Contents

AbouttheBook

AbouttheAuthors

AlsobyJamesPatterson

HaveYouReadThemAll?

TitlePage

Dedication

Prologue:TheOldSod

One

Two

Three

PartOne:OfftheRails

Chapter1

Chapter2

Chapter3

Chapter4

Chapter5

Chapter6

Chapter7

Chapter8

Chapter9

Chapter10

Chapter11

Chapter12

Chapter13

Chapter14

Chapter15

Chapter16

Chapter17

Chapter18

Chapter19

Chapter20

Chapter21

Chapter22

PartTwo:TheCitySleeps

Chapter23

Chapter24

Chapter25

Chapter26

Chapter27

Chapter28

Chapter29

Chapter30

Chapter31

Chapter32

Chapter33

Chapter34

Chapter35

Chapter36

Chapter37

Chapter38

Chapter39

Chapter40

Chapter41

Chapter42

Chapter43

Chapter44

Chapter45

Chapter46

Chapter47

Chapter48

Chapter49

Chapter50

PartThree:AllWorkandnoPlay

Chapter51

Chapter52

Chapter53

Chapter54

Chapter55

Chapter56

Chapter57

Chapter58

Chapter59

Chapter60

Chapter61

Chapter62

Chapter63

Chapter64

Chapter65

Chapter66

Chapter67

Chapter68

Chapter69

Chapter70

Chapter71

Chapter72

Chapter73

Chapter74

Chapter75

Chapter76

Chapter77

PartFour:PleaseStandBy

Chapter78

Chapter79

Chapter80

Chapter81

Chapter82

Chapter83

Chapter84

Chapter85

Chapter86

Chapter87

Chapter88

Chapter89

Chapter90

Chapter91

Chapter92

Chapter93

Chapter94

Chapter95

Chapter96

Chapter97

Chapter98

Chapter99

Chapter100

Chapter101

Chapter102

Chapter103

Chapter104

Chapter105

Chapter106

Chapter107

Chapter108

WhoisDetectiveMichaelBennett?

SneakPreview

Copyright

ABOUTTHEBOOK

EveryNewYorker’sworstnightmareisabouttobecomeareality.

NewYorkhasseenmorethanitsfairshareofhorrificattacks,butthecityisaboutto

be shaken in a way it never has before. After two devastating catastrophes in quicksuccession, everyone is on edge.DetectiveMichaelBennett is assigned to the case andgiventhenearimpossibletaskofhuntingdowntheshadowyterrorgroupresponsible.

Withtroublesathometocontendwith,Bennetthasneverbeenmoreatrisk,ormore

alone,fightingthechaosallaroundhim.

Thenashockingassassinationmakesitclearthattheseinexplicableeventsarejustthe

prelude to thebiggest threat of all.NowBennett is racing against the clock to savehisbelovedcity–beforethemostdestructiveforcehehaseverfacedtearsitapart.

ABOUTTHEAUTHORS

JAMESPATTERSONisoneofthebest-knownandbiggest-sellingwritersof all time. Since winning the Edgar™ Award for Best First Novel with The ThomasBerrymanNumber,hisbookshavesoldinexcessof300millioncopiesworldwideandhehasbeenthemostborrowedauthorinUKlibrariesforthepasteightyearsinarow.Heistheauthorofsomeofthemostpopularseriesof thepast twodecades–theAlexCross,Women’sMurderClub,DetectiveMichaelBennettandPrivatenovels–andhehaswrittenmanyothernumberonebestsellersincludingromancenovelsandstand-alonethrillers.HelivesinFloridawithhiswifeandson.

Jamesispassionateaboutencouragingchildrentoread.Inspiredbyhisownsonwho

was a reluctant reader, he also writes a range of books specifically for young readers.JamesisafoundingpartnerofBooktrust’sChildren’sReadingFundintheUK.

MICHAELLEDWIDGEistheauthorofTheNarrowbackandBefore theDevilKnowsYou’reDead.He is also the co-author of theMichaelBennett serieswithJamesPatterson.

AlsobyJamesPatterson

ALEXCROSSNOVELS

AlongCameaSpider•KisstheGirls•JackandJill•CatandMouse•PopGoestheWeasel•RosesareRed•VioletsareBlue•FourBlindMice•TheBigBadWolf•

LondonBridges•Mary,Mary•Cross•DoubleCross•CrossCountry•AlexCross’sTrial(withRichardDiLallo)•I,AlexCross•CrossFire•KillAlexCross•MerryChristmas,AlexCross•AlexCross,Run•CrossMyHeart•HopetoDie•CrossJustice(tobe

publishedNovember2015)

THEWOMEN’SMURDERCLUBSERIES

1sttoDie•2ndChance(withAndrewGross)•3rdDegree(withAndrewGross)•4thofJuly(withMaxinePaetro)•The5thHorseman(withMaxinePaetro)•The6thTarget(with

MaxinePaetro)•7thHeaven(withMaxinePaetro)•8thConfession(withMaxinePaetro)•9thJudgement(withMaxinePaetro)•10thAnniversary(withMaxinePaetro)•11thHour(withMaxinePaetro)•12thofNever(withMaxinePaetro)•Unlucky13(withMaxine

Paetro)•14thDeadlySin(withMaxinePaetro)

PRIVATENOVELS

Private(withMaxinePaetro)•PrivateLondon(withMarkPearson)•PrivateGames(withMarkSullivan)•Private:No.1Suspect(withMaxinePaetro)•PrivateBerlin(withMarkSullivan)•PrivateDownUnder(withMichaelWhite)•PrivateL.A.(withMarkSullivan)

•PrivateIndia(withAshwinSanghi)•PrivateVegas(withMaxinePaetro)•PrivateSydney(withKathrynFox,tobepublishedAugust2015)

NYPDREDSERIES

NYPDRed(withMarshallKarp)•NYPDRed2(withMarshallKarp)•NYPDRed3

(withMarshallKarp)

STAND-ALONETHRILLERS

Sail(withHowardRoughan)•Swimsuit(withMaxinePaetro)•Don’tBlink(with

HowardRoughan)•PostcardKillers(withLizaMarklund)•Toys(withNeilMcMahon)•NowYouSeeHer(withMichaelLedwidge)•KillMeIfYouCan(withMarshallKarp)•GuiltyWives(withDavidEllis)•Zoo(withMichaelLedwidge)•SecondHoneymoon(withHowardRoughan)•Mistress(withDavidEllis)•Invisible(withDavidEllis)•TheThomasBerrymanNumber•TruthorDie(withHowardRoughan)•MurderHouse(with

DavidEllis,tobepublishedSeptember2015)

NON-FICTION

TornApart(withHalandCoryFriedman)•TheMurderofKingTut(withMartin

Dugard)

ROMANCE

SundaysatTiffany’s(withGabrielleCharbonnet)•TheChristmasWedding(withRichard

DiLallo)•FirstLove(withEmilyRaymond)

OTHERTITLES

MiracleatAugusta(withPeterdeJonge)

