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The President looked appalled.

‘Based on what we now know, we have determined that Special Agent Winter impregnated the young wife of the Patriarch in Washington state. And we have now matched Winter to multiple samples of DNA taken from the residence of the Amerithrax suspect. We have been led a merry chase,’ Chao concluded. ‘But I believe we have finally found our man.’

Rebecca picked up the thread. ‘Based on information from BuDark, we know that Lawrence Winter supplied bioterror weapons to a group of Muslims in Israel. He worked through an intermediary named Ibrahim Al-Hitti, an Egyptian with connections to Hamas, Hezbollah, Al Aqsa Martyrs Brigade, and more. We think Winter convinced Al-Hitti that he could supply anthrax modified to kill only Jews. Apparently, Al-Hitti tested a small amount of this anthrax on Jews in Iraq. Whatever Amerithrax was making in California was shipped to Washington state to be packed into fireworks shells, which were then flown to Gaza City by private jet and driven into Jerusalem. The shells were intercepted by Israeli police. The Israelis have tested them—and surprisingly, these shells
contain not anthrax, but yeast. So far, we’ve only found a tiny supply of anthrax left over in California—but lots of yeast. Three months ago, someone launched twenty similar shells over Silesia, Ohio. As well, these shells apparently contained nothing but brewer’s yeast.’

‘Silesia—loss of long-term memory,’ Schein said.

Rebecca nodded. ‘There may have been a similar plot to attack Rome, which we foiled when we disrupted the factory in Washington state.’

The President’s expression had transformed to stunned wonder.

‘We have ten minutes,’ Schein said, tapping her watch.

Rebecca touched Jane Rowland’s shoulder.

Ghastly pale, Jane smoothed her hands on her knees and referred to her notes. ‘Madam President, I track dating and lonely hearts sites on the Web,’ she began, ‘looking for descriptions of possible criminal activity. We resort to this expedient because so much real criminal communication is unbreakably encrypted. We’re looking for an entry point, a chink in the encrypted data.’

‘Let’s move quickly, Agent Rowland,’ Hiram said.

‘I found several lovelog chat entries, written by the wife of an extremist Jewish settler living in Kiryat Shimona. She describes having sexual relations with a tall American with one blue eye and one green eye. She says the American is working with her husband on something important for the future of the Jews. She claims her American lover has…uh, had experienced an extreme circumcision, all the foreskin removed down to the shaft…“a skinned eel”, as she describes it, “Bedouin-style”. We have OPM files showing that before he joined the FBI, Lawrence Winter gave himself just such a circumcision, to avoid detection when working undercover in Muslim countries.’

‘Jesus Christ,’ the President exploded. ‘How in hell does a Jewish housewife know what a Bedouin’s cock looks like?’

Jane was stricken silent.

Outside, rain from the wet night dripped down a gutter.

President Larsen rose and swirled an accusing finger around the room. ‘This is more than a nightmare—it’s a goddamned
farce.
An AWOL FBI agent gallivants around the world, recruits terrorists, seduces their wives, hell—screws every bitch he can get his hands on—’

‘Madam President,’ Schein cautioned. Larsen was furious and having none of it.

‘—Not to mention official privacy violations beyond anything even I could have imagined, at least one murder, and now a clandestine connection between our own beloved FBI and the Amerithrax killer.’ The President took a glass of ice water from her lead Secret Service agent, drank half, then rolled it across her forehead. ‘Where is this bastard now? And what in God’s name is he up to?’

Another pause.

‘Am I next?’ asked the sepulchral Dr. Wheatstone, the yeast expert. ‘I may have an answer to your second question.’

Lawrence.

Larry.

Special Agent Lawrence Winter.

His memory was definitely not as sharp as it had once been. His energy was also leaking away day by day, and he awoke each morning soaked in a creeping hopelessness that was hard to shake. So many places, so many names…

Winter looked through the drawn-back curtains of the hotel room window, across the Al Masjid Haram—the huge, three-story Grand Mosque—at the desert dawn, pallid blue and yellow.

