Greg Bear - Mariposa

Fouad opened the refrigerator and removed a Coca-Cola. He then climbed the narrow apartment stairs and sat in an armchair by the small den window, sipping with eyes closed, wondering if he should read or watch television. Act as if relaxing.

Settling in from hard day's work and of course the incident in the circumference hall.

After a few minutes he got up and walked into the bedroom to retrieve from his nightstand a yellow-jacketed university press paperback of Ibn Khaldun. His father had given it to him in Cairo many years ago. He had so few things from his father. It contained a small sample of elegant Arabic script, translated into English with square, precise roman letters:

Allegiance to God above all. But don't tell that to the kings, generals, and tyrants.

He returned to the den to read and think for a few minutes.

He had what he had come here to get. It was time to arrange for his discreet extraction. He could not just drive or walk away. He would likely be intercepted before he reached the county line, either by the Lion City sheriff or by Talos security.

Detectors around Talos used natural dust in the air to reveal and pinpoint laser communications from the ground. Radio and microwave transmissions were detected by other sensors, which quickly triangulated sources.

All unknown transmissions were investigated.

Internet traffic was tightly controlled by Talos as a public service to the Lion County area, to prevent "foreign hackers" from causing trouble and to protect locals from downloading or viewing material of a questionable political nature-or pornography.

Price very likely had access to quantum decrypt, which could crack almost any transmitted cipher in hours.

Talos had once offered a class on breaking foreign encryption, limited to U.S. military and government agents with high security clearances… That work had been okayed as a favor to Price back in the days of the Bush administration, when significant aspects of nearly everything about security and defense had been outsourced to corporations like Talos.

In truth, a potentially nasty security breach had spurred the investigation in the first place-the discovery that people beholding to Price had accessed top secret research documents in the NDI and NSA.

There were still over twenty retired generals-and several former CIA and NSA officials-on Price's payroll.

With communications in and out of Lion City closely monitored by people and agencies who either worked for sympathized with Axel Price, there was only one channel left open for what Fouad needed to do: an old method, though not as antiquated as smoke signals and less traceable.

Somewhere within a ten mile radius of Fouad's apartment complex, a private home had been rented by the Bureau and equipped with a hidden earth current transceiver-capable of receiving and transmitting high-voltage, 700-hertz DC signals sent through the dirt itself. An agent was posted there at all times.

Earth current telephony had a long history but was mostly known to history buffs and a few ham radio amateurs. Fouad's own unit was disguised as an antique Grundig radio receiver. Even this had a cover story. It had originally been purchased by his father in Egypt. He kept it for sentimental reasons.

Through a hole drilled by hand in the concrete floor of the garage-where he was relatively certain there was no surveillance-Fouad had sunk two copper spikes deep into the stony soil, disguising the arrangement as an ordinary ground wire for a gas pipe. The device's maximum range was likely less than twelve miles. When atmospherics were wrong-during the frequent thunderstorms that lashed this part of the world-sending or receiving a signal would be difficult or impossible. Lightning surging through the Earth overwhelmed any other transmission. But the weather today had been calm all across Texas.

No lightning strikes for hundreds of miles.

Trailing two runs of lamp cord, Fouad descended the steps from the first floor into the garage. One cord was attached to the radio speaker. All he needed to do to send a signal was tap the other cord against the twisted cable. The return signal would come as a series of clicks over the speaker, above the murmuring crackle of natural noise.

Under clear conditions, voice communication was theoretically possible, and even painfully slow data transmission, but clicks were more difficult to distinguish from background noise: air conditioners and refrigerators switching on and off, motors starting everywhere.

Just in case Talos kept an electronic ear to the dry Texas ground.

Fouad laid a small foam exercise mat on the concrete floor, squatted, and sent his brief message. Within ten seconds, someone at the opposite end began to respond.

He pulled the wires away and coiled them in the cardboard box with the old radio. Then he went upstairs, opened his closet, removed laundry from his small suitcase, took a quick shower, and changed clothes. After, he looked through the almost empty cupboards, contemplating what he might have for supper. Canned fava beens imported from the United Arab Emirates looked likely, mixed with canned chicken and onion and dried vegetable flakes.

This was simmering in a pot on the stove when he heard military vehicles in the parking lot outside. He went to the window and peered down through the open ironwork of the balcony rail. Two armored Torq-Vees-high-riding armored personnel carriers, originally designed for the deep mud roads of Afghanistan-had rumbled into the lot and blocked both exits. The closest Torq-Vee lurched a few yards forward, bumping the garage door, and three helmeted security personnel in black assault gear dropped from the open hatches.

Their boots send heavy thumps and rattles up the stairs and around the apartment.

Frowning, Fouad met them at the open door, bowl of beans steaming in one hand, spoon raised in the other. This was it, he thought. He would be interrogated while still hungry.

"May I help you?" he asked.

The lead, a trim thirtyish man with jet-black hair and pale skin-eyes hidden behind darkened spex-approached the door as his team flanked the steps.

"Mr. Al-Husam, Mr. Price has requested a meeting. We've had communication problems-phones are out. Apologies for the show of force." The guard was smiling but by little movements of his head, Fouad could tell his eyes were scanning Fouad's face and the apartment behind him. "We should get going, sir, if you're going to make your appointment."

"Of course," Fouad said, and replaced his frown with a smile. It was always a privilege to meet with Mr. Price-bragging rights would be his. "Lead on."

Dubai

Two hours later, haggard and somber, Nathaniel took a limo to Dubai Airport.

The Quiet Man had always been aware they might face difficulties. As a precaution, Jones had reached out and created false identities for all of the Turing Seven. So many fingers in so many pies around the planet.

Jones was that good.

The people in the Ziggurat lobby… He did not know just how they would have disposed of him when they were finished.

The desert, vast and empty.

In the packed airport mall, under the shade of a gigantic hammered-brass palm tree, Nathaniel used one of his assigned IDs to link up with a pilot who flew oil and architecture execs from Jiddah and Dubai back to the states. The pilot arranged for him to hitch an anonymous ride on a MedPetro jet to London.

There, using a new passport-traveling as Robert Sangstrom-he would pay for a ticket to the United States.

He would arrive in Los Angeles just in time to greet the California dawn. Nathaniel had made up his mind. Novelty was the game of the hour.

For now, and just for starters, he would try doing some good, just to see how it felt.