FAMILYOFPAGE-TURNERS

MIDDLESCHOOLBOOKS

TheWorstYearsofMyLife(withChrisTebbetts)•GetMeOutofHere!(withChrisTebbetts)•MyBrotherIsaBig,FatLiar(withLisaPapademetriou)•HowISurvivedBullies,Broccoli,andSnakeHill(withChrisTebbetts)•UltimateShowdown(withJuliaBergen)•SaveRafe!(withChrisTebbetts)•JustMyRottenLuck(withChrisTebbetts,to

bepublishedOctober2015)

IFUNNYSERIES

IFunny(withChrisGrabenstein)•IEvenFunnier(withChrisGrabenstein)•ITotally

Funniest(withChrisGrabenstein)

TREASUREHUNTERSSERIES

TreasureHunters(withChrisGrabenstein)•DangerDowntheNile(withChris

Grabenstein)•SecretsoftheForbiddenCity(withChrisGrabenstein,tobepublishedSeptember2015)

HOUSEOFROBOTS

HouseofRobots(withChrisGrabenstein)•RobotsGoWild!(withChrisGrabenstein,to

bepublishedDecember2015)

KENNYWRIGHT

KennyWright:Superhero(withChrisTebbetts)

HOMEROOMDIARIES

HomeroomDiaries(withLisaPapademetriou)

MAXIMUMRIDESERIES

TheAngelExperiment•School’sOutForever•SavingtheWorldandOtherExtreme

Sports•TheFinalWarning•Max•Fang•Angel•Nevermore•Forever

CONFESSIONSSERIES

ConfessionsofaMurderSuspect(withMaxinePaetro)•ThePrivateSchoolMurders(withMaxinePaetro)•TheParisMysteries(withMaxinePaetro)•TheMurderofan

Angel(withMaxinePaetro,tobepublishedOctober2015)

WITCH&WIZARDSERIES

Witch&Wizard(withGabrielleCharbonnet)•TheGift(withNedRust)•TheFire(withJillDembowski)•TheKiss(withJillDembowski)•TheLost(withEmilyRaymond)

DANIELXSERIES

TheDangerousDaysofDanielX(withMichaelLedwidge)•WatchtheSkies(withNed

Rust)•DemonsandDruids(withAdamSadler)•GameOver(withNedRust)•Armageddon(withChrisGrabenstein)•LightsOut(withChrisGrabenstein)

GRAPHICNOVELS

DanielX:AlienHunter(withLeopoldoGout)•MaximumRide:MangaVols.1–8(with

NaRaeLee)

FormoreinformationaboutJamesPatterson’snovels,visitwww.jamespatterson.co.uk

OrbecomeafanonFacebook

HaveYouReadThemAll?

STEPONACRACK

ThemostpowerfulpeopleintheworldhavegatheredforafuneralinNewYorkCity.Theydon’tknowit’satrapdevisedbyaruthlessmastermind.Despitebattlinghisown

tragedies,it’suptoDetectiveMichaelBennetttosaveeverylasthostage.

RUNFORYOURLIFE

TheTeacherisgivingNewYorkalessonitwillneverforget,slaughteringthepowerfulandthearrogant.MichaelBennettdiscoversavitalpattern,buthasonlyafewhoursto

savethecitybeforethingsgettooclosetohome.

WORSTCASE

Childrenfromwealthyfamiliesarebeingabducted.Butthecaptorisn’tdemandingmoney.He’squizzinghishostagesonthepriceotherspayfortheirluxuriouslives,and

onewronganswerisfatal.

TICKTOCK

NewYorkisinchaosasarashofhorrifyingcopycatcrimestearsthroughthecity.MichaelBennettcutshisfamilyholidayshorttoinvestigate,butnotevenhecouldpredictthe

earth-shatteringenormityofthiskiller’splan.

I,MICHAELBENNETT

BennettarrestsinfamousSouthAmericancrimelordManuelPerrineinadeadlychasethatleavesMichael’slifelongfrienddead.Fromjail,Perrinevowstorainterrordown

uponNewYorkCity–andtogetrevengeonMichaelBennett.

GONE

Perrineisbackanddeadlierthanever.Bennettmustmakeanimpossibledecision:stayandprotecthisfamily,orhuntdownthemanwhoistheirbiggestthreat.

BURN

Agroupofwell-dressedmenenteracondemnedbuilding.Later,acharredbodyisfound.MichaelBennettisabouttoenterasecretundergroundworldofterrifyingdepravity.

ForSisterSheila

PROLOGUE

THEOLDSOD

ONE

“MIKE,MARYCATHERINEhere saidyou’reNYPD.Soyou’vegunneddownalotofpeople,then,haveya?”

I raised an eyebrowover the rimofmyglossywaiting-roommagazine atBilly, theslim,scruffylaw-officereceptionisttypingathiscomputer.

LikemanyoftheIrishfolkI’dcomeintocontactwithinsouthernIrelandoverthelastweek,Billyhadadistinctive,mischievoustwinkleinhisIrisheyes.AkintohurlingandGaelic football, pulling the legs of dumbYanks likeme seemed to be anEmerald Islenationalpastime.

“Thelandofsaints,scholars,andsarcasm,”IwhisperedtoMaryCatherine,whowassittingontheleathercouchnexttome.

“Well,thatdepends,Billy,”IsaidasIwentbacktoreadingaboutwhatCamillawasuptoinmyOK!Londoncelebmag.

“Oh?Onwhat, pray tell, Detective?” the receptionist said, finally turning from hisscreen.

Icasuallyputdownthemagazineandliftedthefloral-patternedchinacupofGevaliacoffeehe’dfetcheduswhenwecamein.

“Onwhatyouconsider‘alot,’”Isaid.

The law office was in the city of Limerick, around ninety minutes west of MaryCatherine’s family’s tiny farmhouse outside Clonmel, in Tipperary. It was in a newmodernbrick-and-glassbuildingonabustlingstreetcalledHowley’sQuaythatranalongtherippledslateribbonoftheRiverShannon.Outsidethefloor-to-ceilingwindowbehindthewise-guyreceptionistwasahigh-riseapartmentbuildinganda ten-storysilverglassofficetower.

Not exactly midtownManhattan, but definitely not the traditional thatch-roof ruralIrelandIrememberedfromthelasttimeIhadbeenherewithmyfamilytovisitrelativeswhenIwasfourteen.

Theofficebelongedtoarealestatelawyer,andweweretheretocloseonthesaleofthe small hotel and golf courseMary Catherine’s mother had run before she’d passedaway.Since itwasaquicksale,moneywasbeing lefton the table,butMaryCatherinehadn’tmindedbecausethey’dfoundabuyerwhowouldkeeptheplacerunning.Twenty-threepeopleworkedthere,oldfamilyfriendsandcousins,andMaryCatherineneededtobesurethattheywouldbetakencareofbeforewewentbacktoNewYork.

“MaryCatherine, sorry to keep youwaiting,” said the real estate agent and lawyer,

MirandaO’Toole,asshepokedherheadoutofherofficeafewminuteslater.

