Bashir didn't expect to find Madred waiting at the clinic entrance, looking like he could barely contain himself.

"Bashir."

"Gul Madred. What can we do for you?"

"Don't toy with me, Bashir. You have a cure."

He sighed. So the word was out. He should have known better than to hope they could keep news of Parmak's recovery a secret for long.

"Gul Madred," he said, "I don't know what you've been told, but we don't have a cure. Not yet."

"But--"

"What we have, is an apparently spontaneous recovery from the plague, four separate individuals in different parts of the planet."

"What do you mean, spontaneous recovery?" The Cardassian scowled.

"I mean, we don't know why Parmak and a handful of others seem to be recovering, when no one else has. We are trying to figure it out -- and hopefully the answer will lead to a cure. But right now, we do not have a cure for the Dominion plague."

Madred's long face grew even longer, then he set his jaw. His eyes glittered. "All right, Bashir," he grated. "What is your price?"

Julian almost reeled back in shock. "My ... what?"

"What price to cure my daughter? Wealth? Name the amount! Do you want me to speak against the Directorate? I will do it! Information? Ask whatever you like and I will answer! Shall I renounce my home and spend my life in exile? Gather your witnesses and I will make whatever statement you devise! What will it cost, to save my daughter's life?"

For all that he knew of Madred's callous, brutal history, Bashir felt sorry for the father's desperation. He reflexively reached for the man's shoulder.

Madred pulled away. "You truly cannot cure her?"

"Not yet. But I'm not going to stop trying," Bashir vowed.

Madred studied him. The intensity of that look made the human feel like he was pinned under a microscope with a scalpel about to slice him open. Some part of his mind wondered if this was what the gul's victims had felt, while their torturer probed for weakness.

Something faded in the older man's eyes. "I wish to see Jil now. Your staff have refused me access. I will no longer allow that. I will see my child."

"It would be better if you weren't exposed to the plague."

"How much more exposed can I be, than to have lived in the same house as my child, and to have carried her here to you in my own arms?"

"What about others who might be exposed to you?" he asked baldly.

"You have your quarantine fields. Are you saying your equipment is of no use?"

After a second, the doctor capitulated. Why not? He nodded silently, then led the gul into the clinic.

* * * *

"Where is Madred?" Parn growled, annoyed. "I told him to come here."

Rekel held her tongue, standing motionless.

Hadar didn't. "He is at the Federation clinic. He has been there much of the day."

"Is he ill?" Parn demanded.

"Not that I have heard."

The legate's eyes narrowed. "Wasn't he told I wanted to see him?"

"Of course he was told, Legate," Hadar replied.

Silence thickened in the small office.

"Hadar, contact our main operatives in the city and the province; have them here tomorrow evening."

"What reason shall I give them?"

"I am telling them to come. They do not need more reason than that," Parn retorted. "If the Directorate falters now, we have already lost."

"Yes, Legate...." Hadar retreated.

Parn was left alone with the director. Without an order, she made no move to leave. The legate focused his attention on the report he was perusing, keeping her waiting.

After a moment, he set down his stylus and leaned back in his chair. "Report," he said in his deep voice.

"Madred remains near his daughter. Her condition is unchanged," Rekel replied. "Bashir and his people are focusing on the four known spontaneous cures, but I am not aware of any real progress."

"And Madred will remain at the clinic while his daughter is there."

"I doubt he could be dragged away, while her life is in danger," she admitted frankly. "Perhaps a matter of concern, Gul Madred was overheard to offer Bashir any price he cared to name, to cure her."

Parn's gaze was sharp. "Hmm. That is troubling. I thought it was merely Hadar's continuing efforts to gain advancement for himself by discrediting other members of the Directorate. What is your assessment?"

"I do not believe Madred would truly abandon the Directorate," Rekel said thoughtfully. "At this moment he is desperate and may say or do anything. If Bashir fails to find a cure, and his daughter dies, Madred will hate the Federation all the more. If the human finds a cure, and his daughter is out of danger, I believe Madred would be quick to repudiate any bargain made under such duress."

"Mmm." Parn nodded. "I think you read him well." He turned more businesslike. "See that Hadar succeeds in contacting our people, and no one is conveniently 'forgotten.' The election is soon. I don't want his ambition to get in the way of our goals."

She nodded once and marched out with military precision.

