Greg Bear - Mariposa

Scholes gave News the kind of look you might expect from a prosecuting attorney about to nail a conviction. "Hiram, did you arrange for that recommendation? Upon your own evaluation of Ms. Rose?"

"I haven't heard about this until now," Newsome said.

Rebecca had told no one other than her FBI-appointed psychiatrist and personal physician. It didn't seem to be anybody's business but hers. At the time, she had already been furloughed.

For her, Mecca had screwed up everything royally, within the agency and personally.

"I feel fine, if that's your question," Rebecca said.

Scholes shrugged. "No judgment, no onus. But I suspect that might have played a role in your being refused by so many agencies."

"It was supposed to be confidential."

Newsome shook his head with a look that Rebecca new well-dismay at the ways of this silly, wicked world.

Now Kunsler sprang the reason for all of them being here. "President Larsen has asked for you to lead a White House investigation."

"The Bureau needs to be sure that won't backfire on all of us," Scholes added.

Rebecca was taken aback. She glanced at Prouse. "To work with you?"

Prouse shook her head. "I'd be proud to have you on our team-but, no."

"The Quinn homicide," Kunsler said. "The president seems to trust you. She enjoyed working with you-the last time."

Rebecca was suddenly tired and irritated and nervous, all at once. Her ribs ached abominably, as they always did around this time of day.

"The president has requested a personal meeting," Kunsler said. "She isn't asking for anyone's approval. You're being vetted by people outside the Bureau. You extend us a courtesy by answering our questions."

"Terrific." Rebecca looked aside at News, crinkling one eye.

Scholes sighed, petulant. "It should be said, despite my concerns, that I do believe you were one of our finest assets, Ms. Rose. I'm sincerely sorry about Captain Periglas."

News cringed. Kunsler looked hard at Scholes.

"I haven't had a chance to talk to Peter," Rebecca said. "If you debriefed him-"

"You haven't heard?" Scholes asked.

Prouse looked away and said, "Everyone wanted to make sure she was physically strong."

Rebecca sucked in her breath, like a half sob or hiccup, before she could catch herself.

"He was in an elevator in the parking garage," Prouse said. "He never made it down to the convention floor. The whole structure collapsed."

"It goes a lot deeper than that," Scholes said, trying to recover lost ground. "Informants in Arabia Deserta tell us there's a connection with your operation in Mecca. We think you and Captain Periglas may have been targeted."

"Someone blew up the entire building-to kill two people?"

"Under those circumstances," Scholes said, despite a warning glance from Prouse and News, and a wide roll of Kunsler's eyes, "I would assume your time with the president is going to be brief, tightly controlled-and secret."

"They're drawing a connection with the assassination attempt?" Rebecca asked. She turned to Kunsler. "Is this legit?"

"So far, it's pure speculation," Kunsler said, but Scholes would not be deterred.

"Solid intel," he insisted. "Probably financed by the same group. If they are who we think they are, they've been kicked out of Arabia Deserta, but they have plenty of money and international connections-and they still think it's their mission to protect Mecca from infidels. President Larsen gave the orders authorizing your incursion. She would be an obvious target."

Rebecca looked out the window. There it went-not that she had ever had much hope. No normal life, ever again; no child, no man, no escape.

No waking up from the nightmare.

"When does the president want to see me?" she asked, voice barely a whisper.

"Tomorrow," Kunsler said. "You're under the executive branch from this point on. White House chief of staff is making the arrangements. One more thing… we need to download your dattoo. We think we might be able to recover the data."

Rebecca lifted her sleeve and looked down at the cracked and smeared dragon that had been the conference symbol.

"Indeed," Scholes said, though it was obvious this was the first he had heard about it.

Kunsler waved and a technician with a briefcase entered the room.

Rebecca lifted her arm as the technician unrolled a cuff. He wrapped the cuff around the dattoo. A few minutes later, he looked up with a frown. "Has anyone else accessed this? It's blank."

Rebecca looked back at him, guileless. She had already called upon a talented colleague to perform this task, but did not feel any need to reveal that fact. She was no longer an agent.

They didn't tell me about Peter until now.

"I was unconscious for several hours," she said. "It's pretty badly scuffed."

The technician packed up his equipment and left the room.

Kunsler nodded to Prouse and News-and then, with a small sound in her throat, as if clearing some phlegm, to Scholes. "My game from here, thank you," she said.

News gave her a backward glance of sympathy and warning as he followed Prouse and Scholes out of the room.

Rebecca offered the single chair. Kunsler seated herself with a heavy sigh. "I'm sitting here with a tough lady who represents everything I admire about the old Bureau… and it's my duty to tell her I can't protect her. Not that I was ever that effective in that regard… She needs to watch her ass like a hawk."

Rebecca snorted. "Third person hawk," she said.

"No kidding," Kunsler said. "The president is in the middle of the biggest mess of her administration. Her approval ratings are in the single digits. She got a bump from the assassination attempt… the public always tips a hat to a politico who's just been shot. Up to 20 percent approval. But it doesn't last. Not in times like this. The vice president's insanity is probably the least of her worries. Fourteen counties in three states are setting up free economic zones-that means they're going to garnish all federal tax revenues. That might once have been called secession.

"The whole country is hurting."

Rebecca rearranged herself on the bed and looked through the room's east-facing window at a row of brown and gray buildings. "If I report to the president, I report only to her. I can't serve two mistresses."

"Understood," Kunsler said. "I'm making your furlough permanent. You're officially out of the Bureau. The president doesn't trust anyone right now-least of all us."

Kunsler got up from the chair. "To keep lines open, we're working the White House through contacts in the attorney general's office. When you're settled in DC, I'm going to have someone I know look in on you-with the president's permission, of course. I hope we'll stay in touch. Get stronger, Rebecca. I mean it. We all think the world's a better place with you in it."

7 DAYS

Costa Mesa

The nursery was quiet this time of the afternoon. Rebecca took a straight-backed chair and set it aside from the sunlight, then settled into it with a sigh, arranging her left leg so that the foot did not hurt so much. Her lip quivered.

She wiped her eyes quickly with a handkerchief from her small black purse.

Sun cut a warm golden square on the blue and red flower carpet. The air held the faintest dodge of disinfectant and baby powder.

Throughout the morning, prospective parents auditioned for the privilege of taking home little Latin babies orphaned by the ten-year southern drought: Mexicans, Central Americans, Peruvians. From noon to three, more couples came to see if Miss Wickham (she of the upswept blaze of curly brown hair) would approve them for a fine crop of Burmese infants, or Filipinos, or Ethiopians, orphaned by war and politics.

At three, the nursery closed until after dinner, and then more couples, more interviews, more babies on parade; more babies almost than anyone could imagine, brought to the United States not because it was the richest nation on Earth, which it wasn't-not anymore, not after decades of economic waste and political stubbornness-but because it was the last major power that accepted orphans of any color, any heritage, and almost any health issue.