Itookmycoffeewithmeasshewavedusintoherbrightoffice.Mirandawasatall,milky-complexionedwomaninherfortieswithdark-redhair.Sheunbuttonedhereleganttailorednavyblazer,slippingitonthebackofherchairbefore turningdowntheHaydnplayingsoftlyfromtheBosespeakeronherdesk.Shesmiledassherolledupthesleevesofhercream-coloredblouse.

“I hope your writing hand is limber,Mary Catherine,” she said, pointing at a highstackofpapersonasmallconferencetablebythewindow.“Wehavealotofdocumentstosign.”

TWO

“BUTWAIT,”MARYCatherinesaidaswesat.“Where’s thebuyer?I thoughtMr.Hartwouldbeherewithus.TherewasalotIwantedtogooverwithhim.Youknow—detailsabouttheplace,theemployeeroles,andallthedifferentshiftsandsuch.”

“Oh, yes. Mr. Hart,” Miranda said, smiling pleasantly as she sat down beside us.“Unfortunately, he had a business thing today up inDublin, so he came in and signedyesterdayevening.Ihopethat’snotaproblem.”

MaryCatherinelookedather,stillalittleconfused.

“I…supposenot,”shefinallysaid.

“Perhapsyoucouldcallhimthisafternoon,”Mirandasaid,uncappingared-and-goldMontblancpenandofferingittoMaryCatherine.“Goovereverythingthen.”

“Perhaps,”MaryCatherinesaid,finallytakingthepenasMirandadeftlyturnedoverthefirstsheafofdocumentsandopenedittothesignaturepage.

“Um,MaryCatherine,beforeyouget started, I’d like toaskMirandaaquestion,” IsaidasMaryCatherinewasabouttosignthefirstline.“Ifthat’sokay.”

“Yes?”Mirandasaida tadcurtlyas shedartedher intelligentgrayeyesatme.“I’msorry,what’syournameagain?”

“I’mMikeBennett,”Isaid,smilingthemostvacant,stupidYanksmileIcouldmuster.“FromNewYorkCity.”

“Oh, yes.Great city, that. Tellme your concern,Mike. I’m all ears,”Miranda saidimpatiently.

“I know it’s probably nothing, but what’s all this here?” I said as I pointed at thedocument.“UnderMr.Hart’sname.WhatexactlyisRedRoverServices,LLC?”

“Oh,that’sjustoneofMr.Hart’scompanies,”Mirandasaidwithashrug.“Hewantedtopurchase theproperty throughhisLLCfor taxpurposes. It’snothing toworryabout.Happensoncontractsallthetime.”

“Oh,good,”Isaidbrightly.“Iwouldn’twanttheretobeanythingoutoftheordinary.”

“Completelynormal,”Mirandasaid,noddinggently.“Anyotherquestions?Shallwegetstarted?”

“Well,actually,justone,”Isaidasshefrownedagain.“WhatdoesRedRoverServicesdo?”

“Youknow,I’mnotcompletelysure,”Mirandasaid,bitingonaknuckle.

IgrinnedsomemoreasIslowlytookoutmyiPhoneandplaceditonherdeskwithaclick.

“Beforewecontinue,whydon’t I look itup?Thesesmartphonesare just incredible,aren’t they? Curiosity would have never killed that darn cat if only he’d had asmartphone,”Isaid.

“Whatisit,Mike?”MaryCatherinesaid,frowningoveratme.

“Red Rover is a construction company, okay?” Miranda was starting to soundimpatient.“Theybuildhousingcomplexes.MostlyinNorthernIreland,buttheyalsohadafewdevelopmentsup inWestmeath.”Mirandapaused, foldedherarms.“ButyouheardMr.Hart’s assurances thathe’sgoing tokeep thehotel running.You’ll not findanotherbuyer,atanyrate.Notinthismarket.”

SheturnedtoMaryCatherine.

“You’regoingbacktoAmerica,MaryCatherine,right?Sogoaheadandsign.Takethemoneyforyourfamily.It’llallworkout,I’msure.”

MaryCatherinestaredatthelawyer.TheMontblancmadeascreechassheflickeditacrosstheglasstabletopatMs.MirandaO’Toole.

“No developers. I told you that at the very beginning. Several times. You’re adishonestperson,Ms.O’Toole.Puttingmyfriendsandrelativesoutonthestreetinordertomakeafeweuroisn’tthekindofthingIdo.Unlikeyou.”

“Andyou’reaverynaiveyoungwoman,Ms.Flynn,” the lawyersaidsharply.“Thatoldplaceisonitslastlegs.Hasbeenforadecade,andeveryonefromaroundhereknowsit.That ratty course hasmore rabbit holes on the fairways than the ones on the raggedgreens.Takethemoney.”

“Mike,it’stimetoleave,”MaryCatherinesaid,standing.

“ThanksfortheGevalia,”Isaidtothegrim-facedlawyerasIclickedmychinacupontheglassandretrievedmyphone.“Itwasreallyawesome.Justlikethegoodol’USA.Andsmartphones.Bye-bye,now.”

THREE

“WHYDON’TWEjustbringthekidshere?”IsaidforthehundredthtimeasMaryCatherineandIlayontheguest-roombedstaringupattheceiling.

Instead of answering me,Mary Catherine’s warm hand found mine. She lifted myhand to her lips.Her lips soft andwarm onmy palm.Her soft cheek onmy shoulder,warmandwetwithsilenttears.

I listened to the lowmurmur of rain against the roof. I knewwhatMaryCatherinewasn’tsaying.Shewantedmetostay.Orshewantedtocomewithme.Oneortheother.Itdidn’t matter. As long as we were together. As we’d always wanted to be. Only wecouldn’t.

Thedreadedmorningofmyflightwashere.Therealworldwasbackandgettingintheway,asusual.Therewasnowayaroundit.Nomatterhowweadjustedthings.We’dhavetobeapartagain.

Whataweekithadbeen.Likesomethingoutofadream.We’dneverspentsomuchtimetogether—alone.For threedays,we’dtooledaroundinmylittleFordrentalhittingbed-and-breakfasts.We’dseentheRingofKerry,theLakesofKillarney.Thebestwasthefabulous sunny day we’d spent at the Cliffs of Moher, enjoying a windy picnic ofChampagneandIrishsodabreadasweheldeachother,staringoutattheseaandlisteningtothecrashofthesurffivehundredfeetbelow.

I’dnever laughed sohard inmy life as I had in theprevious fewdays.Or allowedmyself tobequiteso recklesslyhappy. Ithadbeenanunplanned,unexpectedbubbleofparadise.Onewedidn’twanttoend.Ever.

Yet it was ending.Mary Catherine had to stay and sell the hotel to someone whowouldkeepitopen.Ihadtogobacktothekidsandmyjob.Therewasnothingeitherofuscoulddo.Atleastnotnow.

Ormaybe…

“Whatif…,”IsaidasMaryCatherinesuddenlysatboltuprightinbed.

“What?”Isaid.

“Shh!”shesaid.

Ishushed.

“No!It’sacar!What timeis it?”shesaidassheleapedontoherfeetandranto thewindow.“Oh,no.She’shere!Iknewshe’dbeearly!”

