a name, but it was a New York City area code.

''Ms. Baldwin? Phil Garrett here, New York Times. I hope you weren't injured in the disturbance

down there?''

I was surprised first of all that he'd gotten a cell signal through; the Wardens had priority on

connections in a crisis, along with various emergency services and governmental agencies, and I

was pretty sure reporters weren't on that list. After that surprise wore off, though, a big, ugly ball

of black stress formed in my stomach where my waffle was going to go, and my knees went a

little weak. I felt light in the head for a second, and braced myself against the wall. So not cut out

for this.

''No, Mr. Garrett, I'm fine,'' I lied, and was pleased that my voice sounded steady and almost

welcoming. ''What can I do for you?''

''Well, I don't know if you remember, but a couple of days ago I tried to reach you when you

were on vacation. . . . I wanted to talk about the Wardens organization that you're part of.''

My heart trip-hammered, thanks to a sudden dump of adrenaline into my bloodstream. I

supposed as an Earth Warden I ought to be able to take care of that stuff, but no, not happening. I

struggled to keep my voice calm and light. ''Mr. Garrett, I'm ashamed of you. A journalist,

ending a sentence in a preposition?''

He laughed. He sounded at ease. I supposed this was fun for him. All in a day's work, terrifying

the people on the other end of the phone. ''Ms. Baldwin, if dozens of English teachers and

journalism professors couldn't beat it out of me, I think you've got a lost cause on your hands.''

The amusement fell away like a discarded carnival mask. ''Let's talk about the Wardens. What

would you say if I told you I had a credible source telling me that not only are the Wardens real,

and acknowledged by every government on Earth, at least in secret, but they also function as a

kind of shadow governmental agency? One that fundamentally affects and controls the lives of

ordinary people?''

''I'd say you need to call Spielberg,'' I said. ''Bet it would make a great movie. Your source is a

mental case, Mr. Garrett. If you actually have one. Which I notice you didn't actually say. So, in

theory, I didn't actually answer the question, either.''

He ignored that, although it at least deserved a chuckle, I thought. ''This is serious stuff,'' he

said. ''I take it seriously. I'm not convinced about all this talk of paranormal events and

controlling the weather, but there's got to be something behind it. Maybe you guys have

technology we're not aware of, something classified; we can get into the details later. What I

want to know is the structure of your organization. I understand it's worldwide. Do you report up

through the U.S. government?''

''I'm not having this conversation.'' I kept it simple this time. Garrett waited for me to blurt out

something else; silence was pressure. I held on to my tongue and turned to see the entire table of

Wardens watching me. Lewis put down his fork and got up, walking toward me. Whatever he

saw in my expression, it couldn't have been reassuring.

''So the organization is independent of national interests? A shadow government of its own?''

''No!'' One-word answers were going to land me in trouble; he'd box me neatly in. ''I'm afraid

I can't confirm any information for you, Mr. Garrett. I really have no idea what kind of fiction

you've been fed by your source, but-''

''I have videotape,'' he said. ''Television footage of a woman stopping a tornado in the Midwest

last week. The more I searched, the more I came up with– strange events caught on tape here,

surveillance camera video there. Put it all together, and it confirms everything my source has told

me.''

I took a deep breath, covered the speaker of the phone, and whispered to Lewis, ''We're

screwed. The New York Times has the scent on the Wardens. I don't think he's going away. He

sounds serious.''

''He's looking for independent confirmation,'' Lewis said. ''Print reporters have to prove a story

before publication. He's fishing.''

''He's got really big bait. Whale-sized.''

Lewis shook his head. ''Then we'd better handle it. If we don't, he'll catch us at a weak moment

and get somebody to admit to something. Tell him we'll meet with him.''

''We will?''

''Both of us,'' he said, and grinned. ''Tell him to pick a dark, smoky bar. They love that kind of

spy shit. Besides, we need anonymity.''

''And scotch,'' I muttered. ''Lots of scotch.''

Due to the excuse of the emergency, our appointment with Mr. Garrett was in a week, in New

York City. He'd offered to come to Florida, but the last thing I wanted was for him to run into

some busy, annoyed Warden who blurted out the truth just to get him off their backs. We were

working here.

A week. I had a week, in conjunction with the other Wardens, to come up with a good fiction to

feed the hungry reporter-one that would induce him to back off. Alternatively, we could go for

the big hammer– get someone in the UN or the U.S. government to tell him to back off, but that

would pretty much prove his whole case for him. I felt an itch between my shoulder blades, as

though somebody had drawn target crosshairs right below my neck.

As it happened, there wasn't a lot for the Wardens to do about the earthquake; on the surface, it

quickly became one of those weird leading-this-hour stories on the major news networks for half

a day, then slipped into obscurity. It was all over but for the insurance claims, which were going

to be considerable. No fatalities, only light casualties.

We'd been damned lucky.

I never finished my breakfast. By the time I felt composed enough to eat, the waffles were cold,

tasteless hunks of dough, and I needed to lose a couple of pounds, anyway. Considering how

nervous I already felt about facing Phil Garrett in a week, that wasn't going to be a challenge.

In the interest of having a comfortable place to work, I went home. Well . . . comfortable was a

stretch right now, since half the complex had burned to the ground, and the half left standing had

sustained smoke and water damage.

Curiously, my apartment was perfectly fine. Not a water stain, not a smoke smudge. It even

smelled newly cleaned.

David had done me a favor. Again.

I had a secure phone setup in my office area, and VPN access to the Warden's database systems

back in New York; I logged in and began reviewing files. Earth Wardens who specialized in

detecting and handling radioactivity were few and far between, and a lot of them were dead,

missing, or had quit over the last few years. It had been tough on everybody. First we'd had

internal strife within the organization, and then the Djinn had found a way to destroy the rule

book that bound them to servitude, and launched their own high-body-count conflict.

We were lucky to have as many Wardens as we did, but we weren't exactly spoiled for choice

these days.

My best bet was a naval officer named Peterson, but he was on a carrier in the Persian Gulf.

Second best choice was an ex-army guy named Silverton. No address listed, just a cell phone. He

was shown as NFA-no fixed address. In other words, Ex-Sergeant Silverton was either

homeless or liked living out of a suitcase and hotels. Since he could afford a cell phone, I

supposed it was the latter.

The phone call with Silverton revealed nothing much, other than he was available and could be

on the ground in Fort Lauderdale in eighteen hours. I authorized his travel-paperwork was