Out on the plain of Mina, five kilometers from the hotel, late preparations for the Hajj were still being made. Fireproof tents were being erected by the tens of thousands, barely in time for the hordes arriving by bus. It was chaos in the broad tent city.

Yigal and Yitzhak entered the room bearing hot coffee in familiar green and white cups. ‘Wake up, sleepyheads,’ they called out. When they were in the suite they donned
kipot
s embroidered with Hebrew and often spoke Hebrew, in defiance of his orders and of common sense. What if they were heard? Nobody spoke Hebrew in Mecca. They had smuggled the
kipot
s in their kits like headstrong kids on a school outing. Months ago, he would have exacted swift discipline. Now, he could barely muster irritation.

Yigal grinned as he handed Winter his coffee. ‘Have you
seen? They are gathering like sardines. There must be a half million already. The war means nothing to them, poor bastards.’ He began a little dance. ‘Seventy-two pure and shapely houris for every martyr! Wouldn’t you like to wholesale blackeyed virgins? We could make a pile of shekels.’

Baruch and Gershon came back to the room, put on their
kipot
s, and squatted beside him. ‘I was out for four o’clock prayer,’ Gershon said. ‘The wind is blowing from the west at four to seven knots. I had a long talk with a fine, whitehaired gentleman from Ethiopia, full of aches and pains. We spoke of the hardships and glory of those who die on Hajj. He was most interested to hear of what is happening in Palestine. He professed that the world would be much improved if all the Jews were lined up and burned alive.’

‘He’ll surely go straight to heaven and immediately screw all his virgins,’ Yigal said.

‘Tomorrow there will be a million,’ Gershon said. He saw that Winter had not finished his cup. ‘What’s wrong with the coffee, Mr. Brown? It is fresh from Starbucks downstairs. There is a Kentucky Fried Chicken, even a McDonald’s, did you see them?’

Yigal jumped up. ‘I’ll check the trucks. David and Gershon stood guard last but they aren’t mechanically minded, so who knows what could be stolen? They wouldn’t miss an axle or two.’

Gershon scoffed. The trucks had been parked in a secured garage not far from the Grand Mosque.

‘Three days,’ Winter warned as they all removed their
kipot
s. ‘When the pilgrims return to Mina. When they start stoning the devil. Not before.’

‘Of course,’ Menachem said happily. ‘Like sardines. Like fucking shoals of sweet herring.’

William rolled his suitcase from the plane, following a young woman dressed in new Bureau trainee casuals—golf shirt, cargo pants and cap, duffel bag—decorated with FBI logos, shooting badges, pins and buttons. She was five-six, in her mid-twenties, with short-cut brown hair and a series of stud holes around her ear but no studs, fingernails painted pink but chipped at the edges, brown eyes bright despite the time—it was eleven p.m. He felt like a wet sock but she was full of energy, arriving for the next class at the Q—the promise of a dream career.

Cop Valhalla.

He had read and re-read Dr. Wheatstone’s reports on the plane from Ohio. The last few pages had hit him hard.

The PrPSc prion genes inserted into this transgenic laboratory yeast are easily transferred to other yeast. What is more interesting, the genes have acquired adaptive modifications within the yeast, such that they can also be exchanged with naturally occurring varieties of fungus. Such fungi are ubiquitous in our environment.

Once the modified yeast are released into the wild, there may be no way to cap the genie’s bottle. These transformably infectious proteins could become widespread in our environment. The entire world could be exposed to a memory-destroying, brain-wasting sickness as insidious as bovine spongiform encephalopathy—Mad Cow disease.

Rebecca stood by the baggage carousel. William waved a
greeting. ‘Thanks for coming.’ He tapped the handle of his rolling suitcase. ‘This is all I’m carrying.’

