Fedon did. But they'll pay blood. These tunnels, they're full of things to jump you out of darkness...." He sniffed.

"Don't worry, not your Yankees. Yankees nah have much nerve these days. But whoever. Babylon."

" `The Man,' " Laura said.

Sticky grinned.

The Bank's Directors were waiting for her. They were simply there, in the tunnel, under a pool of light. They had a long, rectangular meeting table and some comfortable leather chairs. Coffee thermoses, ashtrays, some keypads and pen- cils. They were chatting with each other. Smiling. Little curls of cigarette smoke rising under the light.

They rose when they saw her. Five black men. Four in well-tailored suits; one was wearing a uniform with starred shoulder boards. Three sat on the table's left, two on the right.

The chair at the head of the table was empty. So was the chair at its right-hand side. Sticky escorted her to the seat at the table's foot.

The general spoke. "That will be all, Captain." Sticky saluted sharply and turned on his heel. She heard his boots ring as he-marched off into darkness.

"Welcome to Grenada, Mrs. Webster. Please be seated."

Everyone sat, with . squeaks of leather. They all had brass nameplates, thoughtfully turned her way. DR. CASTLEMAN. MR.RAINEY.

MR. GOULD. GEN. CREFT. MR. GELLI. Mr. Gelli was the youngest man, among them. He looked about forty; he was

Italian, and his skin was black. The empty seats had name- plates, too. MR. STUBBS. And P.M. ERIC LOUISON ...

"My name is Mr. Gould," Mr. Gould announced. He was a heavyset, black-skinned Anglo, about sixty-five, wearing video rouge and a wiry toupee. "I'm acting as chairman for this special panel of inquiry, examining the circumstances of the death of a Grenadian citizen, Mr. Winston Stubbs. We are not a court and cannot decide legal issues, though we can offer advice and counsel to the prime minister. Under Grenadian law, Mrs. Webster, you are not entitled to counsel before a special panel of this kind; however, false testimony carries the penalty of perjury. Mr. Gelli will administer your oath.

Mr. Gelli?"

Mr. Gelli rose quickly to his feet. "Raise your right hand, please. Do you solemnly swear, or affirm ..." He read her the whole thing.

"I do," Laura said. Castleman was the weirdest of the lot.

He was grossly fat and had shoulder-length hair and a scrag- gly beard; he was smoking a cigarillo down to the filter. His eyes were blue and spacy. He tapped left-handed at a little keyboard deck.

Rainey was bored. He was doodling at his paper and touching his large black Anglo nose as if it ached. He had an emerald earring and a bracelet of heavy gold link. General

Creft looked like he might be a genuine black person, though his cream-and-coffee skin was the lightest of the lot. He had the unblinking eyes of a crocodile and a street brawler's scar-knuckled hands. Hands that would look natural clutching pliers or a rubber hose.

They quizzed her for an hour and a half. They were polite, low-key. Gould did most of the talking, pausing to page through notes on his deck. Rainey didn't care-the thrill level here was obviously too low for him; he would have been happier running speedboats past the Florida Coast Guard.

Creft took center stage when they asked about the killer drone. Creft had a whole portfolio of printout photos of the

Canadair CL-227-the orange peanut refitted with a dreadful variety of strafing guns, napalm squirters, gas dispensers.... She pointed out the model that looked closest to the profile she remembered. Creft passed it silently down the row. They all nodded... .

Gelli didn't say much. He was the junior partner. The older model of Gelli, obviously hadn't kept up with the times.

Somebody had scrapped him... .

She waited for the right moment to spring her news about the F.A.C.T. She called her deck back in the mansion, downloaded the evidence Emily had sent her, and spilled it in their laps. They looked it over, hemming and hawing.

(Castleman zipped through it at 2400 baud, his fat-shrouded eyes devouring whole paragraphs at once.)

They were polite. They were skeptical. The president of

Mali, one Moussa Diokite, was a personal friend of Prime

Minister Louison. The two countries shared fraternal bonds and had contemplated cultural-exchange missions. Unfortu- nately, plans for peaceful exchange had fallen through, be- cause of the constant state of crisis in all the Sahara countries.

Mali had nothing at all to gain from an attack on Grenada;

Mali was desperately poor and racked by civil disorder.

And the evidence was bad. Algeria and Mali had a long- standing border dispute; Algeria's State Department would say anything. 1. G. Farben's list of F.A.C.T. terrorist actions in Turkish Cyprus was impressive and useful, but proved nothing. Kymera Corporation were paranoid, always blaming foreigners for the actions of Japanese yakuza crime gangs.

Blaming Mali was a wild flight of fancy, when the Singaporeans were clearly the aggressors.

"How do you know it's Singapore?" Laura asked. "Can you prove that Singapore killed Mr. Stubbs? Did Singapore attack the Rizome Lodge in Galveston? If you can prove that you dealt faithfully, while the Islamic Bank broke the terms, I promise that I'll support your grievances in every way I can."

"We appreciate your position," said Mr. Gould. "Legal proof in a murder committed by remote control is, of course, rather difficult.... Have you ever been to Singapore?"

"No. Rizome has an office there, but ..."

"You've had a chance to see what we do here, on our own island. I think you understand now that we're not the mon- sters we've been painted. "

General Creft's lean face creased with a gleam of fangs. He was smiling at her, or trying to. Castleman stirred with a grunt and began hitting function keys.

"A trip to Singapore might enlighten you," Gould said.

"Would you be interested in going there?"

Laura paused. "In what capacity?"

"As our negotiator. As an officer in the United Bank of

Grenada." Mr. Gould tapped at his deck. "Let me point out," he said, watching the screen, "that Rizome operates under severe legal strictures. Very likely the Vienna Convention will soon shut down Rizome's investigations entirely."

He glanced up at her. "Unless you join us, Mrs. Webster, you will never learn the truth about who attacked you. You will have to go back to that bullet-riddled Lodge of yours, never knowing who your enemy was, or when they will strike again... .

Mr. Rainey spoke up. He had the drawl of an old-time

Florida cracker. "I reckon you know that we have a lot of data on you and your husband. This is no sudden decision on our part, Mrs. Webster. We know your abilities-we've even seen the work you -did, on that safehouse where we've been protecting you." He smiled. "We like your attitude. To put it short, we believe in you. We know how you had to fight within Rizome, to get a chance to build your Lodge and put your ideas into practice. With us, you'd have no such fight.

We know how to leave creative people to their work."

Laura touched her earphone. There was dead silence on the line. "You've cut me off the Net," she said.

Rainey spread his hands, his gold wristlet catching the light. "It did seem wisest."

"You want me to defect from my company."

"Defect. my, that's an ugly word! We want you to join us. Your husband, David, too. We can promise you both a level of support that might surprise you." Rainey nodded at the deck screen before her. A financial spreadsheet was com- ing up. "Of course, we know about your personal financial worth. We were surprised to see that, without Rizome, you scarcely own anything! Sure, you've got shares, but the things you've built don't belong to you-you just run them for your corporation. I've known plumbers with bigger salaries than you have! But things are different here. We know how to be generous."