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Unformatted text preview: r left this place? he thought. But then Lark had only been to New Orleans a couple of times. Nev- ertheless, it had been like turning your back on Paris for the prov- inces, and it was only one part of Rowan's story that he did not understand. He almost went by the unobtrusive gates of the Keplinger Institute. He made a sharp turn, plunged a little too fast down the driveway and into the dry darkness of the underground garage. It was now five-ten. And his plane for New Orleans left at eight-thirty. He did not have a moment to waste. He flashed his identification card for the guard, who at once called up to verify the information, and then let him through with a nod. Once again, in front of the elevator, he had to identify himself-this time to a woman's voice strangled by a tiny speaker beneath a video camera. Lark hated it, being seen but unable to see who saw. The elevator carried him soundlessly and quickly up the fifteen floors to Mitchell Flanagan's laboratory. And within seconds, he had found the door, seen the ligh...
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- Spring '10