Greg Bear - Mariposa

The president took on a distant look, like trying to see a lighthouse through thick fog. "Something smeared on his skin, the bloggers say… could have delivered it from a couch or even the inner sleeve of his coat. A psychotropic contact drug, maybe in two or three parts-combine them and you set him off."

"Possibly." Rebecca opened to that page in the printout. "No evidence, however. And I know a lot of these investigators and analysts-they're the best."

Rebecca knew that a major reason some former agents were talking with the White House, and joining the investigation, was the whiff of payback. Vice president Quinn had stood just behind the head of the Senate task force that had recommended dismantling the FBI and moving it west.

"So I keep being told," Larsen said. "But the bomb that almost got you-nobody ever heard of that before, either. I'd like to take all the pinhead bastards who spend their time thinking up this stuff and line them up…" She formed her hand into a gun, then caught herself and relaxed her finger with a tight wriggle. "What the hell is wrong with them?"

Rebecca nodded. "You wouldn't have called me here unless you thought I had some sort of useful expertise. Other than the wit to use tweezers."

"Being shot hurts, but this hurts more. Edward was a brave man and a friend. This administration-my administration-is going to do everything it can to get beyond this and get his story off the front pages. But I want to make sure we know the whole story. If we missed something awful during the vetting process, I need to know. News tells me you're the best agent he ever worked with. I've read the reports on Mecca. As much as I can trust anyone, Rebecca, I'm going to trust you."

The sun cut through the ripple glass, lovely shades on the room's custom red and gray and beige carpet.

They sat for a few seconds, like two cats across a room.

"I'll need everything, Madam President."

"Thank you," Larsen said in some relief, but under her breath.

"I'd like to start with the internal White House research-the VP vetting papers-then the DOJ and FBI reports and whatever the beltway sleuths dug up for your election team."

"They're setting up a secure room in the Eisenhower building, an executive assistant, however many gofers you want-plus a security detail. White House counsel will escort the drives and files."

"I want security under my control."

"They've heard you might be a special target," Larsen said. "The Saudi exiles."

"Doesn't make sense. I was a much easier target before I went to COPES," Rebecca said. "I'll need to talk to Quinn's staff-and his daughter."

"The children have their own attorney, of course. She might not let that happen."

"Most important, I need to talk to Quinn."

"Difficult. No one is allowed to see him now except DOJ people and his attorney. Separation of powers is really mucking things up."

"I need to hear him answer my questions in person, Madam President."

"We'll do our best. Time's short, Rebecca. We're turning on a spit. We have less than a week before we cook through."

FBI Academy

Quantico, Virginia

"I don't like it down here," Alicia Kunsler said. William walked beside her down the long hallway that had once led to the old forensic training lab. The lights had been removed from every other fixture, creating a faster, rhythmic shadow vs. brightness as Kunsler increased her pace. "This is where I saw my first dead crime victim. They used to do that-until it became politically incorrect to make agent trainees puke."

"I didn't know."

"Nobody will admit to it. One particular instructor seemed to really enjoy it-a total hard ass. Best instructor I ever had. He's no longer with us. He'd bring in unclaimed corpses-indigents, drug smugglers, prostitutes. They'd lay out on a steel autopsy table, meat under a sheet-of course they'd been autopsied and cleaned up a little-and the instructor would pull back the sheet and give the agent trainees the person's stats, where he or she or he/she was found, the circumstances of death, and the one central truth of the entire day-that the killer or killers would never be identified or prosecuted. The resources did not exist. Back then, Mexico was having a pretty fierce drug war-worse than now, even. Thousands were being killed. Mules and dealers in the U.S. were being taken down.

"Our special corpse had been photographed crossing the border into El Paso in the company of a trucker who claimed she was his daughter. She was sixteen, a U.S. citizen-born in Los Angeles-and so on. The details don't matter."

"They're always interesting," William said.

"Do you dream of crime scenes, Agent Griffin?"

"Of course."

"Last night?"

"Yeah. I can never get the evidence to stay in one place, or collect it fast enough-it evaporates or someone walks out with it and I can't stop them. It never comes together, even if the clues are laid out like a board game. They keep skittering away. I wake up feeling groggy and stupid."

Kunsler smiled and pointed. "Left up ahead, through the double glass doors."

"What about the girl?"

"The trucker had beaten her to death, snipped off her fingers with garden shears, and cut off her head with a hacksaw. He was never seen again. Maybe he's down in the bone desert south of Juarez somewhere-the least he deserved."

"How'd you identify her?"

"Tattoo on her left shoulder. Eagle holding a snake." She snapped her fingers and looked relieved. "That's the connection. It's been bothering me. El Paso and snakes."

They passed left through the doors and found three men in blue windbreakers and khaki pants standing in front of a steel autopsy table, blocking most of the view.

Kunsler introduced them quickly. "Agent William Griffin, this is Johnny Walker."

The man on the left smiled and held out his hand. He had a high narrow brow, a long jaw, a trim young head of brown hair.

"The rest will please introduce themselves," Kunsler said. "I'm not a drinking woman. I get you confused."

"I am Wild Turkey," said the second man, shorter, balding, plumper. "My friends call me Turk."

The third-slight and skinny, long-nosed, with thick glasses, not spex-stepped up to shake hands.

"I am usually Captain Morgan. But today, you can call me Q."

William caught a glimpse of something small and tan, coiled in the middle of the steel table like a rope or a whip. "Star Trek Q, or Bond Q?" he asked.

The others chuckled.

"Take your choice," Q said. "What we do is weirdly godlike."

"These gentlemen do not wish to be remembered," Kunsler said. "Their services are on loan, along with their equipment. Mr. Q, proceed."

William knew better than to blurt out some smart-ass guess as to where the three were from. Spider/Argus had over the years partnered regularly with DARPA-the Defense Advance Research Projects Agency. And DARPA had funded quite a few projects involving robotics.

"We assume you both signed our NDA," Q said.

Kunsler passed them the sealed envelope.

The men parted like a human curtain.

The coil on the table appeared to be a snake-tan and brown with black specks and a spade-shaped head. It did not look alive and it did not look dead.

"This is not a toy," Q said. "It's not exactly top secret, but close. We're still working on a clever acronym. Agent Griffin, you'll take away our lovely sidewinder and three of its brothers in a custom-made suitcase. Use as instructed-they'll be preprogrammed and ready to go. We would like them back. They're rare and they cost about a million dollars apiece."

Q bent to remove the black plastic case from under the table. He opened the case and took out a small cardboard box, from which he withdrew a plastic tube about half an inch wide and two inches long, with a screw top. The tube had a small reservoir at one end.