“The plant was retrofitted for Project Lockdown about eight months ago,” Gerritson told her. “I was about to get a disability dis­charge, but instead they assigned me here.”

“Disability?”

“Long story.” Gerritson shoved a piece of grizzly meat in his mouth, and worked his jaws like it was an oversized piece of chewing gum. Maddy hoped he might elaborate, but no dice. Whatever the story, he wasn’t telling it.

“And exactly how do you fit into all of this? What’s your job here?”

Gerritson smirked. “Now, come on, Lieutenant Haas. That kind of information is on a need-to-know basis.”

Maddy volleyed back the smirk. “I need to know.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so?” Gerritson glanced around again. It was almost a tick. A habit developed from being too long under Bussard’s scrutiny. He leaned over his plate, confidingly. “Security detail,” he whispered. “Right wing of team zero.”

“OK. Now in English.”

“There are three of us who escort our ‘guest’ to his so-called ‘ther­apy’ sessions. Three times a day; before breakfast, lunch and dinner. The rest of our time is spent on facility maintenance.”

“And our guest is . . . ?

Gerritson grinned. “Didn’t quite hear that. You’ll have to ask me some other time.”

“You heard me perfectly,” Maddy whispered, both irritated and appreciative of their little game of intrigue. Gerritson said nothing more, just grinned away. Maddy found herself taking a mental snapshot of that grin. His smile—his face—was worth remembering. Unfor­tunately her shutter speed was too slow. He knew he had just been scanned into her long-term memory, and he held the grin a moment too long, as if posing for her Kodak moment. There was, she knew, a danger couched in this sustained moment. Danger and opportunity.