“She”wasMaryCatherine’sgreat-aunt,SisterTerese,cometo takemeto thestupid

airportformystupidflight.

“Getupanddressed!Now!”MaryCatherinesaidasIcontinuedtoliethere.“Wecan’thavethis!Ifsheseesyoucomedownthesestairs,we’llneedthecoroner!”

“Oh, please, Mary Catherine. It’s the twenty-first century,” I said. “She’s a grownwoman.”

“Agrownwoman?She’saneighty-year-oldTipperarynun!It’sthethirteenthcenturyto her every day! And the coroner won’t be for her! Out the window and into thebackyard.Now!”

“Outthewhat?It’sthesecondfloor!”Icried.

“Hang-jumpit.I’vedoneitbefore.You’llbefine.Doitnow!”

Weheardadoorcomeopendownstairs.

“MaryCatherine?Areyehere?”cameavoice.

MaryCatherineshovedmetowardthewindow.

“I’mnotgoingoutthatwindowinmyboxers,MaryCatherine.That’snuts.”

“Get!” she scream-whispered at me, and then suddenly I was hanging off thewindowsill,lettingjustabouteverythinghangoutintherainybreeze.Foramoment.Myhandslipped,andIlandedonmybarefeetwithasquishinamuddylettucegarden.Iwasbarelyabletocatchthepairofjeansthatflewoutthewindowafterme,followedasecondlaterbymyshirt,Top-Siders,andbag.

“Closeyoureyes,ladies,”IsaidasIranintothecluckinghenhouseattheothersideofthegardenwithmybundledclothes.

I’d just gottenmy jeans buttoned andmymuddy feet intomy shoeswhen I heardMaryCatherineopenthebackdoor.

“Oh,yes,Sister.Thehotelwasniceenoughtodrophimoffabouttenminutesago,”IheardMaryCatherinesay.“Hesaidhewasgoingtotakealittlewalk.Hehastobearoundheresomewhere.”

“Hey, everybody!” I said as I finally tucked in my shirt and stepped out of thehenhouse. “Wow, you’re right, Mary Catherine. Those are some real nice chickens inthere.Shiny…eh…coatsonthemandimpressive…beaks.”

IturnedtoMaryCatherine’saunt.Shewasaboutfiveoneandstocky.Theexpressiononher faceseemed to indicate thatshedidn’tsuffer foolswell.Whichwasunfortunate,becauseshewasabouttobespendingsometimewithme.

“Hi—I’mMike,”Isaid.“YoumustbeSisterTerese.”

Thelittleoldwoman,wearingaplain,light-bluedressthatmatchedhereyes,lookedevenmoreskepticalasweshookhands.Nothingnewthere.Skepticismwasprettymuchparforthecoursewithme.

“Mr.Bennett,”shesaidsternly.“Ifyeralldonewiththe…chickens,I’llbewaitingferyeinthecar.”

Mary Catherine grabbedme and kissedme as soon as the nun was out of sight. Ikissedherbackevenharder,ifthatwerepossible.

“I’mnotgettingonthatplane,MaryCatherine,”Isaid,finallylettinggo.“Idon’tcare.I’llquitmyjob.I’mstayinghere.”

Butitwastoolate.MaryCatherinewasalreadyrunningbacktothehouse.Thedoorslammed, and itwas justme, the stupidYank, standing in the rain in the lonely gravelfarmyard.

PARTONE

OFFTHERAILS

CHAPTER1

UP,UP,AND reluctantly away four hours later, I sat mid-cabin in my AerLingusflight’sAirbusA330feelingprettydarnsorryformyself.

Forgoing the movie on the little TV in the seat back in front of me, I leaned myforeheadagainstthecoldplasticwindow,staringattheragsofdirtycloudsandthegrayNorthAtlanticsailingawaybeneaththelong,slenderwing.

WhatIhadsaidtoMaryCatherinestillheldverymuchtrue.Ididnotwanttobeonthisplane.Notwithouther.Notafter thepreviousweek.EverytimeIclosedmyeyes,Isawthewindinherhairatopthatwhite-rockcliff.Themoonlightonthecurveofherbackinthosecoldfarmhouseroomsnightafternight.

Imean,wasmybrainbroken?Nomatterthecomplications,partingjustdidn’tmakesense.Youflewtowardawomanlikethat.Notaway.

Thisplane isheading in thewrongdamndirection, I thought, shakingmyheadas Isquinteddownatthegrayseaandsky.

IwasgoingintomypocketforsomegumI’dboughtattheShannonduty-freeshoptoeasetheratchetingpressureinmyearswhenIfoundthefoldednote.

MICHAELitsaidontheoutsideinMaryCatherine’sperfectscript.

Shemust have slipped it in my jeans pocket before she chucked the pants out thewindow.Iquicklyunfoldedit.

DearMichael,

Fromtheverymomentoureyesmetinyourapartmentfoyerallthoseyearsago,I

feltitinmyheart.Thatyouweremine.AndIwasyours.Whichmakesnosense.Andyetit isthetruestthingIknow.Isawyouandsuddenlyknew.ThatIwassomehowfinally donewithallmy sillywanderings. I sawyou,Michael, and Iwas suddenlyhome.Thislastweekwithyouhasbeenthebestweekofmylife.Youwillalwaysbemyhome.

MC

“DearGod,woman,”IwhisperedasIrereadthenote.

DearGod, I thoughtas I turnedand lookedoutat theworld rushingby throughmytears.

CHAPTER2

PRETTYMUCHEVERYTHING was gray as we made our finalapproach toNewYorkCity.The city skyline, the raining sky, the depths ofmy soul. Imean, Iguess itwaspossible that thingscouldhavebeenmoredepressingas theplanetoucheddownonthepuddledtarmac.

ButIdoubtit.

Ihadn’tsleptawink,butthatdidn’tmatter.WhatmatteredwasthatMaryCatherinestillwasn’twithme.What elsewas there to say?Or think?Or do?Notmuch. In fact,nothingatall.

“Jet lagandabrokenheart,” Imumbledas the flightattendant spoutedsomepeppy“WelcometoNewYork”crapovertheplane’sintercom.“Winningcombination.”

Half anhour later, finallyhavingescaped from thehappypeopleover at customs, IwasatagrimJFK-concoursefast-foodjointtryingtokeepdownalukewarmburritowhenIrememberedtopowermyphonebackon.

I yawned as the message bell went off like a slot-machine win. Then I stoppedyawning.Thereweresixtextmessagesandfivemissedcalls,allfromHOME.

Adarkswirlofpanicrippedimmediatelythroughmyjetlag.Becauseoftheegregiouscell-phonecharges,I’dleftexplicit instructionsformyfamilytocallonlyiftherewasatrueemergency.Somethingwasup.IthumbedtheReturnCallbutton.Whateverthehellitwas,itcouldn’tbegood.

“Hello?!”cameJuliana’spanickedvoiceonthefirstring.

“Juliana,it’sDad.IjustgotofftheplaneatJFK.Whatisit?”

