Greg Bear - Mariposa

"Not much in the way of visible damage," Scholes said, touching his own left cheek.

Rebecca started to lift a hand, then stopped herself. "They're removing the specks this afternoon," she said. "The burn marks should fade."

"Can't imagine," Scholes said. "I'd need counseling, at the very least."

Rebecca swallowed and looked plaintively at News. His hound-jowled expression told him he could not save her.

"News has been kind enough to fly in from Virginia for this meeting," Kunsler said.

"At Deputy Director Kunsler's request," Scholes added as if that was important.

"This is a meeting?" Rebecca asked, little-girl innocent. She crutched past them and sat on the bed, propping her braced and bandaged leg on a plastic stool. "It's great to see News again, but I've been debriefed half a dozen times-at least four times by your own people, Agent Prouse. I'm squeezed dry."

"This time, I'm here to give you information," Prouse said. "Let's start with the bombs." She laid her slate on the bed. "We've got an early report. What took the roof off the Los Angeles Convention Center was a device made of sugar, nitrogen, and a load of phosphate."

"Coke syrup?" Rebecca asked.

"With something new mixed in," Prouse said. "It's called a synthobe. A small, minimum genome synthetic microbe tailored to carry out specific chemical reactions. Used for industrial applications, mostly. Not really alive-can't reproduce. The synthobe kills itself, or deactivates, after getting the job done."

Rebecca felt an angry flush creep up her face. The burned patch on her jaw and cheek started to throb. "Some job," she said.

"Turns out twenty-eight of the canisters brought in for the convention by the catering company were inoculated with synthobes. The sealed canisters compounded the effect. Pressurized with nitrogen. The synthobes converted nitrogen, sugar, a trace of phosphate, and certain additives into a highly explosive gel. Security didn't detect any of this because this kind of bomb doesn't contain an explosive until all the ingredients are combined.

"The gel is heavier than water and it sinks to the bottom of the canister. It rises in temperature just before the explosion. Becomes as sensitive as old nitro. When it goes off, it instantly superheats the water to steam and compounds the force.

"We don't have a chain of possession established, but we're working on it," Prouse finished.

Rebecca looked out the window. "Any idea who's that clever?"

"Half a dozen going concerns, most of them in Belarus or North Korea," Prouse said. "A few more in Russia. One, very likely, in Haiti or the Dominican Republic."

Scholes looked concerned, as he would be expected to.

News and Kunsler were stone-faced.

Scholes said, "You mentioned before the blast, a self-proclaimed former agent met you outside the exhibition hall, and that he helped rescue you after."

"Ginger-haired fellow," Newsome said. He was obviously here as her advocate. That meant she was either in trouble or something strange was in the wind. "Dumpy, disheveled. You didn't think he looked FBI."

"Bureau," Scholes corrected.

"I only remember a little," Rebecca said, massaging her upper calf. "What about him?"

"You said he called himself Trace. Nathaniel Trace. There's never been an agent with that name," Scholes said. "And he wasn't registered at the convention. He must have been using someone else's badge."

News was getting irritated. "This is all well away from our mission."

"You were at COPES about to give a presentation, when the bombs went off," Prouse said. "You had clearance from the Bureau."

"Yes."

"From Deputy Director Kunsler?"

"From the former director, actually-before he resigned," Rebecca said.

"What's your current status, Ms. Rose?" Scholes asked.

"She's on indefinite furlough," Kunsler said. "Rebecca checked into the Los Angeles office before attending COPES and cleared her speech with your people. You have that on record, I'm sure."

"You've been out of action for eleven months," Scholes said. "What was your speech about, Ms. Rose?"

"Surveillance technologies."

Scholes took Prouse's notes and looked them over with pursed lips, then passed the slate to Kunsler. Rebecca saw she was being tag-teamed, almost-but not quite-as if she were a suspect.

"You met up with Captain Peter Periglas the night before. Drinks and dinner?" Scholes asked.

"We met up," Rebecca said.

"And he accompanied you to your room."

Rebecca did not blink. "He did," she said.

"You were involved in the clandestine Mecca operation. Both of you."

"I can only-"

Scholes's dark eyes flashed. "I am here to background an executive request. Did you and Periglas publicly discuss your work in Mecca?"

"Just by allusion," Rebecca said.

"What's that mean?" Scholes asked.

"We alluded to it indirectly. Peter-Captain Periglas-said that maybe we shouldn't be seen together." Rebecca bit the inside of her cheek. The "executive request" remark puzzled her. They were saving something for last.

Kunsler might be sympathetic, but Rebecca had never felt comfortable with FBI management-except News. "Did Captain Periglas say he had been approached by anyone regarding Mecca?" Kunsler asked.

"No."

"Why was he at COPES?"

"Representing a security consulting firm with navy contracts."

"Building better brigs?" Scholes said.

"Goddammit," News said. "Agent Rose has been through hell."

Scholes glared. "Everybody wants to protect everybody else. I'm here to protect the bureau."

"I appreciate that," Kunsler said. "But the executive request went through Bureau East. We're not here to grill Agent Rose about her personal contacts. In light of-"

Scholes held up his hand. "Agent Rose, you're on high-level furlough, but nobody told Bureau West until last week, and I've yet to figure out what all that means."

"Extended leave without pay, with the option to return to active duty," Newsome said.

Kunsler held up her own hand and waggled her fingers until Scholes looked her way. "Agent Rose is looking at early retirement. She has interviewed with other government agencies as well as private security firms."

"That seems unusual," Scholes said.

"Half the FBI has been furloughed or let go," News said. "Something of a stampede."

"Agent Rose, what about your contacts in the private sector? Tell us about the last six months."

"I've talked with half a dozen companies that offer executive protection, forensic accounting-art investigation for rich collectors," Rebecca said. "I also interviewed for permanent positions with Diplomatic Security, EPA, Border Security, IRS. They turned me down."

"And who's most likely to utilize your expertise, do you think?"

"Blue Eyes Executive Services."

"Sounds like a call girl ring," Scholes said.

Newsome's cheeks pinked, but Rebecca ignored that. "Private investigations," she said. "Courtroom rehearsal and prep for law enforcement. Art forgery investigations as a sideline."

Stan had survived-barely. He was down the hall, fresh out of intensive care and looking like a Borg nightmare-but all in white, not black.

"They have any advantages over other outfits?" Kunsler asked.

"Keeps me local."

"You suffered from PTSD-Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Was that behind your rejection by the other agencies?"

The change of atmosphere was electric-and so sudden that Rebecca felt another barb of apprehension.

"Not your concern, Ruben," Kunsler said.

"It seems particularly relevant to the executive request," Scholes said.

"We're aware of it," Kunsler said. "It isn't relevant to Bureau East."

"Upon diagnosis, I volunteered for treatment," Rebecca said. "A clinic came recommended by folks at the marine base in Quantico."