Traffic in Washington was almost at a standstill--not that this was really very unusual for a late Sunday afternoon. On Independence Avenue, a long Cadillac limousine, gleaming white and flying American flags from its front fenders, slipped to a stop behind a dusky brown pickup truck.

In the back seat, Jackson picked up a mike. "You need to get over left," he snapped. "Second Street is coming up soon."

"Yes, sir," the unseen driver replied.

"I don't know why you're being so impatient," Stephanie noted. "The events you're interested in don't start until seven-thirty at least. It's only a little after six now."

"Don't tell me what I'm interested in," Jackson grumbled.

"Yes, sir," Stephanie responded demurely. He seemed annoyed, and she was acutely aware at all times that it wasn't good to have Jackson annoyed with her.

"Besides," he went on, his manner softening noticeably, "I've got something special set up this time."

"Oh? What's that?"

"You'll see." He fell silent as the limo snaked on through the traffic. Much of it, Stephanie was aware, was going the same place they were, and soon enough the walls of their destination, RFK Stadium, came into sight. Not long after, the traffic branched, most of it headed for the parking lots, while the limo they were in veered off toward the VIP dropoff area. The car picked up speed for a moment, then rolled to a stop at the curb alongside an entranceway guarded by an awning. A valet opened the limo's door; Jackson heaved his bulk out, followed by Stephanie. Together they went through the entrance and inside.

The layout of aging RFK had changed considerably since the days long ago when the Washington Redskins played football there. The field was still there, although much reduced in size and no longer green with grass. The stands were still the same giant horseshoe they always were. The skyboxes, once the purview of VIPs like Jackson, were no longer used for that purpose, now they were for the TV crews only. Now, the new enclosed VIP boxes were at ground level, where once the benches of opposing football teams and goalposts were. The new structures formed a ring around the central part of the stadium, a ring broken in four places by entryways, two from the parking areas from outside and two leading to ramps flanked by stairs which descended into the earth beneath the stands. Stephanie, having been here with Jackson on numerous occasions in the past, automatically started down the hall toward the private box held by Jackson and some of the other upper-level Justice Department officials.

"No, we're not going that way today," Jackson said, stopping her. "Not yet, anyway." He gestured. "Follow me." She shrugged; obediently, she followed. After a couple of turns and a walk down a flight of stairs, a man in a suit waved to them from up ahead. Stephanie recognized him; Senator George Turkin, Republican from Texas, a reasonably common associate of Jackson's.

"You're a little late, Billy," the Senator said as they drew close. He looked Stephanie up and down, focusing for a moment on her legs and again on her chest, but otherwise ignored her.

"Traffic," Jackson replied.

"Always bad on Sundays when they hold the games," Turkin agreed. "Well, let's go." He turned away; Jackson and Stephanie followed him into another corridor, under a huge sign that read, "NO ADMITTANCE" and past an armed guard who gave them a cursory look and a nod before waving them on. At the end of this short hallway was a pair of double-doors; the Senator banged them open and walked inside.

Stephanie looked around. Lockers, benches. Showers off to her right. A glassed-in training room off to her left. One of the dressing rooms for the teams during the days RFK was used as a football stadium, and now still used that way. A number of women--Stephanie estimated nine--in various stages of undress looked up as they came in. Turkin and Jackson, basically ignoring four of them, went straight to one who was sitting on a bench in front of a locker, a tall muscular blond who was dressed in a T-shirt and shorts. Stephanie, unsure of what she should be doing, remained near the door; she could overhear the Senator introducing the blond, whose name was evidently "Jenna," to Jackson. Most of the other women ignored both Stephanie and the men and went back to what they were doing. These were, Stephanie knew, some of the contestants in tonight's games, the games they'd come to see.

One of them, a slender but athletic-looking girl with a wide face and black hair cut short, regarded Stephanie curiously. After a moment she motioned for Stephanie to come over to the bench where she was sitting. Stephanie pointed to her own chest; the girl nodded.

"Hi," the dark-haired girl said as she approached. "I'm Mindy Morris. Who're you?"

Stephanie cocked her head and frowned. "Mindy Morris? The tennis player? Yes, of course you are, I recognize you..."

Mindy nodded. "That's me. One US Open and one Wimbledon championship, but who gives a fuck about that, huh?"

Stephanie frowned. "Oh... sorry," she said. "Stephanie. Stephanie Wilson."

Mindy offered her hand. "Good to meet you, Stephanie. What the fuck are you doing down here?"

"I have no idea," Stephanie answered. She nodded towards Jackson and Turkin, who were still talking to the blond. "I'm with them. I work for Billy Jackson at the Justice Department."

Mindy crinkled her nose as if smelling something foul. "You do? Why, for god's sake?"

Stephanie could not restrain a sigh. "Long story," she said.

"Well," Mindy said, "doubt if I really have time for any long stories right now. I was just wondering if they were prepping you to enter the games."

"Me? No."

"That's good for you." She leaned back slightly and propped one sneaker-clad foot on the bench. "I was just going to tell you, if you still had a choice about it, don't."

"Don't get into the games?" Stephanie grinned. "Hardly. I'm not an athlete. Very far from it."

"You look like you could be one. And they are always on the hunt for Class-As for these games."

"But--you're Class-A, aren't you? I mean--"

Mindy laughed and patted her chest. "With these little B-cup titties? Not a chance. Class B."

"Oh." Stephanie peered at her. "I can think of a lot of good reasons," she said, "not to get involved with the games. But there is a lot of money to be made too, isn't there?" She paused and frowned. "Even so--I can't understand why you--I mean, you were a champion tennis player, there's a lot of money in that too..."

Mindy glanced at Jackson and Turkin again, but they appeared to be fully involved with Jenna. She looked back at Stephanie. "You don't know anything about it, do you?" she asked in a low voice. "Even though you're with the Justice department, you don't know a thing about it."

"As far as I know," Stephanie answered, "the only way the Justice department is involved with these games is as VIP spectators." She shrugged. "But then I'm just a secretary. I'm called an administrative assistant and I get paid as one, but all I am really is a secretary."

Mindy nodded. "You should know, then. As far as I'm concerned everybody should know." She pursed her lips. "You have to go with them when the games start? Or can you stay here?"

"Down here?" Stephanie echoed. "I don't know--probably--more than likely Jackson won't care."

"If you want to--and if you can--I'll tell you a story that'll curl your hair."

"Well, I'd like to hear it." She rose. "Let me find out." She walked over to the other bench, where Jenna was laughing politely--but without humor--at one of Jackson's poor jokes, and asked him.

"Down here? Why do you wanna stay down here? The view from the tunnel ain't gonna be very good."

As if that bothered me, Stephanie thought. "I've just become acquainted with one of these women, and I want to talk to her for a while."

Jackson waved her off. "Yeah. It's okay, stay. I'll meet you at the exit when the games are over. Don't make me wait."

"I won't."