He heard the door chimes and Cally's voice in the hall. When he arrived at the door of the den, the two of them were at the bar cabinet and ice was clinking into glasses while very expensive single malt was poured over them. They had ignored the good but much less pricey stuff Lupe had put at the front of the cabinet.

"Senator," said the larger man: "Dink" Dinklemier, all six foot five, two hundred thirty or forty odd pounds of him, ex-college football star, ex-mercenary, smarter than he looked and a current employee of the Select Committee on Intelligence that Morse chaired.

"Good to see you, Byron," murmured the other man, removing his coat and seating himself. He was Prentice Arthur, slightly graying, dignified as a deacon, ex-CIA, ex-security advisor, currently serving as the senator's hook and line to certain unnamed fish in the Pentagon. With the money that flowed over there, there was habitat for lots of fish, everything from sharks to bottom feeders, each of them useful in his own way.

"Dink. Arthur." The senator seated himself, putting his half-finished drink on the table beside him. "I hope you've got some news for me."

"Well," the larger man split a grin, one side of his mouth expressing amusement while the other half looked on, uninvolved, "I've got good news and other news."

Morse regarded him narrowly, disliking this jovial approach to what was very serious business.

"Very well, let's have the good news. They'll support me?"

"Some considerable support will come your way." Dink sprawled into a chair, which creaked beneath his weight.

Arthur murmured, "Quid pro quo, of course. I've got a list of suggested items here. They'd like you to sneak as many of these through as you can." He took a sheet of plain paper from his billfold, unfolded it and passed it across the senator's desk. No heading. No names. Just a list of clauses and short, innocuous- seeming paragraphs that might be added to various bills.

The senator frowned. "It'll have to be late-night votes for most of these, but I should be able to manage a good bit of it. Nice of them to put it all in proper form."

"Saves time, is all," grunted Arthur. "Our friends seem to want things loosened up a little at the INS, the DEA, the ATF."

"That's pretty much what I expected."

"They'll be grateful," said Dink.

The large man had risen and was moving around nervously. The senator ignored it, recognizing the restlessness as habitual. He asked, "How grateful will they be, Dink?"

Dink turned, grinning his half grin. "Oh, as much as you need, Senator. Like mega-millions. And then, as much more, if needed."

The senator licked his lips. "How do they get it to me?"

Arthur gave him a stern look, wagging a finger in admonition. "Soft money, Senator. It goes around you. Some into Lupe's overseas account. Some to your ex-wife. Some for this, some for that. It never touches you. Just like with the pro-life money. You vote your convictions about the gross immorality of the drug trade just like you vote your convictions about the gross immorality of abortion. Your good friends and supporters from south of the border don't want to see the drug legalization balloon rise any higher than their ankles."

The senator sat down, relaxing. He hadn't known he was tensed up until this minute. Now, everything was letting loose.

He grinned. "Be sure to extend my good wishes." Arthur smiled. "Oh, they know that, Senator. Our amigos know you wish nothing for them but good, all the way to the bank."

"And what's the other news?"

"Something General McVane picked up. It came over from the Air Defense Command. Just a weirdness, but in the light of your committee, we thought . . ."

"Weirdness or not, what?"

"Air Defense has picked up some oddities they can't explain. Seemingly incoming somethings or other, not the profile one would expect from missiles, certainly no launch data, but things."

"Satellites," said Morse, dismissively.

"No. Not satellites. Not space junk. Not decayed orbits ending with stuff burning up. These are flights, they change course, they go from A to B to X."

"So? What do the eggheads say?"

Arthur shrugged. "Something some other country came up with that we don't know about. Something some branch of our own government came up with that we don't know about. UFOs."

Morse glowered, staring at his clenched hands, thinking. "Where's X?"

"What do you mean?"

"The X they go to, end up at, where is it?"

"No one place, Senator. East Coast. Florida. New Mexico-Texas area, Oregon."

"Is there any way we can find out more?"

"Believe me, both the NASA guys and the Air Command are giving it their best shot. They'd vastly prefer not being asked about it until they can explain it."

Morse almost wished they hadn't told him about it until they could explain it. He'd been helping cut allocations to NASA every chance he got, a calculated risk, and he didn't like the idea that something inimical might show up, something that could have been prevented except for the cuts. "You sure McVane gave you everything he knew?"

Dink frowned. "In this case, I think yes. He's pretty firmly in our side pocket, Senator, and he's safe.

No political ambitions, just big military ones."

"Do we have people on the ground looking for . . . well, what? Space landings?"

"The FBI's been alerted. They haven't come up with anything. Oh, a mass disappearance in Oregon, but that's probably a kidnapping by eco-terrorists."

"Mass disappearance?"

"Eleven men, loggers."

Dink offered, "It could be part of a general eco-terrorism campaign. Three guys in Florida were done in, too."

"Loggers?'

"No. They were draining wetlands."

"Well, keep me informed," the senator grunted, his euphoria only slightly dimmed by this niggle.

"Anything else we can do for you?" asked Dink.

Morse leaned back, tenting his fingers. "You could be helpful."

"Always glad to be of service."

"I've got a pro-life bill coming up. It could be delayed, but my best guess is two weeks from now.

The usual people will be arguing, nobody will be listening, but I had this flash. I've been getting flak from some of the neanderthals. They've had too many of their sharpshooters and bombers arrested lately, and they're scared to use force but hungry to go on the offense. It occurred to me some of my liberal opponents might be vulnerable on the issue if they've personally used abortion services."

Dink frowned. "I don't understand? If they've used services?"

