A lot had happened in twelve weeks. The assorted federal agents who had been sucked into the retreat in Maryland had acquired a name, a chain of command, a mission statement, and a split personality. In fact it was, thought Mike, a classic example of interdepartmental politics gone wrong, or of the blind men and the elephant, or something. Everyone had an idea about how they ought to work on this situation, and most of the ideas were incompatible.

"It's not just Smith," Pete complained from the other side of his uncluttered desk. "I am getting the runaround from everyone. Judith says she's not allowed to use agency resources to cross-fund my research request without a directive from the Department of Justice-she's ass-covering-Frank says the County Surveyor's Office isn't allowed to release the information without a FOIA, and Smith says he wants to help but he's not allowed to because the regs say that data flows into the NSA, never out."

Days of running around offices trying to get a consensus together were clearly taking their toll on Pete Garfinkle. Mike nodded wearily. "Have you tried public sources?"

"What? Architecture Web sites? Property developers' annual reports, that kind of thing? I could do that, but it'd take me weeks, and there's no guarantee I'd spot everything." Pete's shoulders were set, tense with frustration. "We're cops, not intelligence analysts, Mike, isn't that right? I mean, except for you, babysitting source Greensleeves. So we sit here with our thumbs up our asses while the big bad spooks run around pulling their National Security cards on everybody. I can't even requisition a goddamned report on underground parking garages in New Jersey that've been fitted with new security doors in the past six months! And this is supposed to be a goddamned joint intelligence task force?"

"Chill out." It came out more sharply than Mike had intended. "You've got me doing it too, now. Listen, let's go find a Starbucks and unwind, okay?"

"But that means-" Pete rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, I know, it means checking out of the motel. So what? It's nearly lunchtime. We've almost certainly got time to sign out before we have to sign back in again. Come on."

Mike and Pete cleared their cramped two-man office. It wasn't a simple process: nothing was simple, once you got the FBI and the NSA and the CIA and the DEA all trying to come up with common security standards. First, everything they were reading went into locked desk drawers. Then all the stationary supplies went into another lockable drawer. Then Mike and Pete had to cross-check each others' locked drawers before they could step outside into the corridor, lock the office door, and head for the security station by the elevator bank. FTO-the Family Trade Organization-was big on compartmentalization, big on locks, big on security-big on just about everything except internal cooperation. And big on the upper floors of skyscrapers, where prices were depressed by the post-9/11 hangover and world-walker assassins were considered a greater threat than hijacked jets.

The corridor outside was a blank stretch punctuated by locked doors, some with red lights glowing above them, the walls bare except for security-awareness posters from some weird NSA loose-lips-sink-ships propaganda committee. Mike made sure to lock his door (blue key) and spun the combination dial before he headed toward the elevator bank. The last door on the corridor was ajar. "Bill?" asked Pete.

"Pete. And Mike." Bill Swann smiled. "Got something for me?"

"Sure." Mike held out his keys, waited for Bill to take them-and Pete's-and make them disappear. "Going for lunch, probably back in an hour or so," he said.

"Okay, sign here." Swann wasn't in uniform-nobody at FTO was, because FTO didn't exist and blue or green suits on the premises might tip some civilian off-but somehow Mike didn't have any trouble seeing him as a marine sergeant. Mike examined the proffered clipboard carefully, then signed to say he'd handed in the keys to his office at 14:27 and witnessed Bill returning them to the automatic key access machine-another NSA-surplus security toy. "See you later, sirs."

"Sure thing. I hope." Pete whistled tunelessly as he scribbled his chop on the clipboard.

"Dangerous places, those Starbucks."

"You gotta watch those double-chocolate whipped cream lattes," Pete agreed as they waited at the elevator door. "They leap out at you and mug you. One mouthful and they'll be rolling you into pre-op for triple bypass surgery. Crack your rib cage just like the alien in, uh, Alien."

"Mine's a turkey club," Mike said tersely, "and a long stand. Somewhere where…" The elevator arrived as he shrugged. They stood in silence on the way down. The elevator car had seen better days, its plastic trim yellowing and the carpet threadbare in patches: the poster on the back wall was yet another surplus to some super-black NSA security-awareness campaign. We're at war and the enemy is everywhere.

"Do you ever get a feeling you've woken up in the wrong company?" he asked Pete as they crossed the lobby.

"Frequently. Usually happens just before her husband gets home."

"Gross moral turpitude 'R' us, huh? Does Nikki know?"

"Just kidding."

Pete's marriage was solid enough that he could afford to crack jokes, Mike noted. "That's not what I meant."

"I know, I know…" Pete paused while they waited at the crosswalk outside. It was a hot day, and Mike wished he'd left his suit coat behind. "Let's go. Listen, it's the attitude thing that's getting to me. The whole outlook."

"Cops are from Saturn, spooks are from Uranus?"

"Something like that." Pete's eyebrows narrowed to a solid black bar when he was angry or tense. "Over there." He gestured down a side street lined with shops, in the general direction of Harvard Square. "It's a cultural thing."

"You're telling me. Different standards of evidence, different standards on sharing information, different attitudes."

"I thought it was our job to roll up this supernatural crime syndicate," Pete complained. "Collect evidence, build cases, arrange plea bargains and witness support where necessary, observe and induce cooperation, that sort of thing."

"Right." Mike nodded. A familiar Starbucks sign; there was no queue round the block, they'd made their break just in time to beat the rush. "And the management have got other ideas. Is that what you're saying?"

"We're cops. We think of legal solutions to criminal problems. Smith and the entire chain of command above us are national security. They're soldiers and intelligence agents. They work outside the law-I mean, they're governed by international law, the Geneva conventions and so on, but they work outside our domestic framework." He broke off. "I'll have a ham-and-cheese sub, large regular coffee no cream, and a danish." He glanced at Mike. "I'm buying this time."

"Okay." Mike ordered; they waited until a tray materialized, then they grabbed a pair of chairs and a table in the far corner of the shop, backs to the wall and with a good view of the other customers. "And you figure they're making it difficult because they're not geared up to share national security information with domestic police agencies, at least not without going through Homeland Security."

"Home of melted stovepipes." Pete regarded his coffee morosely. "It's frustrating, sure, but what really worries me is the policy angle. I'm not sure we're getting enough input into this. NSC grabbed the ball and the Preacher Man is too busy looking for pornographers under the bed and jailing bong dealers to have time for the turf war. Wouldn't surprise me if they've classified it so he doesn't even know we exist, or thinks we're just another drug ring roundup embedded in some sort of counterterrorist operation Wolf Boy and Daddy Warbucks are running."