Rebecca surreptitiously stuck out her finger in the direction of the trainee. ‘Isn’t she lovely?’

‘Cute,’ William admitted.

The trainee quickly pulled her luggage from the carousel to the doors.

‘Was I ever that fresh, that
new
?’ Rebecca asked.

William buttoned his coat. ‘In my eyes, Agent Rose, you sparkle with morning dew.’

Rebecca blinked. ‘Let’s move,’ she said. ‘We’re going where she’s going, but we’re not waiting for the bus.’

‘Why Quantico?’ William asked.

‘We have an appointment with Pete Farrow.’

‘Damn,’ William said.

‘You got out of Ohio just in time, I hear,’ Rebecca said as she drove them down 95 through pouring rain.

William nodded. ‘They’re setting up a Joint Operations Center. EPA is working the hospitals. FEMA brought in their trucks yesterday. Full-blast terror alert. Naturally, they’ve clamped a lid on everything.’

‘Looky what you started,’ Rebecca said.

‘How did it go with the President?’ William asked.

‘Awful,’ Rebecca said with a grimace. ‘Nobody in the White House is in any mood to be magnanimous. They’re still finding booby traps.’

‘What?’

‘Bugs in the paint, even in the situation room. Can you blame them for being paranoid?’

That left them in silence for a few minutes.

‘How did you find Wheatstone?’ Rebecca asked.

‘I did a search,’ William said. ‘Plugged in the words
memory, yeast,
and
dementia
. That brought me to Wheatstone’s university Web site. I called—and he told me about the transgenic
experiments, then, with a little prodding, about two accidental contaminations, a lab break-in six years ago, and the burgled yeast. He said he had reported all that to Homeland Security and the CDC, as required. Then I tracked down the CDC records. Did our good doctor impress the President?’

‘Threat Level Ex-Lax,’ Rebecca said. ‘They’re still not telling me everything they know, William—not yet. What the fuck happened to this country?’

‘We got scared,’ William said.

‘Scared stupid?’ Rebecca’s tone was pure acid.

‘Shall I drive?’ William asked.

‘I’m
fine,
’ Rebecca said, her knuckles white on the wheel.

‘Congratulations, by the way,’ William said after another pause.

‘Botnik collared Amerithrax,’ Rebecca said. ‘Just as well. I’d have shot the bastard.’ She looked at the highway through underslung eyes. ‘Did you meet any of the people in Silesia?’

‘I visited the hospital,’ William said.

‘What are they like?’

‘Like my father. Pleasant. Forgetful. Nothing much left from before a year or two ago. They still have language, habits, skills…personality. Just no memory of how they got them. There might be tens of thousands affected already. It got into a bakery.’

Rebecca’s eyelids fluttered and her lips turned down. Quietly, ‘A bakery?’

‘They shut it down and sealed it off.’

‘So it’s too late, whatever we do?’

‘Wheatstone thinks one release won’t tip the balance. But two or three, around the world…That would be bad.’

Rebecca stopped at the red line twenty feet from the guard house and waited for the first stage security inspection. ‘Are we infected?’ she asked.

‘I hope not,’ William said. ‘It was raining at the farm when we arrived.’

The car’s radio frequency ID tag met the first guard’s approval and the gate lifted. They drove slowly past the concrete gatehouse, then she pulled off to the side and parked and they both got out while the car was examined with undercarriage mirrors, high frequency sonic imagers. One guard checked their stress levels with pong sniffers. ‘Big meeting today?’ he asked with a wry grin.

The young Marine at the gate dropped the concrete and steel barriers across the drive. ‘Welcome to the FBI Academy,’ she said.

Pete Farrow walked ahead on Ness Avenue, huge shoulders straining at his knit shirt, loafers silent on the pavement, tapping his folded umbrella. William and Rebecca followed. The rain had stopped at one in the morning and the streets of Hogantown were shiny and empty. Somewhere east, a Hostage Rescue Team helicopter was practicing touch-and-go, turbines alternately whining and roaring, but mostly the Academy was asleep. There was an early morning wakeup.

