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ground its way out of the belly of the plane, Elizabeth was wriggling in her seat with impatience. She forced her way out into the aisle as soon as she could, and hurried off the jet in the wake of tired business people and families pulling rolling suitcases.
    The First Class passengers, Kenmare among them, were far ahead of her in the gateway. The VIP treatment began again at once. A jeeplike transport was waiting for the star and her entourage. With a roar and a honk, the car zipped into a U-turn and sped away down the tiled corridor of the terminal. Elizabeth ran along behind, but it swiftly outpaced her and vanished into the crowd. More bollixing. Wait until she got that London courier alone. She'd make sure he wished he'd never been late for anything in his life!
    She didn't manage to catch up with the party until past Immigration, when Kenmare and the others were waiting for a limousine at the curb outside in the hot, sticky evening. The American courier must have missed her, too. She'd have to face the singer without her credentials.
    “So it's you again,” Kenmare said with high good humor as Elizabeth arrived at her side. “I'm sorry to be inhospitable, but it's been a long flight and I drank far too much. I'm too tired to socialize just now, lady dear. I'm glad to know such a perseverant fan as you, and I hope I'll see you at a concert some time.” And with that she turned her back.
    Frustrated, tired, and disheveled, Elizabeth stalked around her until she was face to face. She didn't know how prissy she sounded until the first words were out of her mouth.
    “Miss Kenmare, I am Special Agent Elizabeth Mayfield. I have been assigned to you by the British government as your security escort for the duration of your tour through America. I believe you were told to expect me. I would appreciate it if you would stay within reach of me at all times. I have been informed you have been the victim of certain attacks. I can't protect you if you will not cooperate. You must understand that I speak with the full force of the British government.”
    Fionna Kenmare stared her squarely in the eye, while her whole body swayed slightly, as if that focused gaze was the only thing holding her steady. In an entirely different voice, devoid of the folksy Irish accent, she said, “God, you're the same shirty prig you were back at University, Elizabeth. Will you never get over being hall prefect?”
    Elizabeth goggled. With the utmost self-control, she pulled her jaw back into its upright and locked position.
    “Phoebe? Phoebe Kendale?” she hissed. “Is that you under that awful paint job?”
    Suddenly, everything became clear. Elizabeth knew who it was Upstairs that had set the wheels in motion and put the pressure on from Whitehall: Phoebe's daddy. Lord Kendale, one of the very great muckety-mucks in the Ministry of Defense, wouldn't hesitate to call in favors from companion services to protect his only daughter. Fionna Kenmare had a legitimate Irish passport, but Elizabeth was able to make a shrewd guess how she got it. Phoebe's mother was Irish. Under laws which had only recently been changed, Phoebe was entitled to apply to the Irish government as the immediate descendant of a citizen. She must have changed her name at the same time. It wasn't illegal, so long as she wasn't defrauding anyone. Her father must have been mortified that his child had thrown over her allegiance to the Queen while he was a trusted member of her very government. Fionna Kenmare was vocal in interview and song as favoring Irish independence. Lord Kendale would have insisted on that veil of secrecy that was drawn over Fionna Kenmare's past. No wonder the bio had read like something out of Girls' Own Adventure magazine. The reporters hadn't a clue.
    Fionna/Phoebe looked at her in horror, realizing that she'd let her secret slip.
    “Shh!” she said, clapping her hand over her mouth and whispering through her fingers. Her ridiculously made-up eyes were