* * * *

Jake wrote as he walked, thoughtfully studying the long row of memorial markers. *Between the assorted statues, columns, and Cardassian sculpture of unknown significance, flowering plants now grow. Shades of color that seem--* He paused a moment. How to describe the colors? *Shades of color that seem washed out to human eyes....* No, that wasn't the way to go, most of his audience wasn't human, and the reference might seem insulting.... *Their greens, purples, blues, and reds seem dulled by the light filtering through the dusty sky, but that they grow and bloom at all is a tribute--*

"Well, my fine young journalist, what brings you to this garden of the dead?"

He jumped at the lilting words. "Garak! I didn't see you there!"

The Cardassian returned a benign smile. "I was right here, and you were quite intent upon what you were doing. May I ask what it is you're writing about?"

Jake waved an arm around. "I took a break from the clinic, thought I'd see how things had changed here."

"Indeed!"

"Yeah. The kids, Kehin and Ibis, have been talking about what a job you've been doing, cleaning up the memorial. They make it sound like you're single-handedly changing the face of the planet!"

"Ah, the children!" Garak beamed. "Believe me, their adulation is good for the ego, but hardly gives proper credit to the many Cardassians who have found or made the time to come here and spend a few hours restoring and beautifying this ... this spiritual place." He rubbed his hands on his apron, spotted with dirt from his morning's exertions. "So, Jake, do I detect another of your quadrant-shaking articles in the works? What impact would a story about a memorial on this distant world have on the average Federation citizen's morning beverage?"

Jake almost blushed. "I'm, uh, working on soft news today. Seeing what's happening in Cardassia City that might be interesting. Getting away from the clinic for a while--"

"Oh?" Garak all but pounced on that simple statement. "That's twice you've mentioned getting away from the clinic. So what might be happening at the clinic that warrants an escape?"

"Well...."

"Yes?" Garak drew out the single syllable.

Jake wondered why he felt like he was being interrogated. Considering Garak's past, maybe he was, he thought. "If you gotta know, that Glinn Melleen and his men are working around the clinic again today. And ... I don't like him."

"Glinn Melleen...." The Cardassian grew thoughtful.

"One of the survivors from Cardassia IV," Jake explained. "I'm surprised you haven't heard of him."

"Oh, I've heard of him! Who on Cardassia hasn't heard of the valiant Melleen who, forced to abandon his disintegrating ship, transported his surviving crew to the surface of the nearest moon, while still under fire from the treacherous Breen. He then brilliantly wiped out the Jem'Hadar unit sent after them, and spent four months leading his remaining men to safety, without equipment or supplies beyond the weapons they carried, a handful of emergency rations, and what they scavenged from the bodies of their enemies. I had heard he was in the city."

"Well, he volunteered to work in the clinic. And he's ... he's arrogant, and he always makes me feel like he's sneering down his nose at me and that it'd be too much trouble to even step on me." He shrugged in embarrassment. "It's hard to like a guy like that."

Now Garak began to laugh. "Oh, my dear young man. You have so much to learn about Cardassians...."

* * * *

Bashir looked up as the nurse approached him across the research lab. This might not be an easy conversation.

"You sent for me, doctor?" she began efficiently.

"Uh, yes.... I need somebody to requisition and bring the equipment on this list." He held out the PADD.

Eske accepted it, taken aback. A quick flash of irritation crossed her face. "I was in the second story plague ward," she burst out. "Surely one of the orderlies here could have handled this."

"I'm sure one of them could," he acknowledged. "But I wanted to talk with you for a moment."

"Doctor?" Her expression set as professional and distant as ever.

"The other day, when you spoke of that Cardassian, Crell Moset."

"I recall the conversation."

"Had you been reading any of his work?"

"No, I hadn't," she replied, now puzzled. "All I had heard was his reputation. Among the Cardassians, he's rather highly regarded. I knew he was considered a war criminal, but then, almost every Cardassian who served in a position of authority on Bajor during the occupation is considered a war criminal. I wasn't aware of just how far from the Federation standard of medical ethics he operated."

The next question was harder. "Did you locate any of his research, after that?"

"No, doctor, I didn't."

"You're certain, Eske? Not even by accident?"

"No," she insisted firmly. "Your order was quite clear."

"Good. Thank you. You can go, have someone else get that equipment for me."

Bashir watched the blonde woman walk away briskly. He wished he was sure that he could believe her.

