Now he was approaching the other books by topic, rather than trying to scan each from cover to cover. Nanotechnology in your world. . . . Pathways to molecular manufacturing. . . . Building big by building small. . . . Making molecules into motors. . . . The fantastic voyage into the human body. It was possible, even likely, that Jim Ferendelli's study of nanoscience and technology had nothing to do with his disappearance, but it was fact that at the moment Gabe had precious little in the way of ideas, and it was also fact that less than twenty-four hours ago a man—a legitimate assassin or part of an ingenious charade—had tried to kill him.

Alison had offered to take a cab or the Metro home from Ferendelli's brownstone, and Gabe, anxious to start reading and not wanting to screen every word she said for underlying intent, had come close to agreeing. In the end, though, he acknowledged his ambivalence toward her and his reluctance to end their evening together and made the drive to her place, although in near silence.

She lived in a prim brick garden apartment complex in Arlington, Virginia, just across the river from D.C., although she shared with Gabe that she now suspected the residence would not be hers for long. It seemed quite possible that by exposing her identity as she had, she might have outstayed her usefulness and be facing imminent deportation back to the desk job in San Antonio. The Secret Service was as uptight as any branch of the military, she told him—maybe more so. A blown assignment was a blown assignment regardless of the reasons.

Once during the drive, he had risked a glance over at her. She was gazing impassively ahead, approaching headlights glinting off the dampness in her dark eyes. She really did have an unusual, expressive beauty, he acknowledged, as well as an energy he couldn't get out of his mind. Still, something else he couldn't get out of his mind was that she had been placed in the White House Medical Unit to get information from him, possibly about the president's medical situation, and she was willing—no, required—to lie and possibly to steal as well to get the job done.

At that moment, no amount of beauty or energy could make up for the lack of trust he was feeling toward her.

Too bad.

"Well," she said as she opened the car door and stepped out in front of her apartment complex, "see you around."

"See you around," he replied, barely looking at her.

She took a step away and then looked back over her shoulder.

"Gabe?"

"Yes."

"It's not like you think."

Before he could ask what she meant, she had turned and was gone. Hours later, thoughts of her continued to intrude on his studies.