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by her side.”
    “Sure. And don’t worry about anything here. I’ve got it all under control.”
    “Thanks, Vick.”
    Sheila ended the call and put the phone away. As she crept back into the room, she thought about how lucky she’d been to find Vicki, too. She had more than two dozen employees, and Victoria Miller was the best of them. No formal education beyond high school, yet she had more natural business sense than any of the arrogant MBA geniuses Sheila had interviewed. Vicki was hardworking, tough, and   —best of all   —trustworthy beyond all doubt. That was something they didn’t stress much in postgrad courses, Sheila noticed.
    She was just about to return to the magazine when her mother groaned and rolled her head back and forth. The oxygen mask didn’t follow   —the tube got caught under her arm. This caused the edge of the mask to press her nose down crookedly. Sheila hastened to fix it, and Margaret’s eyes opened. They were red-rimmed and watery, like those of a child who’d been crying.
    “Sweetheart,” she said, her voice muted behind the clear plastic.
    Sheila was stunned by the lucidity of her tone. They were medicating her heavily to chase off the pain. She slept most of the time, talked nonsense the rest. She usually confused the past with the present, referring to long-dead friends and family as if they were standing in the hallway. Every now and then she produced a coherent thought, but they were growing scarce.
    Sheila leaned down and smiled. “Yes, Mama?”
    Margaret lifted the arm with the gauzy wristband and, with surprising strength, took her hand. “I’m sorry,” she said.This came out shaky and labored, but the eyes were suddenly bright again. The abruptness of the change was unsettling.
    “For what?” There was still a faint trace of the Texas accent in Sheila’s voice, in spite of not having lived here for almost twenty years.
    Margaret’s eyes closed again, and she sank back onto the pillow. This simple exchange had drained her, it seemed. Sheila thought she might fall back to sleep.
    Then her mother took a deep breath and swallowed to clear her throat. Her eyes reopened. “For the burden. The burden of it.”
    Puzzled, Sheila studied her for a long moment. “What are you talking about?”
    “This burden that I’m leaving you. I’m sorry, Sheila. I’m so sorry.”
    “Mama? What burden? What do you mean?”
    “Just get rid of it. Get rid of it.”
    “What? Mama, I don’t underst   —”
    “I’m sorry. . . .”
    The eyes closed slowly this time. Her breathing became deep and heavy.
    Margaret Baker had just two more rational moments   —one the next day in which she said that she loved her daughter more than anything in the world, and a second on her final day, when she asked Sheila what she thought God might have in store for her. When Sheila said she didn’t know but was sure it would be wonderful, her mother managed a weak nod before slipping into unconsciousness. Her suffering came to an end less than two hours later.

2
    “THEIR OBJECTIVE was to blow up four synagogues in upstate New York. All on the Shabbat, all at the same time.”
    As assistant deputy director of the CIA, J. Frederick Rydell wouldn’t normally deliver this briefing. But the agency’s number two, the only man superior to Rydell aside from Director Vallick himself, was still overseas. Rydell was thin and smallish, with silvering hair that still bore random streaks of its former shoe-polish black. He was dressed in a dark suit with a tightly knotted tie and was leaning slightly forward with a manila folder in his lap.
    “These were large congregations,” Rydell went on, “mostly wealthy and well-to-do. The planners wanted a high body count. Plenty of children would’ve been involved too.”
    “And it was only six men running the operation?” Director Vallick asked from his side of the desk. The CIA boss’s personal feelings on most issues were usually a matter of