（外文电子版资料）Battleground.docVIP

BATTLEGROUND Mr Renshaw? The desk clerks voice caught him halfway to the elevator, and Renshaw turned back impatiently, shifting his flight bag from one hand to the other. The envelope in his coat pocket, stuffed with twenties and fifties, crackled heavily. The job had gone well and the pay had been excellent - even - after the Organizations 15 per cent finders fee had been skimmed off the top. Now all he wanted was a hot shower and a gin and tonic and sleep. What is it? Package, sir. Would you sign the slip? Renshaw signed and looked thoughtfully at the rectangular package. His name and the buildings address were written on the gummed label in a spiky backhand script that seemed familiar. He rocked the package on the imitation-marble surface of the desk, and something clanked faintly inside. Should I have that sent up, Mr Renshaw? No, Ive got it. It was about eighteen inches on a side and fitted clumsily under his arm. He put it on the plush carpet that covered the elevator floor and twisted his key in the penthouse slot above the regular rack of buttons. The car rose smoothly and silently. He closed his eyes and let the job replay itself on the dark screen of his mind. First, as always, a call from Cal Bates: You available, Johnny? He was available twice a year, minimum fee $10,000. He was very good, very reliable, but what his customers really paid for was the infallible predators talent. John Renshaw was a human hawk, constructed by both genetics and environment to do two things superbly: kill and survive. After Batess call, a buff-coloured envelope appeared in Renshaws box. A name, an address, a photograph. All committed to memory; then down the garbage disposal with the ashes of envelope and contents. This time the face had been that of a sallow Miami businessman named Hans Morris, founder and owner of the Morris Toy Company. Someone had wanted Morris out of the way and had gone to the Organization. The Organization, in the person of Calvin Bates, had talked t