“ThankGodyou’rehome.It’sGramps,Dad.He’smissing.Hewassupposedtocomeoverherelastnighttobabysitaroundten,butwhenwecalledtherectoryateleven,theysaidhe’dleftatninethirty.Henevermadeitbacklastnight,Dad.Seamusismissing.Wedon’tknowwhereheis!”

“Is the rectory housekeeper, Anita, still with you?” I said, grabbing my bag andhustlingimmediatelybackontotheconcourse.

“No.Itoldhertogohomelastnight,Dad.Don’tworry:I’mwatchingeverybody.”

“Iknowyouare,Juliana.You’reagoodgirl,”IsaidascalmlyasIcouldasItriedtoread the impossible terminal signs to find the exit. “What am I saying? Imean youngwoman.Don’tworryaboutGramps.I’msurehe’sokay.Probablymetanoldfriendandstayedoverwithhim.I’mgoingtofindhimrightnow.I’llcallyouthefirstIhearfrom

him.”

“Okay,good.I’msogladyouandMaryCatherinearehome,”shesaid.

Idecided to leaveout the fact thatMaryCatherinewas still stuck in Ireland for thetimebeing.Onecatastropheatatime.

“Anddon’tworry.Thingsareunder controlon this end. I loveyou somuch,Dad,”Julianasaid.

“Iloveyou,too,”IsaidbeforeIhungup.

My next call, as I finally spotted an actual exit sign, was to my buddies at theOmbudsmanOutreachSquadon125thStreet.

“Brooklyn, hi. It’sMikeBennett,” I saidwhenDetectiveKale answered. “I need afavor.Youeverdoamissingpersonscase?”

“Sure,plentyofthem.Why?What’sup?”

“I just got off a plane out at Kennedy.My grandfather, Seamus Bennett, has beenmissingsincearound ten lastnight.He’seighty-one,whitemale,whitehair, fiveseven,around a hundred and seventy-five pounds, probablywearing black priest’s clothes.HelefttheHolyNamerectoryonWestNinety-SixthandAmsterdamlastnightaroundninethirty, probably heading west for my building on West End and Ninety-Fifth. We’reespeciallyworriedabouthimbecauseherecentlyhadastroke.”

“Seamus?”Brooklynsaid.“Oh,no.IremembermeetinghimatNaomiChast’swake.I’monit,Mike.I’llcheckallthelocalhospitalsandprecincts.”

I finallywent throughsomeslidingdoors into thecold,grimpredawnstreet.Abovethecurbside taxi stand, rainpeltedoff a fading rusted sign frommaybe theeighties-eraKochadministration.

WELCOMETONY.HOWYADOIN’?itsaid.

Luckily, I didn’t havemy serviceweaponwithme because Imight have emptied amagazineintoitinreply.

“I’mstressed-out,NewYork,”Imumbled.“Asusual.Fuhgeddaboudit!”

CHAPTER3

IWASSTUCK inmy taxion the59thStreetBridge staringat the towersofManhattan in the honking suicide evening rush-hour traffic when Brooklyn called meback.

Thegoodnewswasthatshethoughtshe’dfoundSeamus,butthebadnewswaswhereshe’dfoundhim.IhadthecabbietakemestraighttoWest106thbetweenColumbusandAmsterdamAvenues.Brooklynwasactuallywaitingformeonthesidewalktwenty-fiveminuteslater,whenmycabfinallymadeittotheJewishHomeLifecarefacility.

“He’sfine,Mike.Iwasjustinthere.He’suponeight,andhe’sfine,”BrooklynsaidingreetingasIflewfromthetaxitothefacility’sfrontdoor.

“He’sinanursinghome,Brooklyn!”IsnappedatherasIwentinsideandshowedthesecurityguardmyshield.“Idon’tcallthisfine.Whatthehellhappened?”

“Twenty-Fourth Precinct was called at around ten fifteen,” Brooklyn said as wemaneuvered around an old lady in awheelchair and another one lying on a bed in thehallway.“SomebodyreportedaconfusedoldmanontheuptownplatformoftheNinety-SixthStreetnumberonesubwayline.”

I shook my head picturing it. Seamus helpless on a subway platform, wanderingaroundasthetrainsblewpast.DearLord,didthathurt.No,please,Ithought,notwantingittobetrue.

“Hewasn’twearinghispriest’sclothes,Mike.Hewasinsweats,andhedidn’thaveanyIDonhim.Whenpolicequestionedhim,hegotemotional,sotheybroughthimhere.It’sthebiggestold-agehomeinthearea,sotheythoughthemighthavewanderedawayfrom here. They also have anAlzheimer’s special care unit, so itwas actually a smartmove,”shesaidaswearrivedattheelevator.

“Alzheimer’s?” I said, panicking some more as I pushed the elevator’s call buttonabouteighty-sixtimes.“SeamusdoesnothaveAlzheimer’s.”

“Iknow,Mike,”Brooklynsaid.“Ijustspoketohim.Hejustwokeup.Theysedatedhimwhenhecamein,buthe’slucidnow.You’llsee.”

Brooklynsurprisedmebysqueezingmyhand.

“Listen,Mike.Mygrandmotherisninety-one.She’susuallyfine,buteveryonceinawhile,sheforgetsthings.Stufflikethisisgoingtohappengoingforward.It’snatural.”

“Dad?”calledavoice.

IturnedaroundandsawJulianacominginthroughthedoorwayofthefacilitywithher

siblings in theirschooluniforms.BehindherwereRicky,Eddie,Trent,Jane,Fiona,andBridget,holdingChrissyandShawna’shands.

“Look!Daddyreallyishome!”Chrissysaid,grabbingShawnaasshejumpedupanddown.

“Juliana,whatareyoudoing?”IsaidasIhurriedtowardthechildrenandconvincedtheutterlyconfusedguardthattheywereallwithme.

“Ithoughteverybodywassupposedtobeinschool,”IsaidtoJuliana.

“They are, but thenwhen you textedme about Seamus being here, Iwent and goteveryoneout.BrianjustleftfromFordhamPrep,too.He’sonthetrainnow.WeallneedtobehereforGramps.Ishesick?”

“IsGrampsgoingtodie?”Shawnasaid,tearsspringingupinhereyes.

“No,no.He’sokay,honey.He justgota littleconfused,and theybroughthimhere.He’supstairsoneight,”IsaidasIliftedupShawnaandgaveherakiss.

“Where’s Mary Catherine? Upstairs with Gramps?” Juliana said after I thankedBrooklynprofuselyandconvincedherthatIhadthingsundercontrolsoshecouldgobacktowork.

“Wait,”Isaid,changingthesubject.“Howdidyougeteverybodyoutofschool?”

“Icannottellalie,Dad.Ihadtoforgeanotewithyoursignature.Well,actuallytwoofthem.Oneformeandoneforallthemunchkins.YouhavetocallSisterSheilah,bytheway. She didn’twant to release them tome, but Iwas kind of pushy, I guess, and shefinallyrelented.”

Undernormalcircumstancessuchchicanerywould,ofcourse,beano-no,butthiswasafour-alarmBennettfamilyemergency.Julianaknewaswealldidthatrule-bendingwasallowablewhenitcametobeingthereforafamilymemberinneed.EspeciallySeamus.

