My ploy worked, Dorshak looked really uncomfortable now. "Right. Well, just see that you don't. Maybe we'll see you around, McMannus."

"Sure." I took a long sip of coffee. Ted and I used to be friends. He used to tag along with Danny and me to pubs after hours. I always thought he had a crush on one of us. I used to think it was me, but after Daniel was arrested I began to wonder. Dorshak's accusations of my disloyalty were vehement, as if he took my testimony against Daniel personally. Given our history, it seemed odd that he would warn me away from potential trouble.

"Time to do some more digging," I said out loud. Reaching around the chair to my coat pocket, I rooted around for my credit counter. The flat plastic card was deceptively light. My life savings should be more substantial-feeling, I thought, as I bent the thin sheet with my fingers. I flipped the card over and touched the buttons in sequence. After taking a few seconds to think about it, the digital display told me my current balance. It was enough for what I was about to do, I decided, and slid the thin plastic into the slot on my wristwatch-phone. That was the other area in which technology advanced at lightning speed. If there were some new way to take money from you, someone would invent it. My credit counter could be used for anything, even phone-to-modem transfers to Swiss bank accounts, which was what I was intending, if Mouse took the bait. I dialed the numbers from memory.

He picked up on the first ring. Not many people had access to this particular phone number. "Mouse's house, Mouse speaking."

His page looked very dapper. Black hair short-cropped above the ears, which stuck out with trademark roundness. His face broke out in a wide, dimpled grin when he recognized me. "Deidre! Tell me you're back on the LINK!"

"Hey, home." I laughed. It was an old joke I shared with Mouse's page. I called him "home" as a play on the fact that he was a super-advanced version of a web home page. "If I was back on the LINK," I asked, "do you think I'd have to call you for information?"

"You break my heart, Deidre." Mouse's page feigned a hurt look. It was almost natural-looking, if you didn't know the telltale signs of digital imaging. There was only the slightest electronic halo. Damn, Mouse was one master surfer. If only he wasn't also a master criminal.

"I need intel, Mouse."

"And here I was thinking you had finally come to your senses and decided to move to Cairo and live with me in the sun forever. We could rule the world, you and I, Deidre. Tell me you will."

"I will." I smiled. "Soon."

"Ah, I know you. You might as well say never, McMannus." The page frowned. There was flickering on the screen, and the page gave me a worried look. "I have to reroute, catch a new wave. Someone's bagging your trail, girlfriend. Stand by."

I drank my coffee and waited. The thunderstorm rattled the window, and I found myself daydreaming about the hot African sun and a lithe, sun-browned young man. When I last saw Mouse real-time, he was begging me to spare his life. Not that I had that much power over his fate, as it turned out. The little con artist had weaseled himself diplomatic immunity, and the case Daniel and I had carefully built against him collapsed like a house of cards.

Sometime, during my pursuit of his case, Mouse decided my attempts to nab him were flirtatious. I did gain a healthy respect for his intellect and skill, but the rest ... well, normally, I didn't go for his type. Clean-cut, barely legal boyishness was never that much of a turn-on for a meat-and-potatoes girl like myself. All the same, Mouse managed to grow on me; his relentless admiration was hard to resist. I was pleasantly surprised when Mouse himself, not his page, returned the call.

"Deidre." He smiled. The page was an almost perfect copy, but the original smile held a lot more snake-oil charm. "It really is you ... and on something as crude and mundane as a phone line. Have you no sense at all? Luckily my page was able to reroute us to this complete relic of a pay phone. And, because I like you so much, I've got him running a boomerang trace on your trail. What can I do for you?"

Tousled black curly hair framed a youthful face. Two wires embedded in his temple were the only hint that Mouse was a heavy-hitter hacker. Despite the sundrenched Cairo scene behind him, Mouse wore a leather jacket and a tee shirt that said Letourneau in 76.

"You support Letourneau, Mouse? You can't even vote in America."

"You'd be surprised what I can hack into."

I laughed. "And scandalized, I'm sure. But really, Mouse, you can't tell me you believe in the LINK-angels."

"Letourneau makes sense on the issues important to me, Dee. Expansion of the LINK and the preservation of America as a Free State. As for the rest ..."He shrugged. "I'm reserving judgment about his divinity."

I nodded. I could understand why a hacker would want to keep America out of Christendom. Right now, operating as a Free State, an independent state, America was a chaotic jumble of companies and laws. Christendom imposed order wherever it went; hackers tended to abhor order.

"Say, Mouse," I said, "what do you know about a company called Jordan Institute?"

Mouse scratched his chin. "Some kind of loony bin, right?"

I nodded. "Mental-health technology."

"Okay. Is that what you want me to dig up?" Mouse asked. "Information on this company?"

"Yes, and information on two men, as much as my account will pay for."

He snorted a laugh. "Knowing you, that won't be much more than their social security numbers." He cocked his head at the video, as if considering something. Then, with a sigh, he added. "Listen, keep your hard-earned money. You're a hot item these days ... we could" – an expressive hand waved about to feign embarrassment for the request – "barter. Give me some info to sell and I'll consider us even."

"I'm not sure that's a fair trade, Mouse. I haven't found anything about the company on the LINK at all. Could be a lot of work," I said.

"You're the P.I., Dee. I'm counting on you to do any real legwork. That's your specialty."

"Fair enough," I said. "But the guys might be hard to trace too. Angelucci's from Amish country ..."

Mouse cut me off with a wave of his hand. "Stop haggling. I'm not talking a major trade; the color of your panties is enough to make me a small fortune."

I sputtered a laugh. "Color? Why not the brand, style, and cut as well?"

"I'm serious, Dee. If you'd consent to more than one interview a year, you wouldn't be such a cult figure. You know you have your own bulletin board? I've logged a few hits there myself." I raised my eyebrows at this remark. It was hard enough for me to imagine Mouse condescending to surf a commercial board, but then to hang somewhere so kitschy truly surprised me. When he noticed my reaction, his smile broadened. "You've got some choice bytes. A boy can't help himself."

Heat rose on my cheeks. I leaned back in my chair, hoping the shadows would conceal my schoolgirl blush. "Mouse," I said sternly. "Business."

"What?" He shrugged with faux innocence. "This is business."

I kept my face stony and hidden.

"So serious all the time," he whined. When even this attempt got no reaction, he pursed his lips. Finally, he conceded. "All right, give me the names."

"Michael Angelucci, and the other is some Mafia tough going by the handle 'Morningstar.' "

"Oh, one of those," Mouse remarked with a quirky smile.

"What do you mean?"

"There's a whole cult of people taking fallen angel names, especially among criminals and rebellious kids. Although most of them aren't as biblically savvy as your guy. They're all calling themselves Lucifer or, even more creative, Satan." He wagged a finger at the screen. "You should know this stuff, Dee. It's part of your business. See, this is the problem with being cut off from the LINK and living in sheltered Christendom..."