"Why don't you answer a question of mine, Ted? Why is the tech-theft case with Jordan Institute still open?"

"What?" Dorshak looked honestly baffled by my request. "Who?"

"It's the case Daniel and I were working on before he shot the Pope."

He shook his head from side to side. "I don't know anything about that case. If you think that has anything to do with what's happening now, well, then you've been listening to those conspiracy theorists too long, Dee."

I swallowed the desire to rise to Dorshak's bait. My instincts told me Dorshak knew nothing about the Jordan Institute mystery. I glanced over at the FBI agent, who watched our exchange patiently. He had a slightly faraway look in his eyes. Most likely he was recording the conversation and transmitting it to the Bureau's local office. There a team of agents deciphered my every word and gesture and relayed back the appropriate response to the field agent.

"What was it you people wanted?" I positioned my face dead center of the eye where the fiber-optic camera was hardwired. I resisted the urge to wave.

"Freshta. How do you know Jibril Freshta?"

He was like a bloody robot. "I don't. How many times do I have to tell you? I don't know him."

"What were you doing at his apartment?"

I studied the table, hiding my pupils from a possible scan. He'd probably register the elevated heart rate, but there wasn't much I could do about that. I let the air in my lungs come out in a slow breath and shook my head.

"If you roll over on them, you can still save yourself," Dorshak growled. "But, as you should know, the antiterrorist act is pretty strict. Keep this attitude up, and you'll end up on death row. Like Danny."

"Of course," reminded the agent, "the Bureau can be lenient. If you cooperate, things will go easier on you."

The threats were almost verbatim from the last time I sat in this hard plastic seat. I shut my eyes. It seemed like a thousand years since I was on the other side of this table, and Danny and I would argue over who was going to get to be bad cop this time. He always insisted a woman made a better good cop. To which, I countered, woman as bad cop had pure shock value. Besides, I would remind him, his warm brogue would melt even the hardest heart.

The FBI agent was trying out his version of the "comforting, trust-me" look right now. It just didn't have Daniel's style.

"Come on, McMannus," Dorshak snarled. "You know how this works. The cop is the one we want. He's already under Internal Affairs' watch since his contact with the Malachim. All we need is a little more proof that he's antigovernment. You of all people should know hearsay is admissible evidence in antiterrorist cases."

"I resent that implication. Daniel was no terrorist." I shoved my fingers through the perfect line of Styrofoam lifeboats. One of them capsized. I swept the rest up into my fist.

"He shot the Pope in cold blood, even he's admitting that now." Dorshak gave me a pitying glance. "But, I forgot, you're not LINKed anymore. You don't have access to the interviews he's given lately. Your partner is way over the deep end, McMannus – way over. He actually claims the angels told him to do it. They ... what was it he said ... ? 'Guided his hand.' "

"Wha ...?" I thought I'd hardened myself to any assault on Danny's character over the last year, but Dorshak's words punctured my resolve. Danny never believed in the LINK-angels. He always said if they were a sign from God, the true God, why did they only appear to the affluent – those connected by expensive wetware? Daniel convinced me, Jesus was a man for the poor, the outcast. Why would God only talk to the rich? It seemed like a major change in policy.

I took a deep breath. Dorshak had to be mind-fucking me. "Right," I sneered. "And you've got a bridge to sell me."

"You don't have to believe me." Dorshak forced a thin smile. "It's a matter of public record. Why don't you get your pal Mouse to bootleg a copy of it sometime."

That stung. Of everything Dorshak tried, suggesting that I needed to rely on others for info really hurt. I stuffed the wads of Styrofoam I'd been crushing in my palm into my pocket.

The FBI agent looked at me with renewed interest. Forgetting his "good cop" character, he asked, "You know the Mouse?"

My fingers stroked the edges of the hard shell of the implant at my temple to ease my headache some.

"They're lovers," Dorshak answered for me. "Deidre sleeps with anyone."

"Anyone except you, Ted. How does it feel to be the only man the 'whore of Babylon' wouldn't touch with a ten-foot pole?"

"Pretty damn good," he sneered. Dorshak put his hands in his pockets, and rocked forward on the balls of his feet confidently. I only knew I got to him because of the slight flush rising from his collar. It was bright pink next to the starched white of his shirt. "At least I know I'm disease-free."

"Are you so sure?" I purred. "Well ..." I made a show of carefully inspecting his new shirt and designer tie, "... maybe you did get enough of a raise to finally afford 'licensed help.' "

My head snapped to the side. The pain from the blow to my cheek lagged seconds behind. Dorshak's enhanced muscles had ahold of my suit-coat lapels before I realized I'd been hit. He dragged me out of my seat. The plastic chair crashed to the floor with a hollow sound. I used his own hyped-up momentum against him and brought up my knee.

With a strangled moan, Dorshak let go of me. He stumbled back against the solid oak table. The look in his tear-rimmed eyes made me step back.

I cursed. From his reaction, I realized I only managed to graze his crotch. "Next time I'll get ahold of them, Ted, and I won't let go."

A growl came from deep in Dorshak's throat. The FBI agent was on his feet and between us with his arms outstretched. "Cool down, Sergeant," the agent said, reprising his good cop role. "I'm going to have to ask you to step outside. Take some time out."

With a hand protectively over his balls, Dorshak retreated. "You won't live through the next time, bitch," he spat.

The FBI agent carefully righted the chair. Dusting off the seat, he gestured enticingly. "Are you okay?" he asked. The soft, green eyes filled with compassion. "Can I get you something?" He glanced at my mutilated cup, and suggested, "More coffee perhaps?"

"No." I eyed the proximity of his gun. Deciding against a federal offense, I slumped down into the cool curve of the chair with a defeated groan. "Thanks, I'm fine."

"We're all tired," he said with almost genuine emotion. He half sat, half leaned against the edge of the table. I could smell his cologne. It was spicy and exotic – not what I would have expected from him.

"It would be nice to go home." He rubbed the bridge of his nose between two fingers. "We're not asking for a lot from you, Ms. McMannus, just enough to convict Angelucci. If you help us, we might even be willing to forget how you pulled your gun on a federal agent."

"I guess I lost my mind," I admitted.

"Your response was understandable, even forgivable ..." The unspoken 'if' was heavy in his meaningful tone.

"You want me to do it again," I said mostly to myself, "and get burned again. You know, the last time I trusted one of your guys all I got was kicked in the teeth for it. I was promised anonymity in exchange for information about Danny." My eyes sought out his, and I jabbed my thumb angrily at my chest. "I was never supposed to see the witness stand, and instead, not only am I there, but I'm all over every LINK frequency from here to Kalamazoo."

His green eyes looked distant. I must have really gotten the home office in a buzz. I glanced at the clock, timing them. It took three full clicks before the agent spoke.

"The Bureau wanted to keeps its promise to you," he said slowly. "But Interpol claimed jurisdiction. When the case went to Christendom's courts, it was out of our hands."