Fabienne Rivard strutted onstage before a wall of high definition monitors, a fifty by fifty grid of synchronized LCDs showing the Rivard logo—the muscular, sanserif R—superimposed over a spinning globe. Microphones carried the clack of her stilettos to every corner of the auditorium.

The sight of her made my stomach slide.

Fabienne was everything I'd heard: hollow-cheeked and plump-lipped as a supermodel, powerful in the thrust of her hips. She strode forth from the wall of crystalline screens and seemed part technology herself—cyborg or augmented human.

I tried focusing on the heiress's feet, which in heels looked veiny and impossibly long, not cute and compact as men have complimented mine in the past.

Didn't help.

In Fabienne's wake, a panel of eleven women and one older man—very French-looking with frizzy white hair—sat in folding chairs, a hemispheric frame about their leader.

"Welcome, leaders of industry, to Davos," Fabienne began in her smoky accent. "I have been asked to speak of the French perspective on this new world in which one finds herself. But I fear there is nothing French in what I will say today. This anarchy, all face equally. All must stand with strength."

I bustled between reporters and cameramen to see. Quaid had mined his diplomatic connections for a choice seat up front—better even than Jim Steed's—and Durwood, I knew, was patrolling the perimeter.

Fabienne continued, "The time for glossing over has passed. Now we must reshape our institutions—as CEOs, reshape our product offerings—to fit this new reality. The reality of chaos. It can be managed, I promise you. And the correct place for this management is the private sector."

Slim fingers gliding up and down a presentation clicker, she laid out a stark vision for the future. Governments had proved incapable of protecting their peoples and peoples' property, too focused on assigning blame and finagling votes. If corporations did not fill this leadership vacuum, criminals would.

"In this spirit, Rivard LLC is pleased to announce a new initiative." She pressed the clicker with a vermilion nail, and the digital wall erupted with images of armored vehicles and rifle-sighting commandos. "For some time, we have partnered with Forceworthy Services, the global leaders in personal and municipal security. Today, Forceworthy joins the Rivard family as a wholly owned and operated brand. We plan to expand the division aggressively—bringing peace to communities small and large, to homes, to schools, to all seven continents."

The wall of monitors now switched to videos of neighborhood pool parties, men in leisure suits and women in sun dresses, pouring wine as fires raged in the far distance, safely separated by razor wire and rows of Rivard/Forceworthy soldiers.

Listening, I got the same sensation I felt stepping over a dirty sidewalk panel and realizing—with a weak gag—that I wasn't actually looking at dirt, but an ant swarm.

I glanced up front to see how Quaid was reacting to the speech. His eyes were laser-locked on Fabienne Rivard, his mouth cocked in a dreamy smile.

Well, what else did you expect?

He had done it before, gone chasing the next shiny thing once the thrill wore off. What was Einstein's definition of insanity? Doing the same thing over and over again, and expecting a different result.

I refused to be jealous. Already I'd let the green goblin get me—back in Jim Steed's hotel room when I'd volunteered to "turn" Piper Jackson. Quaid had been gaping at that magazine during the flight...then he and Steed talking about the operation like I was some subhuman pawn...it had burned me. I was the one putting my life on the line, assuming the big risks.

And now I was signed up to risk even more—to reveal myself to Piper.

I was terrified to imagine her face when she found out I had been a plant all along. How her eyes would boil down to points, how any softness she'd allowed into her soul towards me would vanish.

Would she grip me by the arm, drag me straight to Josiah? Wreck the plan without giving me any shot at explaining? And what sick revenge would he take?

Now Fabienne segued into different sectors. Rivard saw itself becoming a provider of currency. A guaranteer of online connectivity. Currently, Rivard's network of high-speed routers was the internet's sole reliable backbone—

"Excuse, excuse, por favor," a reporter interrupted. "Manuel Aguilera, blogging for the Venezuelan people. What do you say to criticism that Rivard is profiteering off this terrible situation?"

Fabienne fixed the man in a cool glare. "I say nonsense. There is a need, and we are filling it."

"You've spoken ninety minutes," he said, "and not once mentioned efforts to retrieve the missing data. This seems strange, does it not?"

Fabienne sniffed. "I am a realist."

"There are those who claim Rivard's Enterprise Software division is compromised, that the very antivirus programs protecting the data in fact jeopard—"

"Further nonsense. Our competitors are waging a campaign to smear us, to conjure some grand conspiracy."

"Speaking of competitors," the reporter said, "it's been whispered your forces were involved in the attack on American Dynamics plants in Pittsburgh. Can you comment?"

The reporter peeked to one side, finding Quaid's eye.

