Germ

"Tell them to drop their weapons."

Gregor did, and the rifles and Uzis clattered to the ground.

Atropos lowered his pistol. He said, "Stay calm. Nothing is wrong." He looked at the guards, at Karl. He repeated, "Nothing is wrong."

The jet coasted up to them, stopped. A long moment later, the engines died, winding down like a dying breath.

Gregor saw movement in the cockpit, shadows, an indistinguishable face. He glanced at Atropos; he was smiling, looking pleased and relaxed.

The door clamshelled out, one half rising up, the other dropping to the ground. A man stepped out.

Gregor blinked, confused.

The man was identical to Atropos: same height and build, same thick-framed glasses, same mussed-up hair.

The guards hitched in their breath, uttered the first syllables of questions or exclamations; Gregor remained silent, gap-mouthed.

Atropos stepped forward. The other one came down from the jet's steps, and they embraced.

The assassin Gregor had met the day before turned. He touched his chest with four fingers and said, "Atropos." He tapped the chest of the new arrival with the same four fingers. He said, "Atropos."

"You—you're both Atropos?"

He nodded.

A sound reached Gregor's ears. Quiet, growing louder. The scream of twin jet engines, rolling in over the tops of trees.

His heart leaped at the sight of his brothers. They were standing on the packed-dirt runway, watching him bring the plane in. How long since they'd all been together? Two, three months, at least. Each had his own territory, his own quarter of the globe to administer his services. On rare occasions, when demand exceeded their expediency, they would share a continent or—very seldom—a job.

But a few times a year, they came together, not as colleagues, but as family. A chartered yacht out of Cuba. A hunting cabin in Bavaria's Hanau forest. A scuba adventure in the Andaman Sea of Thailand. Their time together was always relaxing and invigorating and, above all, fulfilling. They were the only times any of them felt whole.

Atropos had heard of long-married couples who ached when the other wasn't around; they'd been together so long and had ceded so many intellectual and emotional roles to the other, even sociologists conceded that these people were incomplete without their mate. That was them, Atropos, for months at a time, until they reunited and became one again.

Their father was a great assassin, also named Atropos, as his father was and his father before him. Their father had realized the potential profit in bearing twins—financially and to the reputation of his name. The new science of artificial insemination had yielded high success rates. At the time, the process had involved fertilizing three to four eggs; typically, only one survived to birth. He had convinced a doctor to fertilize eight eggs. Half had lived.

He had taught them the ways of the assassin and allowed them to experience their craft firsthand, on his jobs. Then later he had sent each of them to a different master: stealth and entry, escape and evasion, martial arts and close-quarter combat, weaponry.

Instruct one another, he had said. Become experts in one skill, then experts in all.

Only later they realized his wisdom. Not only did their talents surge, but the bond between them became as essential, as organic as the valves between the chambers of a single heart.

Their father had also instilled in them pride in the Atropos tradition. They understood their vocation, their role in affirming and growing their heritage. They were the first Atropos who could turn their family's myth into reality. Their forefathers had built the skeleton; they were the muscle and flesh. And so they had spread out, for the sake of their name.

The tires touched down, bounced up, then came down again and rolled. Atropos tore past the Cessna that was parked near the cluster of spectators and aimed for the other one at the far end of the airstrip. He noted the soldiers, their weapons on the ground.

His brothers had done that, made sure he was safe.

He tried to avoid the reason for this impromptu meeting, but he felt his throat tighten, his stomach cramp. Coming alongside the other Cessna, he turned and nudged the throttle. The jet taxied toward his brothers.

He stopped the plane, turned off the engines, and rolled out of the pilot's seat. He paused in the cabin to run his fingers back through his hair. It was thick and needed a cut. He took deep breaths, wondering where their other brother was, in one of the planes or someplace cooler, a morgue or refrigerator.

Hate made his chest feel hot. He diverted his attention to the television, flipping through channel after channel. After a few seconds, he was there, catching all the dialogue, every nuance the actors tried.

Okay.