Joanna glanced up from the screen to her husband, stretched out on the couch across the room. Lev knows how to accept imprisonment, she thought. It must be in his Russian genes.

But to the image in the phone screen she said, "Now look. I'm perfectly capable of arranging my own security. I could have a small army of bodyguards here in Corsica in a few hours if you'd allow me to make a phone call back to my corporate headquarters in Savannah."

"Aren't you comfortable in your quarters?" the bureaucrat asked. "Our instructions were to see that you had the very best suite-"

"The best suite in your jail!" Joanna spat.

"Really, Mrs Brudnoy

"Your damned medical tests have shown we're not infested with nanobugs. I don't care what your so-called security risks are. I want to get out of here!"

"I'm afraid—" The bureaucrat's vapid expression suddenly changed. He blinked several times and a small knot of anxiety appeared between his brows. "One moment, please."

The phone screen went blank.

Joanna wanted to scream. She looked over at her husband. "Lev, how can you just lie there?"

"I am planning our escape," he said, quite seriously. "All we need is a tunneling machine."

Before Joanna could reply the screen chimed and Georges Faure's face appeared, scowling like a miniature thundercloud.

The newscast from Kiribati came through while Faure was in his office discussing economic controls over international air traffic. He did not have the luxury, then, of demolishing the furniture or any other way of venting his fury.

He dismissed his underlings and watched the newscast alone, his anger and blood pressure rising with each second. There was Captain Munasinghe, screaming uselessly at his troops as they ingloriously ran away from Moonbase's garage. There was Munasinghe, obviously in a fit of hysteria, fumbling with a grenade and charging through the wide-open airlock. And there was Munasinghe, killed by his own grenade.

Idiots! Faure fumed silently. Who allowed this to happen?

He banged a chubby fist on his phone console and demanded to be put through to Edan McGrath, owner of Global News. But even before the electronics could make the connection he cancelled the call.

It will do no good, Faure told himself. The cat has escaped the sack. Whether or not McGrath has gone back on his promise to me no longer matters. Neither of us can put the cat back inside now.

Yet he made a mental note to work more closely with the New Morality zealots in Washington who wanted to put more limits on the news media.

Breathing deeply in a vain attempt to calm himself, Faure put through a call to Corsica, instead of Atlanta.

By the time Joanna Brudnoy's surprised face appeared on his desktop phone screen, Faure had almost regained his self-composure.

"Madame Brudnoy," he said as pleasantly as he could manage.

"Mr Faure," she snapped back. Obviously she was not happy at being detained in Corsica.