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"Sí?" the inspector asked.

"Comisario," said a man, "Deputy Serrador wishes for the woman to be brought to his office at once."

"Does he?" the inspector asked. He turned and looked at Aideen. His eyes narrowed slightly. "Perhaps, seńorita, the deputy wishes to apologize in person for this terrible tragedy."

Aideen said nothing.

"Or perhaps there is some other reason for the audience?" the inspector suggested.

Aideen rose. "If there is, Comisario Fernandez, I won't know that until I see him."

The inspector folded away his notebook and bowed courteously. If he were annoyed with her he didn't show it. He thanked Aideen for her assistance, apologized again for what had happened, then extended an arm toward the open door. Aideen left the room. The sergeant who had brought her inside was waiting. He greeted her with a bow and they walked down the corridor together.

Aideen felt bad for the inspector. He had an investigation to oversee and she hadn't given him anything to go on. But as Martha had pointed out, there were rules for every society and for every stratum of that society. And whatever the country, despite the constitutions and the checks and balances, the rules were always different for government. Phrases like "need-to-know" and "state secrets" effectively shut out otherwise legal inquiries. Unfortunately, in many instances-this one among them-the obstructions were necessary and legitimate.

Deputy Serrador's office was located a short walk down the corridor. The office was the same size and had largely the same decor as the room Aideen had just left, though there were a number of personal touches. On three walls were framed posters of the bullring of Madrid, the Plaza de las Ventas. On the fourth wall, behind the desk, were framed newspaper front pages describing Basque activities during the 1980's. Family photographs were displayed on shelves around the room.

Deputy Serrador was seated behind the desk when Aideen entered. Darrell McCaskey was sitting on the sofa. Both men rose when she entered. Serrador walked grandly from behind the desk, his arms outstretched and a look of deep sympathy on his face. His brown eyes were pained under his gray eyebrows. His high, dark forehead was creased beneath his slicked-back white hair and his wide mouth was downturned. His soft, large hands closed gently around Aideen's.

"Ms. Marley, I am so, so sorry," he said. "Yet in my grief I am also relieved that you are unharmed."

"Thank you, Mr. Deputy," Aideen said. She looked at McCaskey. The short, wiry, prematurely gray Deputy Assistant Director was standing stiffly, his hands folded in front of his groin. He was not wearing the kind of diplomatic sympathy that was all over Serrador: his expression was grave and tight. "Darrell," she said. "How are you?"

"I've been better, Aideen. You all right?"

"Not really," she said. "I blew it, Darrell."

"What do you mean?"

"I should have reacted differently," Aideen said. Emotion caused her to choke. "I saw what was happening and I blew it, Darrell. I just blew it."

"That's insane," McCaskey said. "You're lucky you were able to get out of the way at all."

"At the expense of another man's life-"

"That was unavoidable," McCaskey said.

"Mr. McCaskey is correct," Serrador said. He was still holding her hands within his. "You mustn't do this to yourself. These things are always much clearer in-what do you call it? Hindsight."

"That's what we call it," McCaskey said with barely concealed irritation. "Everything is always much clearer after the fact."

Aideen gave McCaskey a questioning look. "Darrell, what's wrong?"

"Nothing. Nothing except that Deputy Serrador is disinclined to hold any discussions at the moment."

"What?" Aideen said.

"It would be most inappropriate," Serrador stated.

"We don't agree," McCaskey replied. He looked at Aideen. "Deputy Serrador says that the arrangement was made with Martha. That it was her experience and her ethnic background that enabled him to convince the Basques and