‘We’ll talk in the shoot house,’ Farrow called back, ‘It’s safe. I swept it myself.’

William exchanged a glance with Rebecca as they turned into a shallow alleyway. Farrow unlocked the steel door to the command center and pointed them up the long flight of steps to the overlook’s bay window. Rebecca went first.

‘Still have buck fever?’ Farrow asked William.

William smiled.

‘All my tricks revealed—shoot house will never play the same.’ Farrow unlocked the door at the top of the steps and they entered a cool, dark silence.

‘I don’t think you’ve met Jacob Levine,’ Farrow said as a shadow swung around in a chair before the bay window. Farrow switched on the overhead light. Levine was wearing a purple fleece vest and a yarmulke. His face was puffy and stiff. ‘He knew Griff pretty well,’ Farrow said.

‘Rebecca and I have met,’ Levine said. ‘Sorry about your father, Agent Griffin.’ They shook hands. Levine offered his
seat to Farrow, who took it as his due. The rest of the seats in the command overlook were folding chairs. The floor was plywood. Exercise plans on butcher paper had been pasted along the side walls, Xs and Ys scattered around the floor plan as if in preparation for a game of football. Everything smelled of warm electronics with a cold tang of concrete powder from the slug-absorbing walls below.

Farrow sat back in the command chair and folded his hands behind his head. ‘Winter was class of ’97. I tried to dig up his file.’ He tapped a small folder filled with multicolored sheets of paper. ‘This is all I got. Someone’s swept the records—I don’t need to guess why. Jacob worked with Winter years later when he was assigned undercover to track bigots in Georgia, and later on, eco-terrorists in Oregon and Washington state.’

‘He was a sharp guy,’ Levine said. ‘Spoke four or five languages. He had worked with defense contractors in Iraq and Egypt before joining the FBI. Real personable. You could trust him. Handsome, quick, strong.’

‘A couple of weeks after 10-4, Lawrence Winter came to see me again,’ Farrow said. ‘We had dinner at Pirelli’s in town. He filled me in about a few of his activities in the northwest. He was pretty down. Poor bastard had lost most of his family.’

‘So we’ve heard,’ Rebecca said.

‘I told him he should take some leave—even go on disability. Winter said he had other plans. He told me that four years after 9-11 he had volunteered to work on a secret project.’

‘What kind of project?’ William asked.

Farrow looked aside and waved his hand at Levine.

‘Some of this is rumor and surmise,’ Levine said. ‘Starting eight years ago, Southern Poverty Law Center lost track of some pretty major players in the old bigot ballgame. They just vanished. Nobody knew where they went. I had a lunch
with three Bureau of Domestic Intelligence types and they were licking canary feathers off their chops, so I asked a friend of a friend who knew someone. Nothing is completely secure in the Beltway. Back then, apparently, the Attorney General had decided that what was sauce for the goose was sauce for the gander and it was time to exercise a little preemptive caution against lily-white Americans. He didn’t want another Murrow Federal Building—it would take the focus off foreign terror. Some were saying that even with the National Security Service, the FBI wasn’t willing to get its hands dirty enough to protect America. So they created BDI—the Bureau of Domestic Intelligence. The AG then instituted a special role for his new agency—they would work collections.’

Farrow said, ‘Starting six or seven years ago, BDI came to Quantico and started interviewing agents. Word came down from the AG—cooperate or get your butts kicked. I voiced strong objections, so I was taken out of the loop. A couple of years after that, I started hearing rumors about disappearances. I didn’t know what to believe.

‘At headquarters, some senior executives were being replaced or reassigned—you remember—I presume because they didn’t cooperate with the administration and BDI. Later, it became clear that an unknown number of our agents had become involved in pre-emptive arrests. You never heard?’