I gave my oldest daughter a hug and a quick fist bump as we walked toward theelevator.

“Forgery and lying to nuns?” I whispered to her. “Right out of the old Bennettplaybook.Iadmireyourtechnique.”

CHAPTER4

“MICHAELSEANALOYSIUS Bennett!” Seamus said as we camethroughhiseighth-floorroom’sopendoorwaytofindhimsittinginachairlaughingwithaprettyyoungblackwomaninTiffany-bluehospitalscrubs.

“Andthewholesquad!TheLordsaveusall,you’reallasightforsoreeyes!You’llnot believe what’s happened tome, gang. I headed to your apartment house yesterdayeveningandlostmyway,andnowhereI’vewokenupJewish!”

Wealllaughedaswesurroundedhiminagrouphug.

“Well, it’s nice to seeyou, too,Father.Believeme,” I said, chokingback tears as IhuggedthisoldmanwhomIlovedasdearlyasanyoneonearth.Icouldadmittomyselfnow that Iwasconvinced thathewasdead.Bonkedon theheadbyamuggeror fallendownintoaConEdisonmanhole.Toseehiminonepiecewastrulyamiracle.

“Ihopeeveryonewasn’tworried.Imusthavegivenyouallquiteascare.ItriedtocallthehousewhenIwokeup,butitjustkeptkickingintovoicemail.”

“It’sfine,Seamus.It’sallgoingtobefine.Firstlet’sgetyououtofhere,okay?”

“Mr.Bennett?” theniceyoungblackwomansaid tome.“I’mDr.BlairGreenhalgh,headofthespecialcareunit.CanIspeaktoyouinthehall?”

“Sure,”Isaid.“Kids,keepSeamuscompanywhileItalktothedoctor.”

“Mike,wait.Comehere,”Seamussaid,embracingmeagain.“Iknewyou’dcomeandgetme.”

Ascaredlookcameoverhisface.Ihatedseeingit.

“I’msorry,”hewhispered.“Idon’tknowwhathappenedtome.Ijustgotconfused.Itwon’t happen again. Please don’t stickme in this place or any other place, okay? I’mfine.”

“I’vegotyoucovered,Gramps,”Isaid,givinghimanotherhug.“Ipromise.”

Ifinallygotoutintothehallwaywiththedoc.

“I’msorry,Mr.Bennett.Iknowthisallmustbequiteashock,”Dr.Greenhalghsaid.“Isawfromyourgrandfather’spreliminarymedicalhistorythatherecentlyhadastrokeintherighthemisphereofthebrain.Isthatcorrect?”

“Yes,”Isaid.“Aboutthreeweeksago.”

“Stroke survivors often experience multiple types of memory loss—verbal, visual,informational.Theysometimeswanderandgetlosteveninfamiliarplaces.IsMr.Bennett

onanymedications?”

“Justcholesterolstuff.”

“Okay,”Dr.Greenhalghsaid,nodding.“Thiscouldhavebeenananomaly.Sometimesmemoryproblemsjustgoawayaspartof thehealingprocess,but inthemeantime,youshould try to reallyhelpyourgrandfatherwith establishing routines.Perhapsyoucoulddrawupasmallnotebookwithemergencynumbersinittokeeponhispersonincasehegetsconfusedagain.Exerciseisgreat,asiskeepinghimengaged.That’saboutit.I’llgetthenursetogiveyoumycontactinfoandgetyouguysoutofhere.”

Oh,he’sengaged,allright,Ithought,watchinghimthroughtheglassinthedoorafterthekinddoctor left.He and all thekidswere standing in a circle holdinghands, headsdown,theirlipsmovinginprayer.IsmiledasIstoodtherewatchingthem.Youcan’tkeepagoodmandown.

Thank you,God, I prayed alongwith them as I closedmy own eyes. For all of usbeingsafeandbacktogetheragain.

Almostallofus,Ithought,pattingthenoteinmypocket.

That’swhen it happened.Right then and there in the corridor, jet-lagged out ofmymind.

Iopenedmyeyesandwassuddenlyhome.

CHAPTER5

THEFORTY-FOOT-LONG utility truck called a Supervac gave off alowgrumble as itweaved slowly through theBroadway traffic in the upperManhattanneighborhoodofWashingtonHeightsaroundnoon.

The size andappearanceof ahigh-techgarbage truck,with ahugehoseattached toone side, the fifty-thousand-pound industrial vehicle was used to clean manholes andconstruction sites. Fully loaded, itwas tricky tomaneuver in the congested city traffic,especially in terms of braking,whichwaswhy the driverwas keeping it at a slow andsteadytwenty-fivemilesperhour.

The truck itselfwasabout tenyearsoldandon its last legs fromwearanduse.ThenewestthingaboutitwasthefakedecalonitscabdoorthatsaiditwasfromConEdison,theNewYorkCity–areagasandelectriccompany.

Thedriverwasadoughy,vaguelyItalian-lookingguyinhisfortieswearingablueConEdhardhatwithmatchingbaggyblueConEdcoveralls.Theconwasdefinitelyon,hethought,raisinghisstubbledjowlswithaquickgrin.

Then,asthetruckfinallyapproacheditsdestinationatthesoutheastcornerofbustling168thStreet,hesuddenlypointedaheadthroughthewindshield.

“Uh-oh. Problem,Mr. Joyce,” he said to theman in the passenger seat beside him.“There’sacopcarparkedrightoverourmanhole.WhatdoIdo?Keepgoing?”

Mr.Joyceglancedupfromtheclutteredclipboardinhislap.Likethedriver,healsoworebogusbaggyConEd–bluecoverallsandamatchinghardhat.WiththeOakleySportsunglassesheworeunderhishardhat,allyoucouldtellabouthimwasthathewaspaleandhadadark,reddish-browngoatee.

“Ofcoursenot.We’reonatightschedule,Tony.Justpullalongside,”Mr.Joycesaidcalmly.

“Pull alongside?” the driver, Tony, said nervously. “Are you surewe shouldn’t justcomebackalittlelater?It’sthecops!”

“Listentoorders,Tony.Justpullalongsideandletmehandleit,”Mr.Joycesaidasherolleddownhiswindow.

Therewasonlyonecopinthecruiser.Hewasalankymiddle-agedblackofficer,andhe looked up none too happily asMr. Joyce gave him a friendlywave from the truckwindow.Thecophadhishatoffandasandwichunwrappedinhislap.

“Sorry to bother you, Officer, but you’re parked over a manhole we need to gainaccessto,”Mr.Joyceexplained,tryingtomakehisvoicesoundasAmericanaspossible.

“Gimmeabreak,wouldyou?”thecopsaid,flickingsomefive-dollar-foot-longlettuceoffhischin.“Whydon’tyougoandtakeanapsomewhereforhalfanhour?Whenyoucomeback,I’llbegone.”

