Greg Bear - Quantico

Real life. That woman did not have to sleep alone. That woman did not have an attitude that drove men away. Nearly everyone spent a life free from the immediate ravages of crime. They were the sane ones because they were isolated, deluded into feeling safe.

The insane ones broke their brains and bodies trying to protect them.

She removed her notebook and flipped through her shorthand record of the briefing at the Patriarch’s farm. SAC John Keller had delivered the briefing to the governor and a group of top law enforcement officers. There were smears on the second page of her notebook. In the middle of the briefing, it had started sprinkling again.

Her slate chimed. It was Hiram Newsome at Quantico. ‘Rose here.’

‘Not much time, Rebecca. I hear Griff is breathing on his own. He’s off the supercritical list. He could regain consciousness tonight or tomorrow.’

‘I’ll tell William.’

‘BDI informs me they know the whereabouts of at least a few of the Patriarch’s family, but that info is being kept inhouse for the time being. Both Diplomatic Security and BDI have been behaving real peculiar lately. BDI may get whupped worse by the current administration than FBI, long-term. If DS is involved, that probably means BuDark. Alphabet soup gets cold fast, doesn’t it?’

Rebecca could hardly keep the agencies straight any more. With each intelligence and security failure, successive administrations had multiplied the bureaucracies, perhaps in hopes of spreading future blame. She was least fond of BDI-the Bureau of Domestic Intelligence, which had been formed two years after-and despite the existence of-the FBI’s National Security Service. It was rumored that BDI had been the source of much of the shit for which the FBI was now taking blame. ‘News, isn’t it about time some of us got told what in hell BuDark is?’

‘Well, they’ve taken one of our agents from the last class, Fouad Al-Husam, along with about twenty other Arabspeakers from FBI and CIA. BuDark has been raiding every agency in town except BDI and Secret Service, pulling out Middle East experts. I assume we’ll be told in the next few weeks where they’re putting our agents. If they feel the anxious need to be courteous.’

‘They’re not CIA?’

‘Presidential black ops would be my guess. I’ve had three meetings with the director in the last day and a half, and he’s not going to fight a turf war unless we come up with something certain.’

‘Well, here’s a certainty,’ Rebecca said, lifting a printout from her briefcase. ‘There is no anthrax in the ink cartridges from the printers found in the Patriarch’s barn. But the cartridges didn’t hold ink, either. They were filled with Canola oil. They may have been prepped but never used. And there were a lot more empty benches than there were printers.’

‘Something got interrupted.’

‘Two somethings,’ Rebecca said. ‘We took down the Patriarch, and the truck got stopped in Arizona.’

‘Maybe there’s a third something,’ Newsome said. ‘I’m hearing rumors about anthrax being used against civilians in Iraq. Could that be connected?’

‘I don’t see how.’

Newsome sighed. ‘Unless you find a connection, we’re not going to get any help from DS. I can send you a couple of prime guys to help.’

‘Griffin’s fine.’

‘Griffin’s green.’

‘He doesn’t irritate the hell out of me.’ Rebecca drew her brows together and looked at the sunny slit in the drawn curtains.

‘You’re a swell broad, Rebecca, you know that?’

‘I’m a bitch, News. How are they treating you?’

‘Don’t ask. OIG is done with me but they’re interviewing teaching staff tomorrow. The director and deputy director are going before Senate Judiciary on Wednesday. Senate reform bill is still in committee, but it’s got firm Democratic support, so headquarters is activating contingency plans just to keep ahead of the curve.’

‘Screw the Dems.’

‘Mr. Hoover had a fine relationship with FDR.’

‘He was the last,’ Rebecca said. ‘They’ve been gunning for us ever since Louis Freeh ID’d Clinton’s jism. Even before that. Good ol’ Jimmy Carter got Clarence Kelley when his wife was dying-’

‘Keep it to a simmer, Rebecca. I am.’

‘If BDI or some other agency has Patriarch family members in custody, I need to talk with them. My preference, give me one of the sons.’

‘I’ll push. I should know by tomorrow.’

‘Be well, News.’

She returned the phone to her pocket, then lay back on the bed-and rolled and grabbed the glass of water just as it started to spill. Fast as a cat. But sleep was never enough to keep her from feeling worn down.

Rebecca Rose was afraid of one thing-afraid that she wanted out. She had nine more years before she hit the GS-1811 wall, but still…

‘This bastard is the last one,’ she promised herself, and closed her eyes.

It seemed seconds later, she choked and looked up to see a man with dirty blond hair leaning over the bed. He had one hand on her throat and in the other he held a Leatherman with the blade out and locked.

‘My daddy’s dead,’ he growled.

A ribbon of spit fell into her eye.

Thump.

William opened one eye and stared at the bed cover. He had not pulled it back-he was still dressed-and for a moment he wondered where he was and why.

He looked at the clock on the nightstand but that was no good-it had been off by four hours when he came in. It said ten o’clock. He guessed he had slept soundly for about two hours. So it was now about six. Time to think about finding some food and getting back to work. There was a Panda Express across the street from the motel. Something with noodles would taste good.

He washed his face in the bathroom.

Thump.

Rose was up and making noise. But it wasn’t her style to make sounds loud enough to come through the walls. He glanced at the Lynx display. She was still on his team grid. Rebecca habitually kept her mike off but she had not switched to privacy mode, something older agents frequently forgot.

He lowered his arm with some embarrassment. Like looking in on a lady in her boudoir-he could get a sense of what she was doing by her vital signs.

He quickly wiped his face with a hand towel and pulled aside the curtain a few inches. A thin brown-haired girl in a pioneer dress-something in gingham, anyway, with blue checks and a kind of apron, real Little House on the Prairie-walked past. He heard the door to the right, Rebecca’s door, open and close.

Rebecca had visitors.

He wondered why she hadn’t told him.

‘Shit,’ he said. Typical new agent, jumping at boo-squat.

But Rebecca was quiet as a cat. He did not remember ever hearing her move or even take a step. She wore rubber soles.

And the pioneer girl was completely out of fashion in this part of the state. Real Bo-Peep. This time, his curiosity about Rebecca’s vital signs was purely professional. If she’s got Mary and her lamb coming up to the room, wouldn’t I need to know that about a partner?

He lifted his watch again and punched the display through her stats. Sure enough, her stress numbers were up…way beyond the levels of sexual stimulus. As well, her skin conductivity had altered and the sniffer in Rebecca’s unit was picking up a distinct pong of stress and fear.

If she’s a Lesbian, she doesn’t want to be.

He unbolted the door, let the chain and latch down gently. On the grit-surfaced floor just outside Rebecca’s door lay a piece of brass-plated chain. The end of the chain had been clipped with a bolt cutter.

William took a step. The next door beyond Rebecca’s room was open. He looked left. At the end of the walkway stood a service cart hung with a laundry bag and stacked with fresh sheets and rolls of toilet paper, buckets filled with little bottles of soap and shampoo, and folded white towels.