‘I’m little people,’ Rebecca said. Her cheeks were pink. ‘So you just sat on your thumbs?’

‘Yes and no,’ Farrow said, shifting his shoulders. ‘Some senior agents—me among them—just happened to make a special visit to the Southern Poverty Law Center. I worked with Jacob to cross-reference the disappeared. In the interests of balanced government, you understand—these were all major assholes and otherwise I say good riddance. But there were at least two hundred of them, maybe a lot more.
And there wasn’t a damned thing we could do. Whenever we went to the top, we were shot down. Real eyes of steel. I should have asked more questions, but it just wasn’t the right climate.’

‘We all turned our heads,’ Levine said. ‘They were rounding up the Jew-haters and the KKK. It was like a dream. They just vanished. Sometimes, BDI even arranged for a plausible crime scene to explain why they disappeared.’

‘Then Winter shows up to talk, and he’s obviously a broken man,’ Farrow said. ‘I tell myself, maybe here’s a way in. Maybe he’s what I need to keep the FBI from sliding deeper into this pile of manure.’ Farrow held up a digital recorder. ‘It was about here that I pressed the on-button.’

Winter’s voice came out of the tiny speaker with remarkable clarity, soft and regular and certainly lacking in shrillness or sarcasm.

‘…
What I heard from everybody we dealt with sounded pretty much the same to me. KKK and Aryan Nations guys spoke of their hatred for Jews and Catholics and blacks. Jewish extremists talked about killing Muslims. Muslims spoke of how much they loathed Jews and Christians. The religious wars never ended, Pete. We’ve been fighting for thousands of years. We’re still fighting, still trying to drag everyone in. It’s a sickness. And things are different now. You can’t believe what I’ve seen, Pete. Some smart little fanatic with a grudge can unleash something that will kill us all.
’

Farrow paused the recorder. ‘“Smart little fanatic.” That makes me wonder if Winter had already tracked down Tommy Juarez, and if so, why he wasn’t turning him in.’ Farrow switched the recorder back on.

‘
Back in the fifties, it became obvious that nations with nuclear weapons could wipe life off the face of the Earth. Now, it could be five or ten teenagers in a high school biology lab…Or one driven monster. And who’s going to set them off? The big boys build their political careers on suspicion and fear and hatred…But where the rubber hits the road, it always comes down to the crazy little runts
and the monsters—you know that, Pete. We have the profiles memorized. The big boys rant against the evils of government for years and then act all shocked when McVeigh and Nichols blow up a federal building. We squeeze the Middle East, and the monsters blow themselves up and squeeze back. But what if the runts and monsters get hold of things worse than fertilizer bombs—worse than
atom
bombs? Who’s going to be responsible?
’

The recorder beeped and shut off. ‘The last of my memory card was used up,’ Farrow said. ‘But I remember where the conversation went. Winter had volunteered to work with a clandestine BDI team. He told them he was uniquely qualified to do field work—meaning eliminations, I suppose—because of the way he was born.’

‘Chimeric,’ Rebecca said.

William felt utterly lost.
Kidnappings. Murders. Cold cases.

Farrow nodded. ‘Genetically stealthy. That was the phrase he used. Eventually, we got around to talking about 10-4. That’s when he fell apart. He actually started to cry. I was ashamed for him.’

‘Tough guy, Pete,’ Rebecca said.

‘Yeah, well, Winter said just rounding up the monsters and even killing them wasn’t enough. There would always be more—an endless supply. He mentioned a plan he was working on. Jujitsu, he called it. Using the money behind hate to destroy hate.’

‘Why didn’t you turn him in?’ Rebecca said.

‘I did,’ Farrow said, watching her closely. ‘I handed it up to Hiram Newsome, along with a copy of this recording. News was the only one I thought I could trust.’

Rebecca looked between Levine and Farrow. Levine would not meet her gaze. ‘When?’

‘That would be what, three years ago. The wave was cresting. The congressional elections were going the wrong way. BDI was scrambling for cover.’

