"I'm saying we need to pull the masks off and tackle our problems head-on," Arbright said. "Okay, Singapore's a pariah state, they just trashed their rivals-fine. Let 'em pay the price for aggression."

"Singapore?" David said. "You think Singapore is the

F.A.C.T?"

Arbright leaned back in her seat and looked at all three of them. "Well. I see the Rizome contingent has another opin- ion." A dangerous lightness in her voice.

Laura had heard that tone before. During interviews, just before Arbright was about to nail some poor bastard.

The baby wailed aloud.

"Don't all speak up at once," Arbright said.

"How do you know it's Singapore?" Laura said.

"How? Okay. I'll tell you." Arbright shoved her makeup cabinet shut with the toe of her Italian boot. "I know it because the pirate databanks in Singapore are full of it.

Y'know, we journos-we need a place to trade information, where Vienna can't get on our case. That's why every damned one of us worth his salt is a data pirate."

"Oh ...

"And they're laughing about it in Singapore. Bragging.

It's all over the boards." She looked at them. "All right. I've told you. Now you tell me.''

Emily spoke up. "The F.A.C.T. is the secret police of the

Republic of Mali."

"Not that again," Arbright said, crestfallen. "Look, you hear ugly rumors about Mali all the time. It's nothing new.

Mali's a starvation regime, full of mercenaries, and their reputation stinks. But they wouldn't dare try a stunt as huge and flagrant as FACT's attack on Grenada. Mali, defying Vienna with an international terror atrocity? It doesn't make sense."

"Why not?" Laura said.

"Because Vienna could knock over Mali tomorrow-there's nothing to stop them. Another coup in Africa wouldn't even make the midnight news. If FACT were Mali, Vienna would've wiped them out long ago. But Singapore-well! Have you ever seen Singapore?"

"No, but-"

"Singapore hates Grenada. And they loathe Vienna. They hate the whole idea of a global political order-unless they're running it. They're fast and strong and reckless, and they've got a lot of nerve. They make those little Grenadian Rastas look like Bill Cosby."

"Who?" David broke in. "You mean 'Bing' Cosby?"

Arbright stared at him for a moment. "You're not really black, are you? Either that, or that's not really your baby, fella."

"Huh?" David said. "Actually, uh, there's this, uh, sun- tan lotion...."

Arbright cut the air with her hand. "It's okay, I've been to

Africa, and they tell me I look French. But Mali-that's just disinformation. They've got no money and no motive, and it's an old rumor...." The limo came to a stop and inter- rupted her.

"Oxford Towers, Miss Arbright. "

"That's our stop," Emily said, putting her drink aside.

"We'll get back to you, Dianne."

Arbright sagged back into the cushions. "Look. I want those Grenada. tapes. "

"I know.'

"And they won't be worth as much if Vienna makes a major move. That'll crowd everything else off the wires."

"Car, open the door." Emily got out. Laura and David hustled after her. "Thanks for the lift, Dianne."

"Stay in touch." The limo's doors slammed.

The bottom floor of Oxford Towers was a minor city.

Healthy-looking fake sunlight poured from fluorescents over the little gourmet groceries and discreet boutiques. Private security dressed like Keystone Kops, cute tall hats and brass- buttoned coats. Meek-looking teenagers on recliner bikes cruised the pastel storefronts.

They ducked into a grocery for diapers and baby food and put it on Emily's card. They joined a group of two dozen bored tenants waiting on curved hardwood benches. An ele- vator arrived, and everyone shuffled aboard it and took a pew. Floors zipped past in ghastly mag-lev silence with only the occasional sniffle or rustle of newsprint.

They got off on Emily's floor and their ears popped. The air smelled just the least bit fried and stuffy here, fifty floors up. Arcane color-coded maps on the walls. They caught a hall bus. Crabbed little nooks and crannies branched off, leading into patios-what the sociologists called "defensible space."

Emily led them off the bus and up a nook. A security mouse scuttled along the floor-nasty-looking little microbot with fretted eyes and a muzzle clotted with dirt. Emily carded the door open.

Three-room place-stark Art Deco black-and-white. David took the baby into the bathroom, while Emily stepped into the little open kitchen. "Wow," Laura said. "You sure have changed the place."

"This isn't mine," Emily said. "It's Arthur's. You know, the photographer."

"That guy you were dating?" The walls were hung with

Arthur's blowups: moody landscape studies, bare trees, a round-faced model in Garbo black-and-white with a cat-eating- cream look on her face... "Whoa," Laura half laughed, pointing. "That's you! Hey! Nice."

"You like it?" Emily said. "Me too. Almost unretouched- okay, a little digitizer work." She peered into the freezer.

"We got chicken almondine-catfish-Rajaratnam's Ready-

2-Eat Lamb Curry ... "

"Something bland and American," Laura suggested. "Last thing I heard you and Arthur were on the outs.

"Now we're on the very heavy ins," Emily said smugly.

"Sorry the food's not better, but Arthur and I, we don't do much cooking in here.... Y'know, they got my place staked out, but it's eight floors down-and in a rat nest like Oxford

Towers, that might as well be in Dallas.... This place is as good a safehouse as anywhere. Arthur's cool about it-I think he's a little thrilled by all the hubbub, actually." She grinned.

"I'm his mystery woman."

"Do I get to meet him?"

"He's out of town right now, but I hope so." Emily slotted trays into the microwave. "I have a lot of hopes these days.... I'm thinking maybe I finally got it figured. The method of modem romance."

Laura laughed. "Yeah?"

"Better living through chemistry," Emily said, and blushed.

"Romance. Did I tell you about it?"

"Oh, Em, no." Laura reached into her jeans pocket, past a wad of change and some salted airline peanuts. "You mean these?"

Emily stared at the plastic vial. "Jesus! You mean you walked through Customs with a pocketful of Red-Hots?"

Laura winced. "They're not illegal, are they? I forgot all about them."

"Where'd you get 'em?"

"In Grenada. From a hooker."

Emily's jaw dropped. "Is this the Laura Webster I know?

You're not high on those, are you?"

"Well, have you been taking them?"

"Just a couple of times... . Can I see that?" Emily shook the little vial. "Boy, these look like megadosage.... I dunno,

I took 'em, they kind of made an idiot of me.... I guess you'd say I went crawling back to Arthur, after that fight we had, but it seemed to do us both good. I mean, maybe it's wrong to be too proud. Take one of those, and it makes the other stuff, the problems, feel kind of pointless.... You and

David aren't having trouble, are you?"

"No ... " Laura hedged. David emerged from the bath- room carrying the freshly changed baby. Emily quickly swept the vial into a kitchen drawer.

"What's up?" David said. "You two have that in-joke look again."

"Just saying how y'all have changed," Emily told him.

"You know something, Dave? Black suits you. You look really good."

"I put on some weight in Grenada," David said.

"On you it looks fine."

He half smiled. "That's it, flatter the moron.... You two talking company politics, right? Might as well let me hear the worst." He sat on a black-and-chrome counter stool. "As- suming it's safe to talk in here... "

"Everyone's talking about y'all," Emily, said. "You Web- sters earned beaucoup brownie points on this one."

"Good. Maybe we can coast a little now."