"No, I don't think so." As Atkins nodded and turned to go, Eileen said, "Wait. There is something."

"Sure," Atkins said. "What?" There was no hesitation, no furtive guilt or telltale dampness around the forehead or upper lip. If this plain, st.u.r.dy man was a murderer, he was hiding it very well.

"Why is a clearance so hard to keep? Art just mentioned it to me a few minutes ago, and you told me yesterday if I arrested someone they'd lose their clearance."

"Jeff Blaine told me you were in the military," Atkins said. "Didn't you have to worry about them there?"

"Not really," Eileen said wryly. "You really had to screw up big time to lose your clearance in the Air Force. Drugs, conviction. Arrest wouldn't do it, or every Sat.u.r.day night a dozen airmen would lose their clearances."

"Not in the civilian world," Atkins said. He put his hands in his pockets and leaned a big shoulder against the door frame. "If you get too deep into debt, you're out. They run a credit-card check yearly."

"Who does?"

"The DIA. Defense Intelligence Agency. They do civilian clearances. If you have too much drinking, any drugs, any arrests, any big financial problems, you're out. Still, though, we have those spies like the Walker Ring, or Aldrich Ames. They do a lot of damage, selling secrets."

"I know they do," Eileen said. The hatred against spies ran deep in any pilot or soldier. Eileen knew if she'd had to fight in her plane she'd be going up against technology that was stolen from her own country. There was nothing worse than a spy. Eileen felt that they were the worst of thieves, stealing from a whole country instead of just one person.

"We hate them too, here," Atkins said. He jingled the change thoughtfully in his pocket. "After you play a few War Games and lose, you don't mind the background checks so much. I don't think anyone minded."

"Are those background checks in these folders?" Eileen asked.

Atkins shook his head. "Those are kept at DIA. I suppose you could get them from DIA. I've never seen them, myself, not even my own. I wouldn't want to see them. They get really personal." Atkins looked away, into the Gaming Center, where the screens whispered with their spiderweb pattern, repeating and repeating. His eyes looked sad. "I wonder what happened to her," he said, and Eileen realized Atkins was looking at Terry's door. "I wish I knew."

"Me too," Eileen said. "I appreciate the files."

"Okay," Atkins said. "If you need anything, let me know. I'd appreciate if you'd keep the files with you until you can give them back to me personally. I wouldn't want anyone else seeing them."

"No problem," Eileen said.

After the door swung shut, Eileen sat down with a huge sigh, the folder in her hands. Nothing about Nelson Atkins betrayed anything but the most profound innocence.

She looked at the folder. She could go over that later. Right now, the tape had barely begun. Eileen found the proper b.u.t.ton and pressed Play.

Joe Tanner: "Art, pal, we better not hit that packet problem during the big follow-on."

Art Bailey: "We won't. Don't worry. You better worry about that racquetball tournament you and Meg are playing next weekend. I'm not looking after the kids all day to have you guys lose, you know."

Joe Tanner: "Win or lose, we're still expecting supper. It better be good, too."

Art Bailey: "Pizza is always good. Close the door, it's time."

The door closes upon them.

Roberto Espinoza: "So we have the church retreat in two weeks, and I don't care what happens here, I'm going to make it this summer. A week of fishing and praying and hiking-"

Doug Procell: "That sounds great. I don't know about the praying, but the fishing and hiking parts sound good."

Roberto Espinoza: "You'd like that too, I bet. It's very spiritual. Plus, the North Fork runs right through the retreat grounds and it's private fishing."

Doug Procell: "Ah, man. You dog. Wouldn't you know it, private fishing. I'd be taking a retreat about once a week in the summer, eh?"

Roberto Espinoza: "Prayers and the right fly, works every time. Hey, let's go. It's show time."

They go into their rooms, and the doors close upon them.

Sharon Johnson: "Yes, I'll be done with my cla.s.s in another week."

Nelson Atkins: "So how is it going?"

Sharon Johnson: "It's a tough course, but I think I'll do okay on the final. It seems to take so long, but I'm getting there. I have to go now, I need to check out my headset."

Nelson Atkins: "All right."

The door closes upon her.

Lowell Guzman, on the sound system: "Art, can you hear me?"

Arthur Bailey, on the sound system: "Loud and clear, Lowell. What's up?"

Lowell Guzman: "I was having trouble with my headset, but it seems to be okay now."

Arthur Bailey: "Sounds good now."

Lowell Guzman: "All right, then. I'm almost ready."

The door closes upon him.

Nelson Atkins: "We'll be starting in a few minutes."

Terry Guzman: "I know that. Thank you."

Nelson Atkins: "I just wanted to make sure you were comfortable."

Terry Guzman: "I'm fine and I won't screw up. Is that what you were trying to say, Nelson?"

Nelson Atkins: "Terry, now-"

Terry Guzman: "Don't worry, Nelson, you'll give me a complex. You know I'll do great, I always do, don't I? Now, quit hovering and get on with it."

The door closes upon her.

Fort Rucker Army Base, Alabama.

"What do you mean, canceled?" Stillwell asked. He'd been waiting for so many hours in the plastic chair, his b.u.t.t was beyond numb. n.o.body told him anything, just asked him to wait, please, sir.

Now it was past lunch and the flight sergeant finally let him know the Chinook was not leaving today, in an absent-minded manner that left Stillwell wanting to choke him senseless.

"What about another transport?" Stillwell asked, gritting his teeth.

"No available s.p.a.ces, sir," the sergeant said. "You'll just have to come back at dawn tomorrow, sir. I'm sure she'll be ready for takeoff then."

Stillwell gave up. He'd been in the Air Force long enough to know when to surrender to bureaucracy. Whatever was out in Colorado Springs would just have to wait another day for Major Alan Stillwell.

Gaming Center, Schriever Air Force Base.

Eileen stretched and sighed. Terry's voice was husky and teasing and very cold. She looked at her list of check marks. All the Gamers were covered. Now it was time to see who left the room during the game. She leaned forward to pick up the mouse again and the phone rang, startling her. It rang again, and she shrugged and picked it up.

"Miss Reed?"

"I thought you called everyone by their first names."

"You and the SecDef, I guess." Art laughed. "I was wondering if you wanted some coffee. Joe mentioned it. So we tried to figure out if offering you coffee would mean we were sucking up to you. Then we decided, screw it. Want some coffee?"

"I would love some," Eileen said gratefully. "If you poison it, then I'll know you're the ones, right?"

"Well, your replacement would," Art replied cheerfully. "I'll be right over with a cup."

Eileen put the phone back in the cradle and grinned at it. "Send Joe," she said to the dead line.

Art brought the blue mug and a white carafe.

"Only the best for our women in blue," Arthur said. He put down the carafe and expertly poured a cup. He handed it to Eileen and perched a hip on the edge of the table.

"I know how it could be done, if I weren't here and didn't know it didn't happen that way. Does that make sense?"

"Sure," Eileen said, and sipped the coffee. As excellent as yesterday's.

"Someone hides in the room. Somehow. Okay, the room is too small. But let's say. The door shuts, murderer kills her as soon as she puts on the headset."

"How does murderer exit?"