ecker crossed the concourse toward the rest room doors only tofind the door marked CABALLEROS blocked by an orange pylon and acleaning cart filled with detergent and mops. He eyed the otherdoor. DAMAS. He strode over and rapped loudly.

"Hola?" he called, pushing the ladies' room dooropen an inch. "Con permiso?"

Silence.

He went in.

The rest room was typical, Spanish institutional—perfectlysquare, white tile, one incandescent bulb overhead. As usual, therewas one stall and one urinal. Whether the urinals were ever used inthe women's bathrooms was immaterial—adding them savedthe contractors the expense of having to build the extra stall.

Becker peered into the rest room in disgust. It was filthy. Thesink was clogged with murky brown water. Dirty paper towels werestrewn everywhere. The floor was soaked. The old electrichandblower on the wall was smeared with greenish fingerprints.

Becker stepped in front of the mirror and sighed. The eyes thatusually stared back with fierce clarity were not so clear tonight.How long have I been running around over here? he wondered.The math escaped him. Out of professorial habit, he shimmied hisnecktie's Windsor knot up on his collar. Then he turned to theurinal behind him.

As he stood there, he found himself wondering if Susan was homeyet. Where could she have gone? To Stone Manor withoutme?

"Hey!" a female voice behind him said angrily.

Becker jumped. "I-I'm…" he stammered,hurrying to zip up. "I'm sorry… I…"

Becker turned to face the girl who had just entered. She was ayoung sophisticate, right off the pages of SeventeenMagazine. She wore conservative plaid pants and a whitesleeveless blouse. In her hand was a red L.L. Bean duffel. Herblond hair was perfectly blow-dried.

"I'm sorry." Becker fumbled, buckling his belt."The men's room was… anyway… I'mleaving."

"Fuckin' weirdo!"

Becker did a double-take. The profanity seemed inappropriatecoming from her lips—like sewage flowing from a polisheddecanter. But as Becker studied her, he saw that she was not aspolished as he'd first thought. Her eyes were puffy andbloodshot, and her left forearm was swollen. Underneath the reddishirritation on her arm, the flesh was blue.

Jesus, Becker thought. Intravenous drugs. Who wouldhave guessed?

"Get out!" she yelled. "Just get out!"

Becker momentarily forgot all about the ring, the NSA, all ofit. His heart went out to the young girl. Her parents had probablysent her over here with some prep school study program and a VISAcard—and she'd ended up all alone in a bathroom in themiddle of the night doing drugs.

"Are you okay?" he asked, backing toward the door.

"I'm fine." Her voice was haughty. "You canleave now!"

Becker turned to go. He shot her forearm a last sad glance. There's nothing you can do, David. Leave italone.

"Now!" she hollered.

Becker nodded. As he left he gave her a sad smile. "Becareful."