
