the garage of its owner, a trusted friend, then led Jon and Randi onto the metro. Carrying their few pieces of luggage, they kept careful watch everywhere, fighting off the conflicting emotions of urgency and mental exhaustion, although Randi and Jon had each taken good naps during the drive, while Peter, the stalwart Brit, had already had more sleep than either of them and so had driven them on in to Madrid.
With relief, they disembarked at the San Bernardo metro station and entered the Malasana, known to locals as the Barrio de Maravillas, or District of Miracles. Here in the city's colorful bohemian quarter, nightlife was in abundance, and they passed bars, restaurants, and clubs, some a bit decayed but always charming. But then, this was a haven for not only artists and writers but expatriate yuppies who toted their dreams and assumptions with them around the world. Everywhere Jon, Randi, and Peter walked, lively music vibrated out into the streets.
The MI6 safe house was on Calle Dominguin, not far from Plaza del Dos de Mayo, the hub of this spirited area. It was a six-story stone building in a row of identical attached and semiattached stone buildings, with painted wood shutters, shuttered doors that opened onto traditional iron balconies, and shops and restaurants on the street level below. The odors of liquor and cigarette smoke drifted along the street as Jon, Randi, and Peter arrived at the address. Advertisements for Langostino Plancha and Gambas al Ajillo showed in the dark windows of the first-floor shop.
They stopped at an inconspicuous door, and Jon and Randi kept watch as Peter unlocked it. With a final look all around, they slipped inside and upstairs.
The place was decorated with comfortable furniture that had seen better days, but then, a safe house's purpose had nothing to do with being a decorator's showplace. They chose bedrooms, changed into casual trousers and shirts, and met in the second-floor living room.
Jon announced, "I'd better contact army intelligence." He used his cell phone to dial Fred Klein. As the phone's electronic codes and numbers were scanned and cleared, there were the usual clicks, silences, and hums.
Finally, Fred's voice announced simply: "Not a word. Hang up. Now."
The line went dead, and Jon quickly switched off the phone. Startled, dismayed, he muttered, "Damn. There's more trouble." He repeated what his "army contact" had said.
"Maybe it'll be different with Langley," Randi said, and dialed her cell phone. The phone in far-off Virginia rang for a long time, and she grimaced and shrugged at Jon and Peter. "Nothing yet."
At last there was a short, sharp series of clicks. "Russell?"
"Who did you expect?"
"Hang up."
Randi clicked the cell phone off. "What the hell could it be?"
"Sounds to me as if someone's compromised your secure dedicated electronic intelligence communications systems," Peter decided. "Which could also mean those at SIS in London, including MI5 and MI6."
Randi swallowed hard. "Good God. At least they didn't learn anything from us."
"Ah," Peter told her, "but I'm afraid they might have."
"Yes," Jon said, understanding. "They could know now where you and I both are, Randi, assuming they're interested, know who they're tracking, and have the DNA computer up and running."
"That's a lot of 'ifs,' Jon. You said the machine wasn't at the farmhouse, and the last we saw of Mauritania's people, they were taking off in helicopters."
"All too true," Peter said. "But I doubt the prototype's ever far away from Mauritania, which makes me think they had a second safe house nearby and used that farmhouse to meet and pay off Elizondo and his Basques and store the Chambords. Which is why I will not call London. Too bloody close to Madrid. I think we need to assume for the time being that all our electronics are under siege. Which means it's entirely possible they have a bead on you two now. They don't necessarily know about me, but if I whip out my cell phone and report into MI6, there's the chance they'll figure out about me faster than a hare across the highlands, and about MI6."
"It's ridiculous to have to hop on planes and fly home to report in person," Randi decided. "But it's true we used to do business this way, with messengers hand-carrying information back and forth. Good Lord, we could be going back to the Dark Ages in intelligence."
"Goes to show how dependent we've become on our oh-so-convenient electronic communications," Peter said. "Still, we must somehow figure out how to contact our superiors about the