At the same time, I felt a mobilization beginning about the reporter, a subtle but insistent closing of space. Men wearing sunglasses and ear pieces advanced through the crowd.

Fabienne gave a breathy chuckle. "Ah oui, the mainstream media has made it their mission to slander the great company of my father. I have grown accustomed to these lies."

Manuel Aguilera scribbled in a pad. "How is your father? Does Henri approve of this militarism?"

"My father is gravely ill. He remains, sadly, far removed from our day to day operations."

"My organization has come into possession of documents"—Manuel waved a sheaf of watermarked papers I recognized from Durwood's research—"that show, several months before the Blind Mice began their attacks, large security upgrades to Rivard's headquarters in Paris."

Fabienne said, "I will not apologize for vigilance."

"A private missile-defense system? Bulletproof office windows?" The reporter spread his arms, playing to the crowd's growing murmurs. "How is it you were so prescient, Miss Rivard?"

The heiress dragged her tongue between her lips.

"The fraying of society is not a new phenomenon. Roche Rivard was built during my father's regime. The idea of having a fortress for a corporate headquarters dates back forty years—to the height of socialism, when my father chose to chisel Roche Rivard from trillion-ton limestone in the Boulonge Woods. I have merely expanded upon his vision."

When a second reporter jumped in with a technical question, Fabienne deferred to the older man on her panel, introducing him as Yves Pomeroy.

Pomeroy tottered to the fore and was immediately hit with a hailstorm of suspicion. Why had Rivard's software permitted such data loss? Was it true Singapore had banned computers running the Rivard operating system? Who was leading the effort to restore the data? What were their qualifications?

The man addressed each challenge in precise, measured terms. His hands palsied at the sides of a sleek glass podium.

When the questioners seemed to have him pinned down on timelines—"Before or after the report, Monsieur Pomeroy?"—Fabienne seized control.

"Yves, who is a holdover from my father's time, suffers from Parkinson's Disease as anyone can see. I will allow no further cruelty against him."

Pomeroy receded to the wings with a bewildered air, doddering, cutting his eyes repeatedly at Fabienne. I was reminded of Granny, how she never quite trusted it when I told her to load plates into the dishwasher without rinsing—it'd never worked like that with her old Kenmore.

I wondered how she was doing with the kids. After Pepillo's Christmas night slaughter, there had been a period of scared-straight behavior, but it had passed. Zach had been pushing to rehab one of the junked motorcycles you could find on any major highway—and though I'd been firm he was NOT authorized to ride any vehicle whose repair he was responsible for, Granny didn't always get the message.

Yesterday, when I had explained bedtime was nine-thirty sharp, she'd said, "And you do that mountain time zone, like Matlock?"

I tried not to think what all they'd talked her into.

Fabienne Rivard was wrapping up.

"We have been given an awful situation—by these Blind Mice, by the American government that has failed to stop them. They are a cancer, and that cancer has metastasized." Despite the gravity of her words, an excited purr entered her voice. "Many of you may be discouraged hearing my assessment. You wish for a return to the previous state of affairs."

She pivoted on one stiff leg, giving the audience a new side of her face. "If you look inside your people—if you look inside yourselves—you will know that this is not possible. The Anarchy has brought out a darkness in the world. A darkness that always existed in the heart of man.

"It is surprising, perhaps, that it stayed covered for so long. Oh, it lived in the patriarchy and other repressive norms. Now this force, this power, has become diffused. An energy has been unleashed, and this energy can even be positive—if structures exist to channel it in a positive direction."

The LCD wall began a slow fade back to the Rivard logo. The auditorium lights rose. As the reporters around me stuffed notepads into pockets, I tried looking inside myself.

Did I have darkness? Had the Anarchy changed me?

I realized, with a mix of fear and grit, that it had.

I was just thinking ahead to how I might start the conversation with Piper Jackson—"Okay, I haven't been entirely honest with you"—when fingers clamped my upper arm.

"Have we met before, Miss?" said a British voice.

I flinched away, but the fingers stayed clamped. The man who owned them had a cruel face and muscles galore—cords and ropes of tanned, glimmering muscle. He wore a black jumpsuit.

"I—no, you must be confusing me with someone else."

His eyes were deathly still. "Florence. Or was it Spain, San Sebastian?"

My arm was turning white, and my mind reeled with panic.

"This is my first time out of the States," I managed. "You—you must be mistaken."

The man yanked me, bringing our faces close. "I don't make mistakes, lass."

I was just deciding whether to scream for help or dive under a passing hors d'oeuvres cart when my arm came suddenly free.