Containment Read Free

No, but I've talked with her a few times."
    " You like her?"
    Lisa hesitated. "I guess...."
    " Don't guess," said Kraig. "Say what you mean, honestly."
    Lisa sighed. "To be perfectly honest, I found her detestable."
    " Good," said Kraig, rising from the chair. "I've got an assignment for you."
     
    Arlington, Virginia / 10:30 a.m.
     
    A woman sat on the floor, legs crossed, hands resting on knees. The photochromatic windows of her bedroom were darkened to almost blackness. The only source of light came from a widescreen plasma TV covering nearly the whole of one wall; it showed an early morning scene from an 18th-century city. From the wall-mounted speakers came the sound of wagons—tumbrels—creakily rolling over stone streets. The wooden wheels slapped against the odd, irregular shape of the stones, fell into gaps and squeaked as they grinded their way along the ancient pavement.
    And voices shouted and cursed .
    " Mourez! Mourez! " Die! Die!
    Cecily Sunday continued to sit motionless on the floor. Her eyes were closed.
    The tumbrel was approaching its destination, Place de la Révolution . And then, La Guillotine . Cecily had traveled the route many times—in her imagination. Her left hand slid down her thigh and reached out to the side, where the knife lay. A big hunting knife with a blood groove and a razor edge.
    She had no plans to use the knife. But she picked it up and felt the haft, caressed it with her palm and fingers.
    At the end of her fantasy trip was the infamous guillotine, so liberally used in the bloodbath of the Reign of Terror. La Terreur à l'ordre du jour. A daily dose of terror. It was one of Cecily's favorite historical periods.
    She would make the final walk, attacked by angry people —snaggly-toothed, unwashed, spotted and scarred by syphilis, pox, and tuberculosis—who would spit on her and curse her and kick her. And then at the end, on the scaffolding, a heavy blade loomed above. Sand was sprinkled everywhere, to soak up the blood lest the executioners slip and injure themselves.
    To die a horrific death, in disgrace, betrayed by your people and your —
    The screen suddenly blanked. The bedroom lights came on.
    Cecily's eyes opened. She blinked.
    " Message," said a synthetic voice.
    The screen flashed again and text appeared. The voice began reading. But Cecily knew who it was from. Had to be; there was only one person who could rate a priority high enough to interrupt Robespierre and the French Revolution.
    She got up. The lights brightened. Cecily Sunday was 36 years old; she was a small-boned woman, petite, pale, with shoulder-length auburn hair. Her movements were languid, as if she were actually making that last walk.
    Just outside, in the office room of her apartment, Cecily could hear the printer working.
    So. Kraig Drennan had sent some notes. She went to the printer and gathered the papers, glancing at them quickly. She started to put them down, then looked again, more closely.
    Returning to her bedroom with the papers, she called up the map function of her computer and requested Medburg. She zoomed and shifted the view.
    Then she smiled. Cecily Sunday had a weird smile. It was like a grimace, and people who didn't know her usually saw it with a sense of trepidation, as if they were seeing someone in pain.
    This one could be easy, thought Cecily. And if she was right she could show up Kraig a little. Just a little, that 's all she wanted.
    She smiled again. All the more reason to be merry.
     
    Bethesda, Maryland / 3:10 p.m.
     
    From her glass cubicle Lisa Murdoch watched the petite auburn-haired woman glide through the office area. She'd noticed before how Cecily seemed to glide when she walked. Weird. From her days as a high-stepper and baton-twirler in the high school marching band, Lisa knew that most people bobbed up and down when they walked, but Cecily Sunday had a gait like a ghost.
    Lisa put on a headset that was plugged into her computer. The screen showed Kraig