“Iwish I could,Officer, honestly. But this one’s a real red ball. Apparently there’ssome kind of power problem at the hospital,” said Mr. Joyce as he gestured at themultibuilding NewYork-Presbyterian/Columbia University Medical Center complexacrossBroadway.

The cop gave him a savage look, mumbling something about red and balls, as heloweredhislunchandfinallypulledout.

AfterMr.Joycehoppedoutofthecab,ittookthemlessthanaminutetomaneuverthemassive truck into position. As Tony got the manhole open with the hook, Mr. JoyceremovedablueprintfromhisclipboardandkneltwithTonyattherimofthehole.

“Start jackhammering right there,”hesaid,pointing into themanhole,a little leftofthecenterofitssouthwall.“Shouldbeaboutsixfeetin.It’lllooklikesquarealuminumducting,thesameyouwouldseeinanHVACsystem.Textmeimmediatelywhenyouseeit.Oh,andwatchthoseelectricalcablesatyourbackwhileyou’reworking,ifyoudon’twishtogetfried.Halfofthemareuninsulated,andallofthemarequitelive.”

“Yougotit,Mr.Joyce.I’m,uh…onit,”saidTony,repeatinganadvertisingexpressionthatConEdisonhadusedintheircommercialsafewyearsbefore.

“Thisisnotimeforjoking,Tony.Justgettowork,”Mr.Joycesaid.

CHAPTER6

WHENMR. JOYCE got to his feet, the other Supervac truck they hadstolenwas justpullingup to thecurb.Hispartner,Mr.Beckett, climbeddownfrom thecabinthebaggynondescriptConEdgetupwithsunglasses.HecouldalmosthavebeenMr.Joyce’sdouble,excepthisgoateewasjackrabbitwhiteinsteadofreddish-brown.

Without speaking, bothmen crossed the sidewalk and descended the steps into the168th Street subway station. MetroCarding through the turnstile, they bypassed a signdirecting them to the A train and found the concrete corridor for the number 1 lineelevator.

“Thisstationisoneofthedeepestintheentiresystem,Mr.Beckett,”Mr.Joycesaidastheysteppedofftheelevatorontothebridgethatconnectstheuptownanddowntownsidesof themassivearchednumber1 line’sundergroundstation.“We’represently tenstoriesbelowstreetlevel.”

Mr.Beckett nodded.Hewas pleasedwith his partner’s automatic use of their codenamesnow that theywere finallyoperational.All theexhaustive lessonshe’dgivenhisyoungpartnerabouttradecrafthaddefinitelysunkin.

“Whydoesitsay‘IRT’herewhileupstairs,ontheAline,itsays‘IND’?Whatdotheinitialsmean?”Mr.Beckettwantedtoknow.

“It doesn’t matter for our purposes,” Mr. Joyce said, frowning. “You will find itboring.”

“No,Iwon’t.Ipromise.WehavetimetokillbeforethatfoolTonygetstotheairshaft.I’mcurious.Youdon’t thinkIenjoyyourlittlehistorylessons,Mr.Joyce,butIactuallydo.”

Mr.Beckettwasright.SciencewasMr.Joyce’sforte,buthistorywashistruepassion.Sincehehadarrivedinthecountryyearsbefore,hehadfoundthehistoryofAmerica,andespeciallyNewYorkCity, surprisingly rich and fascinating.Hewas looking forward todelvingintoitmoredeeplyathisleisureonceallwassaidanddone.

Especially,he thought, sincehewasabout tomakeagreatdealof thecity’shistoryhimselfinthecomingdays.

“The abbreviations actuallymean nothing anymore,”Mr. Joyce explained. “They’rejust old subway nomenclature, remnants of the timewhen the city subway systemwasdivided into lines runbyseparatecompanies insteadof thecurrentunifiedMetropolitanTransportationAuthority. IRT stands for Inter-boroughRapidTransit,while IND standsfor a company called the Independent Subway System. You may have noticed the

abbreviation BMT on other lines, which stands for the Brooklyn-Manhattan TransitCorporation.Icouldgointodetailaboutthethreelinesandhowtheyfitintothesubwaysystem’sfamouscolor-codednumericalandalphabeticalsignageifyouwish.”

“No,that’sokay.Ineedtostayawake,”Mr.Beckettsaidandlaughed.

“Itoldyouthatyouwouldfinditboring,”Mr.Joycerepliedwithasigh.

“Onthat,asonmostthings,”Mr.Beckettsaidasheclappedhisprotégéplayfullyontheshoulder,“youwereannoyinglycorrect,myfriend.Howdoesitfinallyfeeltobeoutofthelabandintothefield?”

Mr. Joycewatched as apigeon suddenly flappedout anddown froma tunnel ledgeabove them and started pecking at some garbage between the uptown rails. Then heshrugged.

“Iwouldn’tknow.Idon’tfeel.Ithink.”

Mr.Beckettsmiledwidely.

“That iswhyyouaresovaluable.Now,givemedamageestimatesagain in tangiblehumanterms.”

“At the minimum, we’re looking at massive damage to the tunnel, shutting downserviceformonths,andobviouslyterrifyingthiscitylikenothingsincenineeleven.”

“And at themaximum?” saidMr. Beckett, hope in his bright-blue eyes behind theshades.

Mr. Joyce folded his hands together as he closed his eyes.Mr. Beckett thought helookedalmostAsianforamoment,likeapale,goateedBuddha.

“We collapse a dozen city blocks, destroying the hospital complex, much ofWashingtonHeights,andkillingthousands,”Mr.Joycefinallysaid.

Mr.Beckettnoddedatthispensively.

“Andwegowhen,again?”hesaid.

“Tomorrownight.”

“Somany decisions,”Mr. Beckett said, gazing north as a downtown-bound 1 trainpulled,clattering,intothestation.“Soverylittletime.”

CHAPTER7

“DAD,DOIreallyhavetowearthis?”Sundaymorning around ten thirty, Iwaited until I heard the question repeated two

moretimesbeforeIlookedupfromanopenoldtinofblackKiwishoepolishthatIwasusingtoteachEddiehowtoshinehisshoes.

ThequestionwasposedbyJane,whostoodthereinherlavenderflower-printEasterdress.HerEasterdressfromthepreviousyear.Consideringshe’dgrownabouttwoinchesin themeantime, she looked a little likeAlice inWonderland, suddenly enormous afterconsumingthe“eatme”cake—orwasitthe“drinkme”drink?

“Itisatadformal,Iguess,”IsaidasIbuffedatEddie’sschoolshoes,“and,um,weird-fitting.”

“Gee,Dad.That’sreallywhatagirlwantstohear.‘Whataweird-fittingdressyou’rewearing.’Youreallyknowhowtopayacompliment.”

“Give me a break, Jane, will you, please? I’m up to my neck here. Do you haveanothernicedress?”

“Um,no.MaryCatherinewassupposedto takeallusgirlsshoppingbeforesheleft,remember? Or maybe you forgot. Like the way you forgot to bring Mary Catherinehome.”

I winced. I probably deserved that one. In fact, I knew I did. The fact that MaryCatherinehadn’tcomehomewithmewasstillstingingtoeveryone.Tomemostofall.

