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headquarters.
    "The place looks different than last time I was here . . ." Beamon said, in yet another attempt to strike up a conversation with their guide. He had tried the weather, local attractions, current events, and now decor--all to no avail. Other than the stern look he'd received when he'd started to hum, she didn't seem to want to acknowledge that they were there.
    The woman's momentum began to falter and she finally stopped, pointing to the only door in a dead-end hallway to their right. "If you could have a seat in there, someone will be with you as soon as possible."
    "Is there a Coke machine or something around here?", Beamon asked.
    "No."
    "Thank you," Laura said, pushing him forward. "We'll be fine."
    The door closed behind them and they found themselves alone in a little box of a room furnished only with a long table and ten chairs. Another damned conference room. Beamon resisted the urge to test the doorknob to see if they were trapped.
    "So where's Dave?" Beamon said, referring to Laura's boss.
    "He has a lot going on."
    Beamon fell into a chair and put his feet up on the one next to it. "Still can't stand to be in the same room with me?"
    "It was part of the deal," she admitted. "If you came, he didn't. He's still pretty angry with you, Mark. But he appreciates you helping us."
    Beamon nodded silently. His friend at the White House had called the CIA director at home and parroted Laura's concern that his organization was withholding information that might be useful in the FBI's investigation. Not surprisingly, this meeting got scheduled in a hurry.
    "So how are things going?" Beamon said through a yawn. The simple act of sleeping through the night was getting harder and harder for him.
    "Well, I wouldn't want to bore you any more than you already are," she snapped.
    Beamon stared at her for a moment. The stress was already starting to show. He knew it was impossible, but it seemed that new lines were etching themselves into her face almost hourly.
    "The captain's chair isn't that comfortable, is it?"
    Her expression softened a little and she actually seemed to blush. "Things aren't going that well. We know exactly where the photograph was taken and we've been able to pinpoint the time based on the weather. There's not a town within fifty miles and no one we can find saw anything--no Middle Eastern-looking men, no trucks, no usable tire tracks or footprints. We're watching all the roads out of there and looking into the sale and rentals of trucks big enough to carry that thing, but I'm not hopeful. We're covering all the bases on possible radical groups, right down to the animal-rights people. In the end, though, it's going to be al-Qaeda. I'm ninety percent certain.. . ."
    "Getting anywhere on the audio?"
    "We've got a decent voiceprint off it and we're running it against the tips we're getting and any possible suspects. Nothing."
    He really didn't envy her this one. The media was doing a hell of a job convincing America that missiles were goin g to start falling from the sky like rain and that many of them would have nuclear and biological payloads. If alQaeda managed to get a shot off, it didn't take a whole lot of imagination to figure out who was going to take the blame for letting it happen.
    "How's Brian doing with all this?"
    Laura's three-year marriage to a Georgetown University geology professor--and generally good guy--was starting to falter.
    That blush again. "This isn't what we needed right now. It's the hours: We never see each other anymore. He said we might as well not even be married. He actually said that." She averted her eyes toward the ceiling. "And he's right. I'd actually started doing a little better--being more careful with my time, but now this . . ."
    The door opened and she fell silent. Beamon didn't recognize the man who entered and dropped his laptop and files a little too hard on the table. He was actually kind of an impressive figure. Well over six feet tall with the thick