"I'm thinking, maybe some of them have had someone close to them who had an abortion. I'm not going to take up floor time in the Senate with it, you make too many enemies that way. But, if I had something concrete, I could do a C-SPAN bit, challenging one or more of them. The tape would make good campaign stuff in a few soft areas. Would there be any way to get hold of those records?"

Dink stared at the ceiling. "We'd need names."

"You know who they are, Dink. And we can go back over twenty years on some of them."

Arthur spoke up, "No, Senator. You misunderstand him. We'd need the names of the women."

Morse was taken aback. "I was thinking wives. Maybe daughters?"

The two men shared a look, then Arthur shook his head. "It wouldn't look good, Senator. Attacking a fellow legislator for a medical decision made in the family would not go down well. No matter how people say they feel about abortion when they answer a public poll, they want private stuff kept private. People don't like interference with privacy issues. Remember that impeachment fiasco? All we did was make people mad at us. Remember what happened in 2000? The issue is loaded, By. I wouldn't go there."

The senator's lips curved in a tiny, icy smile. "Suppose you dig up some names for me, and I'll decide what risks to take."

"We'll look around," said Arthur, after a pause and with a significant glance at his colleague. "We'll see what we can find."

They talked about sports while they finished their drinks. The senator didn't offer refills. He walked his two guests to the door, shutting it firmly behind them.

As they walked to their car, Dink remarked, "He didn't ask many questions about the blips."

"What could he ask? What do we know? There's something flying around out there we don't recognize, or it's sunspots, or it's interference, or it's UFOs. The only reason we told him was to prevent his hearing about it from someone else."

"This clinic idea of his, I wish he'd keep his eye on the ball."

Arthur shrugged. "Give him credit, Dink. He knows money alone won't elect him, and he knows where every voter in his state is and what turns them on. In this case, however, the down-side is bigger than the up-side, so we just have to manage him."

"Manage him how?"

"Well, I'll rattle the walls very gently to see if any worms crawl out of the woodwork. Then, if Morse reminds me about those names he wants, I'll can tell him we're working on it, but so far we haven't come up with any names except Lupe's."

Dink's jaw dropped. "Do you know that?"

"Let's say I suspect it. I won't say it unless I have to."

"God, Prentice!"

"Forget I ever said it."

"Said what?"

Benita-WEDNESDAY.

On Wednesday morning, Benita called the bookstore and asked to speak to Simon. "Benita Alvarez,"

she said. "I'd like to come in and talk to you about the job."

"You think yes?"

"I think probably, though I'd like to talk details."

"Come in anytime."

She hung up and heaved a deep breath. She had been prepared for him to say he hadn't really meant it, it was all some kind of misunderstanding. Or he might have said he'd thought better of it since.

Though, why would he? She was good at her job, she'd just never considered cashing in on it before.

Cashing in had come way down the list after children and groceries and the gas bill.

Well. There were still details, like living, moving around, getting from here to there. And getting Sasquatch shipped. She'd paid the kennel for two weeks in advance, cash, and she'd used a phony name in order not to create a trail. She wanted to disappear from New Mexico, leaving no clues. And no doubt Mr. DeGreco could tell her where to look for an apartment. A furnished apartment.

Her ruminations were interrupted by the phone ringing, and she answered, "Yes," wondering what the hell, no one knew she was there, except, as it turned out, someone who introduced himself as Chad Riley, who was with the FBI and who had been detailed to assist her for the next several days.

"The envoys, that's what we're calling them ma'am, tell us they'd very much appreciate meeting with you again. So far, except for you, all the people they've met are men, and they feel women may have a viewpoint that ... we ... ah, males may not have."

She took a deep breath. "I'm busy this morning, Mr. Riley. How about later today?"

"Actually, we thought this evening. We're planning a kind of dinner meeting. They assure us they can eat our food."

"The president?"

"No, he's making a speech tonight, one he couldn't get out of, but his wife is coming."

"And they really want me? Not somebody like . . . oh, Gloria Steinem or Betty Friedan or ... ?"

"They want you."

". . . Alice Walker?" she suggested desperately. She didn't want to be part of this. Surely her part of this was over now!

"You."

"All right." She sighed. "Will you send somebody for me?"

"We'll pick you up at your hotel, at seven."

She was not a feminist. Why would they want her to give the female point of view? God, if she'd been a feminist, she'd have killed Bert long ago. She'd have run off with the children, gone somewhere else, or at least asked Goose for a raise.

Goose. How was she going to tell Goose? If she gave notice now, that would be almost four weeks, and that was enough. Maybe she'd say she received a job offer on the West Coast, and she'd decided to move to be nearer the children.

By nine-thirty, she was at the bookstore door. Five minutes later she was ensconced in Simon's office, coffee poured, danish provided, discussing where she might live in Washington.

"Actually," he said, looking at the ceiling and scratching his neck idly, "there's an empty apartment upstairs. It's rather rundown, but it's large. At one time, it was loft space, an artist's studio. When we bought the building we thought the artist would stay. He, however, decided to pass his declining years in Mexico. Or maybe it was Honduras. Somewhere vivid and warm. At any rate, he left a couple of years ago, and we've been unable to find a tenant who is ... acceptable to us."

"Meaning?" she asked, narrowing her eyes.

"Meaning clean, sober, and responsible," he said, giving her look for look. "We'd like someone to live in it, because it helps building security. If the alarm goes off, you hear it, you call the police. I'm not saying the alarm will go off, it never has yet, but one never knows. People don't seem to rob bookstores much, more's the pity for them."