Greg Bear - Mariposa

Price's pronunciation was good. He spoke sound but rudimentary Arabic, from the years when he had directed security and other contracts in Iraq, Afghanistan, and Kuwait.

"I could be attached to delegations as a back-up translator," Fouad said. "The guests will rely on their own translators, but they will not be offended if you also position someone with expertise, to listen."

"My thoughts exactly. You can't cover all the conversations-hell, I'll probably only be able to drop by for about a third of the sessions myself. But if I'm there… you'll be there. I'd be pleased if we could make that sort of arrangement. Keep you around a while, at a much higher pay grade than a teacher, of course."

"It would be my pleasure, Mr. Price-Axel," Fouad said. "My contract, however, is soon ended, and I have other commitments I would have to adjust."

Price bowed his head and threw up his hand, showing this was not his concern.

"I'm sure you can work it out," he said. "Start now. I might need you in a snap, so we'll put you up in a guest house. Real nice place. Deluxe. You'll sleep out there tonight. My logistics team will move your stuff from Lion City. You'll need a chip upgrade, of course-deep, deep security."

"Thank you," Fouad said, but his heart was not with him. This familiarity felt too convenient. Trust meant nothing to Axel Price-caution was his hallmark.

"The conference is coming up fast," Price said. "Private jets from all over are coming into Lion City airport. About two hundred guests, fifty or sixty from the Emirates, Qatar, Arabia Deserta, Yemen, Jordan-plus retinues. You'll get all the docs and prep you need, plus a finger-key transcriber." He held out his hand and waggled his fingers. "You know how to use it-like a court steno?"

Fouad nodded. It was standard for secure translators.

"Good. FBI trained you well. Any regrets about heading for greener pastures while the Bureau's in limbo?"

"Of course," Fouad said. "But it was inevitable."

"Moving them out of D.C. and Virginia-that's a hoot. Our beltway masters seem to think they need to squeeze everything good out of the South-or squeeze the South out of everything. As if the war never ended."

Price shook his head in wonder at this effrontery. "Be up and dressed by 0700. Prep team will meet you in the cook shack.

"Welcome to the ranch!"

Los Angeles, California

The bar was a long, shadowed cave with highlights of blue and gold. The angled glass window beyond the stools and tall tables overlooked a themed restaurant laid out like a 1930s train station. Three dining cars waited beside a wooden platform, sleek roofs lacquered black, sides painted tan and hunter green. Waiters in white jackets and trim black pants and red caps showed customers to their tables while diners watched through half dropped windows.

The restaurant was called The Roundhouse and Rebecca Rose had come here at the invitation of a navy captain. They were in town attending the COPES domestic security conference and had unexpectedly run into each other while registering in the convention center lobby.

His name was Peter Periglas, Captain, USN, retired. It had been two years since they last met-on a ship in the Red Sea.

Two years since Mecca.

She sipped her vodka martini. She didn't like themed restaurants. Worse, the captain was late.

The bartender was a waxen, seen-it-all mannequin with toned shoulders and silicone breasts, eyes dulled by self-doubt and too many boyfriends. She asked Rebecca if she wanted a refill.

"I'm good."

Rebecca was about to get off her stool and return to the hotel when she saw a tall man with black hair enter through heavy glass doors at the far end of the bar.

He caught her eye and waved.

She quirked her lips and waved back.

"Sorry," Periglas said, approaching with a sheepish grin. "My handlers are giving me grief about my speech tomorrow. I seem to be a little stiff."

"I was surprised to see you in the exhibit hall," Rebecca said. "When did you get out of the Navy?"

"Last year. Took the rank-they offered it out of rotation-and then retired. Too many secrets, I guess. You?"

"Not really retired-just on extended leave. Furlough."

"So what are you doing?"

"Consulting, traveling. Enjoying life."

"I need a beer," the captain said.

The bartender was occupied by three raucous young men at the far end of the bar.

"How long with the FBI, total?" Periglas asked.

"Eighteen years. And you, the navy?"

"Twenty-three. Enough of the wine-dark sea. Dry land looks good. I'd like to become a private investigator. I could set up a downtown office," Periglas said. "Inland Empire Investigations. Keep a.38 in a drawer. Stare out the window, harass the pigeons, suck on a bottle of hooch and let the California sun bake me through the flyspecked window while I bask in a big oak swivel chair."

"You've given it some thought," Rebecca said. "Sounds pretty good."

She had dealt with navy men before. All the pulling up of roots made them a little too quick, a little too eager, but this time, she didn't mind.

"You could protect all the pretty WAVEs when they come to you with their problems. Sensible shoes, tight skirts, pert little… caps."

Even before Periglas had invited her to the bar, Rebecca had checked his right hand. The impressed shadow of a ring.

"My wife-my ex-wife-can't stand me enjoying anything. She was why I knew I would never make admiral. Hates Washington." The captain grinned a what-can-you-do grin. "Do we order bar food or descend to the dining cars?" he asked. "Cost no object. I'm buying."

Rebecca gave a passing thought to dropping her shields. It was about time. He seemed pleasant and smart, a little out-of-breath but not nervous. He might not bite. She might not bite. She felt remarkably strong.

All better now.

"Did you make reservations?" she asked.

"Nope," Periglas said.

"Tail o' the Pup for us, then," Rebecca said, leaning across the bar to get the waxy woman's attention.

No joy.

"That was over on San Vicente," Periglas said. "I'm a native Angeleno. My father might have eaten at the Pup. I never did. It's been gone for years."

He lifted his arm and the bartender gave him a frown and a nod but kept arguing with the young men.

When she finally minced down behind the long bar to their seats, her eyes were like flints and her cheeks flushed cherry.

"We need another war, to filter out pricks like that," she said. "What can I get you?"

Periglas's breath hitched. Sharp lines framed his mouth.

"Nothing," he said. He rose from the stool and leaned toward the bartender, practically in her face. "I've watched young pricks like that get filtered," he said. "I'll put up with happy bullshit any day."

He swung around and marched toward the exit.

Rebecca grabbed her purse and followed. She watched him with a fascinated grin, which she tucked away when he looked back at her, replaced with polite interest.

"Apologies, Rebecca. I usually don't show my bitter card until the second date. Let's stalk the evening like wolves," he said, arms swinging. His looseness came from dissipating anger, but also from self-assurance. He was happy to be here, expected nothing in particular, happy to be with her-happy in his own skin.

Not manic, not nervous, not showing off in the least.

He was just that way.

He glanced aside like an embarrassed boy as they came out under the cobalt sky. "So-let's find a little, out-of-the-way bistro and gorge on tiny plates of overpriced food."

Rebecca focused on what she could see of his face and smiled again, this time openly-she smiled a lot around Periglas. This was what she could expect: good talk from a decent man. Some of his stories were doubtless more interesting than hers.