* * * *

Ptacek couldn't help apologizing. "One more full scan, if you don't mind."

The Cardassian actually smiled as he sat up, a rare, authentic expression. "Whatever you need," he replied.

Dr. Parmak's color was better -- well, a better shade of gray, she amended mentally -- along with his breathing. He seemed stronger too. Knowing the answer to his people's salvation might lie in his cells and physiology somewhere had become a fire. Ptacek suspected that if they asked to dissect him, Parmak would simply offer his chest with a suggestion as to where to cut first.

Ptacek touched the panel beside the biobed and then ran her medical tricorder over Parmak's body.

Reviewing the data, she nodded. "Got it." Looking at Parmak, she said, "I'll forward the scan results to the lab. You should get some more rest."

"I'd rather get back to work."

"Not until we're sure you're completed recovered. You don't need a relapse. And right now, to be honest," she admitted bluntly, "the fact that you're still alive is giving hope to your people and restoring our credibility here."

He accepted it somberly. "I have my suspicions about who would use a plague for political advancement. All right, I'll stay in bed today. But tomorrow, I want to be back in the ward, even if it's just for a little while. If my survival is going to be a beacon of hope to my people, they have to see me actually on my feet. Otherwise they may well decide my cure is just another bit of Federation propaganda."

Leaving the ward after the exam, Ptacek found Glinn Melleen

He stared past her in Parmak's direction. "He continues to recover?"

"Yes. He should be back on his feet tomorrow."

"He'll take over control of the medical mission then?"

"Take over?" She stared at Melleen, puzzled.

The Cardassian officer looked irritated. "It is appropriate that a Cardassian command a relief mission on Cardassia, isn't it? Surely you cannot expect the Cardassian people to submit to a Federation presence indefinitely!"

"I'm not certain--"

"Not certain of what?" he demanded. "Not certain if or when Cardassia is entitled to take control of its own reconstruction? Or had the Federation perhaps come here with no intention of leaving?"

"When our job is done and Cardassia is back on its feet, of course we will step aside," she replied.

His deep-set blue eyes bored into her. "And who will decide what that moment comes?"

Melleen turned on his heel before she could answer.

* * * *

"Report."

Storie hesitated just a second before stating, "Nothing of consequence. We questioned eleven people today, all of whom denied any direct knowledge of Mondrig, his whereabouts, or his actions. They'd all heard rumors of explosives, weapons caches, hidden replicators, secret lairs, groups of Cardassians arming to drive out the Federation and take control."

Blake ran his fingers through his hair and stretched out his muscular legs. "Yeah, about what we heard, too. Where the hell are all these terrorists that everybody's heard about but nobody knows anything about?" he grumbled.

"Somebody's helping him. He's got to have a source here in the clinic, somebody who's warning him when we go looking for him."

"That's pretty obvious." Blake thought for a moment, staring past his subordinate. "Just gotta figure out who it is."

"Arrest him or her, or feed false information to try and smoke out Mondrig?"

"We'll decide that when we've got an idea who we'll be dealing with...." He rubbed his thumb over his lower lip, his focus shifting. "We've got to narrow down his target. Relief camp, ship, personal enemies...."

"We've got control over who comes and goes on the ships, maybe just tighten transporter access and supply transfer procedures," Storie noted, leaning on the desk and crossing her arms over her chest. "We could increase security at the camp -- hourly scans, add another couple of teams to the patrols, maybe have the ships run more intensive sensor sweeps."

"I've already asked 'em to recalibrate and sweep specifically for bilitrium. Just wish the stuff wasn't so easy to mask."

"It would help if there wasn't such a heavy level of particulates in the atmosphere just now -- the ships are having trouble with both sensors and transporters today."

"Hopefully they'll figure something out to deal with these disruptions," the commander grumbled. "Makes our job a lot harder, along with everybody else's."

"How about alerting Parn and Lang about the possible threat to them?" the woman suggested.

"I'm sure Director Rekel has made sure of that," Blake replied.

"You don't much like her, do you?" Storie asked.

"I think she's too close to Parn. She shows up in too many places, too many times. If something's going on, she always seems to be there."

"That's her job. She's just good at it -- probably why she was chosen for it."

"Maybe. I'd love to know who she's truly working for, though."

"You think she might be the one who's tipping him off?" she asked.

"I intend to find out."