Greg Bear - Quantico

Yet Griff was happier than William had ever known him to be. ‘It hurts all the time,’ he had told his son last week, ‘but the hurt is on the outside. I can take that kind of hurt.’

Tracer Warnow flapped out a newspaper and said, ‘Listen to this. Senator Josephson kicks a dead horse.’

‘We’re not dead yet,’ William said in his best Monty Python accent.

‘Just listen. This is better than coffee.’

‘I don’t want to hear it,’ Gorton said.

‘Gets your blood moving.’

‘Hand it here,’ William said wearily.

‘You’ve got your slate. Look it up. I prefer newspapers. They belong to an earlier, civilized age.’

William pulled his slate from his pocket and scanned the headlines from AP and Reuters. Nothing on Josephson: they were full of news from the invasion of Saudi Arabia. ‘Here’s something to warm your cockles,’ he said. ‘ANTI-SAUDI FORCES ADVANCE ON RIYADH: THOUSANDS FLEE.’

‘Bastards are reaping the whirlwind,’ Gorton said. ‘Mecca’s next. Stay out of it, I say,’ he added. ‘I don’t want my son dying to defend King Abdullah.’

William moved past two more headlines: OHIO PUBLIC HEALTH: MEMORY CASES APPARENT FLUKE, and 10,000 ACRES BURN IN EASTERN SAN DIEGO COUNTY: Blazes not yet contained, rain and floods may follow.

‘The whole world is going to hell,’ Gorton went on, his voice a low rumble. He had pulled out the last remaining picnic-style table and sprawled across it.

William frowned and tapped on the Ohio headline. The dateline read yesterday, Cleveland.

…hundreds of residents in Silesia, Ohio, and in at least five neighboring communities cannot seem to clearly remember events that happened years or even months ago. A few exhibit all the symptoms of advanced dementia. Doctors are puzzled by the diversity of cases, but all symptoms, according to Doctor Jackie Soames of the National Institute of Allergies and Infectious Diseases, appear to tie into defects in how memories are processed. ‘Short term memories seem to be unaffected. Our patients can function on a day-to-day basis, and can even perform jobs that do not require deep memory. Most of them, however, remember little about their history of the past few years, or even why they live where they live, or how they acquired families.’

Theories range from a new and unknown viral infection to BSE, or Bovine Spongiform Encephalopathy, commonly known as Mad Cow Disease…

William felt an urge to call Rebecca, but what was there to act on? A coincidence? Loss of memory had nothing to do with anthrax, of that he was certain.

He pinched his nostrils to stifle a sneeze, then read on about the fires in San Diego County.

‘Hey, Agent Griffin! TP!’

He raised his head and saw the Newark SAC, Tom Hartland, standing in the open glass door of the empty restaurant. ‘Warden’s giving you a reprieve. You’ve got a ticket to Quantico.’

William looked at Gorton, who smirked and shook his head in envy. Hartland escorted William to the street and a staff Lincoln Town Car idling at the yellow-marked curb.

‘Get in.’ Hartland unlocked the car and climbed into the driver’s side door. ‘Tell me, Griffin-what do you know about solid rocket fuel?’

Bethesda, Maryland

Rebecca Rose stood on the brick porch, adjusted her long cashmere muffler-a luxury she had purchased for herself on the first crisp day of fall-and pushed the ivory-colored doorbell button. Behind the paneled door, chimes rang and a dog immediately began barking. She lifted her white paper bag with its box of See’s chocolates. Alph tended to bounce when visitors arrived.

Nancy Newsome opened the front door, restraining a midsized Springer spaniel. Silver-blonde, wide-faced, with a sharp nose and pale blue eyes, pleasantly plump and wearing a tailored pink suit even at this hour of the evening, Mrs. Newsome immediately broke into a smile. ‘So good to see you, Rebecca! Hiram has been so looking forward. He’s in his study.’

Alph was beside himself with welcome. Rebecca patted him, gave Nancy a hug, and held out the bag. ‘To be rationed,’ she suggested.

‘How awful of you,’ Nancy said conspiratorially. ‘I will hold these over his head whenever he irritates me. He will be so grateful. Hiram, I mean, not Alph.’ Another glorious smile, and then she ushered Rebecca through the classically Colonial hall and across elegant rugs of Persian design-but American manufacture-to the study. ‘He’ll only come out if I tell him it’s you,’ Nancy said, lips judgmental. ‘He’s been on the computer and then on the phone since three. I’ll give you both ten minutes, and then I’m serving dinner. Pot roast. Plain fare for just plain folks.’

‘Wouldn’t miss it,’ Rebecca said. Alph tagged dutifully at her heels, past his initial glee but more than willing to be company.

Hiram sat half in shadow, his face moon-colored in the glow from an old CRT. One hand was holding a phone receiver to his ear and the other was moving a wired mouse on a foam pad so old its edges curled. The desk was covered with piles of printouts loosely arranged by topic-news stories, emails, copies from texts. The rest of the room-dark wood wainscoting, matching maple furniture, white walls, crystal cove lights pendant from brass fixtures-was immaculate. The walls were covered with plaques, framed photos, testimonials.

Alph nosed his master’s leg and Hiram looked up. His face was unhappy in a Jovian way, an expression he had probably maintained all afternoon. ‘I’m on hold. Ah, forget it.’ He slammed down the receiver. ‘Did you hear Josephson’s rant?’

‘Good evening to you, News,’ Rebecca said, and pulled up a second chair to sit. ‘I’ve been trying to avoid it.’

Hiram rotated in his desk chair, glowering. ‘Son of a bitch,’ he said. ‘Son of a loose-titted, sow-bellied, egg-sucking bitch.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Rebecca said, grinning her appreciation.

Hiram flung out his arm and lifted a page from the desk. ‘Read it. It’s our death warrant.

She held the printout under a light.

‘We are at the end of a long and awful period of the repeal and repression of civil liberties. Secret courts, secret files-all tied to a binge of muddled thinking that has done nothing to protect America, which became abundantly clear on 10-4. The FBI, as the most important law enforcement agency in our nation, has been complicit in many of these transgressions, and I think a break-up is long overdue. I say we remove the FBI from its homeland of radical indoctrination, and reconstitute its most talented and least culpable agents in a new agency, based on the West Coast, that deserves and rewards their best efforts, and does not lead them always down the paths of uncivil retribution for political ideas with which senior executives happen to disagree. ’

‘Gasbag,’ Hiram said as she lowered the page. ‘What in hell would the bureau do in San Francisco?’

‘Our offices would look pretty,’ Rebecca said.

Hiram snorted. He took the page and sadly finished Josephson’s speech. ‘“A small hiatus in FBI activities is to be expected.” Oh, the mice will play, Rebecca. Let me put it politely, before Nancy comes in here with a bar of soap and a spittoon. As a nation, we’re up shit creek.’

‘Some of it’s true,’ Rebecca said.

‘Makes it worse,’ he shot back. ‘The lick of Papa’s strap is all the keener if you actually stole the cookie.’

Alph put his paws up on Hiram’s knee and stared soulfully into his master’s face, muttering doggy sympathy. ‘Josephson’s just a rooster crowing on the tomb. The President is the hangman. She called the director today and gave him his walking papers. Jesus wept. “No confidence.” So who’s next?’