Rebecca stood. Her chair scraped. ‘You’re a liar.’

Farrow rose and went chest to chin with her. ‘News had it three years ago,’ he said.

‘That’s your story and you’re sticking to it,’ Rebecca said.

‘Screw you, little miss.’

Rebecca backed off a few inches and cocked her head to one side.

William took Rebecca’s arm and held on as she tried to shrug lose. ‘We’re going,’ he told her.

‘Right. Let’s climb out of this cesspool,’ Rebecca said.

‘Take your puppy with you,’ Farrow said. ‘Ask News how it happened. I’ve got the paper trail. I made duplicates.’ His face was red and even his blond-furred forearms were the color of Bing cherries. ‘Watch out for her, Griffin,’ he said, his tone ice and mud. ‘Think about your career. She and Hiram Newsome could get you fried.’

‘Wait a minute,’ Rebecca said, and shrugged in just such a way that William let go. She stared straight up at Farrow. ‘You seem to know everything. Tell me about BuDark—just for old time’s sake.’

Farrow pulled back, ashamed that he had lost his cool. He brushed his hand through his hair. ‘Fuck it. I’ll tell you what little I know. BuDark is presidential black ops, black budget. Larsen put it into play. They’re out to bring us down by gathering international evidence to prosecute BDI, FBI, anyone who opposes the liberals. It’s payback time. BuDark is anti-FBI.’

‘Pete’s dirty,’ Rebecca said as they walked down the long hall filled with art prints of nature serene.

‘He’s the straightest agent I ever met,’ William said coolly. ‘Present company excepted.’

‘Hiram Newsome is the straightest agent
I’ve
ever met.’

‘What reason does Farrow have to lie? He’s still confessing to knowing dangerous stuff.’ William swung his clenched fists in a half-circle and hammered the railing. Rebecca
stepped back in surprise. The study lounge was empty. ‘If any of this is true, what the hell can we do—by ourselves?’

‘Nothing,’ Rebecca said. ‘We need to reach out and ask questions. But we need to be extremely careful. Some people would kill to keep this big an albatross off their necks.’

‘Back to Newsome?’ William asked.

‘Not yet. We need to poke through the cracks in the bricks. Outside confirmation. I know just the guy.’

‘The one who pissed you off,’ William said. ‘What was his name—Grange, from DS. You thought he might be BuDark.’

Rebecca looked at William, her eyes both sad and bright. ‘Simpatico,’ she said.

They walked past security and through the swinging glass doors to the car. William drove and Rebecca did not object. As they approached the inner gate, they saw several lines of black SUVs and Crown Victorias arranged in zig-zag patterns, marked off with orange traffic cones and blocking the gatehouses and the road beyond.

‘Uh-oh,’ Rebecca said.

William slowed to a stop, then rolled down his window as a man with short-cropped hair and a linebacker’s build approached. He wore a dark blue suit and suspiciously thick sunglasses.

‘Secret Service,’ he announced, leaning to peer into the open window. His gaze wavered minutely back and forth; he was comparing their faces to ID photos popping up on the inside of his lenses.

William and Rebecca kept a tense silence.

‘We have a match,’ the agent said. Two other agents in dark suits approached the other side. ‘William Griffin, Rebecca Rose, step out of the car and keep your hands in plain sight.’

‘What’s going on?’ William asked.

‘Are you carrying weapons? Irritants? Are you on a grid?’

William and Rebecca answered yes and no and again no, slowly exited the car, and held up their arms. The agents
kicked their legs apart and pushed them up against the hood and trunk, bending them over until their cheeks were pressed hard on the painted metal. Their weapons were taken and deactivated. There were no niceties—the agent frisking Rebecca was male. She was cuffed and led away to one car and William to another. She gave him a backward glance, lips tight, dimples etched deep.

Through a long, long evening and into the early morning, they both did exactly as they were told.