Greg Bear - Quantico

This had been taught to them all in the foreign schools-that the greatest glory of Islam was imminent, that the West was not an enemy but an ally. These young men, these anti-Janissaries, did not blink or show any signs that they lacked conviction.

The words tasted like gall in Fouad’s mouth. But he knew, as his father had known, that this was the only way.

The rigid pale men at his sides who instructed and watched and judged were aware of the fragility. But their time had come, and these experimental weapons in the great cultural war had to be tested to prepare the way for later and even more important operations. Mistakes would be made. Let them be made now, that later they would not.

Fouad Al-Husam finally knew the real names of BuDark.

They were Savior.

And Betrayer.

Private Home Maryland

White House Chief of Staff Kelly Schein was a plump, homely woman in her late forties with goggling eyes and no chin and an abrupt way of speaking that rubbed much of the fur in the capital the wrong way. That did not matter much in the grand scheme. At the moment she was the second most powerful human being in the world, and still she was not happy.

She walked up the brick steps to the long porch of the Buckler mansion and glanced over her shoulder at a procession of three very serious and alert Secret Service agents, followed by Hiram Newsome and Rebecca Rose, who joined her at the beautiful antique cherry front door. They were among the first to arrive to this peculiar and unexpected soirée.

‘I’m sure you’d all rather be at the White House,’ Schein said. ‘Unfortunately, it’s full of sneaky little bugs. We just found them last week. Nobody’s confessed to planting them, big surprise. They’re in the paint, for Christ’s sake-tiny little flat transducers. Hundreds, maybe thousands. Someone with a debriefer hidden in a magazine could walk in and collect a week’s worth of conversation. It’s playing hell with the President’s schedule.’ She looked up at Newsome. ‘I sure hope you didn’t know anything about this. Even for a giggle.’

Some at headquarters had pointed to Schein as the most serious opponent in the White House to Hiram Newsome’s appointment.

Newsome shook his head. ‘No ma’am. I don’t have much time to read paperbacks any more.’

Schein gave him a second, dubious glance. ‘National Security Director is coming with the President. Your cast will assemble before the President gets here. You have half an hour.’ Schein slipped the key into the large door. ‘We move randomly from house to house in Georgetown for our most secure meetings. Isn’t partisan spirit grand?’

‘You’re blaming the previous administration?’ Newsome asked, his chin developing a few stubborn companions.

Schein smiled, showing large, even teeth, and put on round glasses. ‘I doubt they were smart enough to know what was happening. Look at all the other messes they left behind for us to clean up.’

Rebecca followed Newsome into the spacious living room. The house was quiet and a little chilly. She had pictured a meeting with the President in more formal, glamorous terms: the Oval Office or the Situation Room, stern generals burdened with tons of egg salad-or was it fruit salad? Decorations and campaign medals, anyway-a huge threat board-not a deserted mansion on a ten-acre estate, furnished with exquisite antiques.

A large, striking painting in earth-tones, blues and greens, and gold-an original, she guessed-hung in the foyer above the stairs leading to the second floor. To Rebecca, the emaciated and thoroughly naked woman in the painting resembled a concentration camp victim. She looked at the artist’s signature in the corner, Klimt, and turned away with a shudder.

Schein removed her coat and draped it over a high-backed chair. ‘I have five reservations for your party at this clambake,’ she said. ‘Besides you two. Four agents and one civilian, I understand.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ Newsome said.

‘From all over the country,’ Schein said. ‘Some young, some old. I assume they’ve all pieced together bits of the puzzle.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Is that what FBI does best, put together puzzles?’ Schein asked with a straight face.

‘Sometimes,’ Newsome replied, his eyes heavy-lidded.

‘Why did the former director fire you, News?’ Schein asked as she tried out a large leather chair. She moved up and down and around as if establishing the height and comfort zone of someone taller. Newsome remained standing with his coat on, as if he might be asked to leave. He did not like her use of his nickname.

‘Last minute attempt to lighten the lifeboat, I presume,’ he answered.

Schein smiled again, this time with genuine humor. ‘The President figured the most self-serving would quickly dump the most useful and dedicated. It looks as if she was right. You’re originally a Boston boy, but you moved to Virginia when you were thirteen, correct?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

Schein looked at Rebecca. ‘You’re assigned to bioterror at Headquarters in Washington, DC, but you’ve spent a lot of time as an instructor at the Q, haven’t you?’

‘I have,’ Rebecca said. Outside, a big helicopter was landing on the lawn.

‘Did you know I wanted to be an agent, long ago?’ Schein asked.

Rebecca raised her eyebrows. ‘No, ma’am.’

‘Washed out early. Bad eyes. And I can’t do a pull-up to save my life,’ Schein said. ‘Just wanted you to know, Agent Rose, that Senator Josephson doesn’t speak for all of us.’

More Secret Service agents poured in through the front door. ‘Estate perimeter is secure,’ announced a tall fellow in a long black coat. He glanced at Rebecca. ‘Marine One is on the ground. Mrs. Schein, we’ve finished vetting the guest list. The others are waiting in the kitchen.’

‘Thank you, Ernest. Let’s get them in here and seated before the President arrives.’

Folding chairs were spaced around the living room in a tight circle. Schein rose from the large leather chair and stood beside it.

Through the back hallway marched Jane Rowland, Frank Chao, and a tall, gray, cadaverously thin gentleman Rebecca had not yet met in person. She assumed this was William’s contact, the world’s premier expert on yeast, Dr. Daniel Wheatstone, flown in yesterday from Oregon. William himself was still in Ohio, waiting for a flight out through stormy Cincinatti.

They were guided to their chairs and followed Schein’s example, standing behind them. All looked nervous. Rowland was actually shivering. There had been no time to rehearse. They were going into this Agatha Christie moment absolutely cold.

Ernest tapped his ear and turned to announce, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States.’

In person, Eve Carol Larsen was shorter than Rebecca had thought, but well-proportioned for her height of five-nine. She wore gray, as always, with a red blouse and a black opal pin, its stone mined, as she had told interviewers many times, by a wayward grandfather in Australia before World War 2. In the early eighties, Larsen had served for six years in the Air Force flying support aircraft, then had gone on to law school. After eight years working as counsel to various state agencies, she had been elected Attorney General for the state of Wisconsin, from which role she had moved on to become an effective governor. In politics, she had played extreme conservatives-mostly religious zealots-off against extreme liberals-mostly easy-target academic naïves-with razor wit and a manner of answering questions that Lou Dobbs had once described as ‘A look-’em-in-the-eye smile accompanied by a punch in the gut.’

Rebecca had not voted for her but was now wondering why-the room was positively energized by her presence. Only after a few seconds did Rebecca see National Security Director Chuck Parsons and the director of Homeland Security, Walter Graham, both younger men-in their early forties.