“Figure it out, Jane, okay?Please?Youcanwear jeans, I guess, if they’renice.Wehaveto lookreallygood,remember?That’s thepointhere.That’s the theme.Sweetandpresentableandappropriate,okay?”

“Hey,everyone!Dadsaidwecanwearjeans!”Janeshoutedasshetookoffdownthehallway.

“Dad,canIborrowyourrazor?”someoneelseaskedaminutelater.

This new query came from a groggy-lookingBrian, still in his pj’s. I looked at hissmooth,pale,sixteen-year-oldcheeks.Therewasnohairtospeakof.Ididn’tsaythis,ofcourse.Not passing onmy observationwas a no-brainer.Dad 101.Maybe his eyesightwasbetterthanmine.Makethatdefinitely.

“In my medicine cabinet,” I said. “But hurry up. Please. We need to do this forSeamus.Weneedtopulltogether,orwe’reallgoingtobelate.”

Tenminutes later, I had everyone ready and gathered in the living room. Jane had

actually foundanotherdressandwas lookingquite spiffy,aswaseveryoneelse.Even Iwaswearingatieforthespecialoccasion.EveryonewaspresentandaccountedforexceptSeamusandRickyandJuliana.

Which remindsme, I thoughtas Icheckedmywatch. Inodded toFiona,andatmysignalshehitthestereoastheclockstruckelevenprecisely.

Thedoor to thebackbedroomopenedjustas thefirststrainsof“ImmaculateMary”filled the room. Out the door came Juliana, holding a bookmarked Bible, followed byRicky,wearinghisaltar-boyrobeandholdingalitcandle,thenlastly,Seamus,wearingasurpliceandclaspinghishandsinprayer.

As they arrived at the front of the room, I elbowed a daydreaming Trent to up thevolumeor,betteryet,actuallystartsingingfromthelyricsheetIhadprintedout.

SinceSeamusneededtotakeiteasyafterhisstroke,I’ddecidedtoturntheapartmentintoSaintBennett’sCathedral thisSundayanddoMassathome.Heseemed tobe fineenoughsincewebroughthimhome,butIwasstillquiteworriedabouthim,ofcourse.NothavingMaryCatherineheretohelpmekeepaneyeonhim,Idecidedtoerronthesideofcaution.

ThegoodnewswasthatGrampsreallyseemedblownawaywhenhesawthefurniturerearrangedinthelivingroomandallthekidsintheirSundaybest.

“Goodmorning,parishioners,”hesaid,winking,ashestoodsmilingatthefrontoftheroom.

“Goodmorning,Father,”everyonesaid,smilingback.

Seamusstoodthere,thensuddenlybroughtafingertohisopenmouthasavacantlookglazedhiseyes.

“Now,what’snext?”hesaid,lookingdownatthecarpet,confused.

“Seamus?”IsaidasIsteppedforward.

“Psych!”hesaidtome,snappingoutofitafteranothermomentaseveryonelaughed.

“Don’tworry:I’mnotreadyforthegluefactoryyet,Detective.Stillamarbleortworollingaroundinthisoldgrayhead.”

“Veryfunny,Father,”Isaid,steppingback.“I’llbetheonewiththestrokenextifyoukeepitup.”

“Nonsense,”Seamussaid.“Now,wherewasI?Iknow.Letusbegintodayaswebegineveryday.InthenameoftheFatherandoftheSonandoftheHolySpirit.”

CHAPTER8

THATEVENING,Iwasmindingmyownbusiness, sheltering inplaceonthecouchwithapintofSmithwick’s,abouttowatchtheYanksatBoston—ESPN’sgameoftheweek—withSeamusandtherestoftheboys,whenImadethemistakeofcheckingmyphoneformessages.

Myboss,MiriamSchwartz,hadsentatextaboutanhourbefore.InitsheletmeknowthatduringtheweekI’dbeeninIreland,thedepartmenthadappointedaguyI’dvaguelyheardofnamedNeilFabrettitobeitsnewestchiefofdetectives.

Chief Fabretti was trying to get up to speed before officially starting on Monday,Miriamexplained,andwasrequestingaquickinformalmeetandgreetwithhistransitionteamathishouseupintheRiverdalesectionoftheBronx.Inthenexthalfhour,Ithought,groaning,asIcheckedmywatch.

GetuptospeedduringaNewYork–Bostonrubbergame?IthoughtasIstaredatmyphone,dumbfounded.I’dbeenbustingmyhumpalldaywithlaundryandhomeworkandgettingdinneronthe table. I’devenbeentoMass—orat leastMasshadbeentous. I’dbeenlookingforwardtoalittleSawx-crushing,male-bondingdowntimeallday.

Are you sure this guy is the new chief of detectives for the New York policedepartment?Ialmosttextedback.

Instead,IreluctantlyputdownmySmithwick’sandstoodandfoundmykeys.

“Excellentidea,Michael,”SeamussaidasIheadedout.“Wecouldusesomegoodiesforthegame.Anddon’tforgetanothersixofSmithy’s.”

“Sorry,Father.Nogoodiestonight.It’sallbaddies,infact.A.k.a.work.”

“Work,Dad?Butit’sYanks-Sox!That’ssacrilegious.”

“Mysentimentsexactly,Brian,”IsaidasIhitthedoor.“Keepmepostedonthescore.I’llbebackassoonasIcan.”

ChiefNeilFabretti’shouseturnedouttobeonDelafieldAvenueinaritzysectionofRiverdalecalledFieldston.Itwasn’tahugehouse,maybetwothousandsquarefeet,butithad a slate roof and antique stained-glass windows between its Tudor beams. Not tooshabby.Especiallyforacop.Ithadtobeworthwelloveramillionbucks.

“Mike, I’m so glad you could make it,” said Chief Fabretti as he gave me a firmhandshake.

Fabrettiwasaneatandtrimfiftyishmaninabrowngolfshirtandkhakis.Helookedmorelikeacorporateexecutivethanacop.Iwonderedifthatwasagoodthing.Alarge

blackcurly-haireddogranaroundusinthefoyer,woofingandsniffing.

“Down,Faulkner.Down!”Fabrettisaid.“Iknow—Faulkner?Mywife’sidea,asisthehouseandprettymucheverythinginit.She’stheculturedone,aneditoratKnopf.I’mjusta lovablefool fromBrooklynwhomarriedup.Anyway, theotherguys just left. Iknowthisisapainintheassduringthegame.Iactuallyhaveitoninmyden.Thiswon’ttakelong,Ipromise.”

Heledmeintoacozy,dark,wood-paneledroom.Beyondawritingtablewerebuilt-inbookshelveswithactualbooksonthem.IspottedashelfofHemingway.TheDayoftheJackalnexttoKeithRichards’sLife.Asectionofmilitaryhistory.

TheonethingIhadheardaboutFabrettiwasthathewaspolitical.Butwhoknew?Areallibrarywasprettytellingintermsofcharacter.Maybethisguywasokay,Ithought.

“CanIgetyouabeer?”Fabrettisaid,openingalittlefridgebesidehisdesk.“Well,ifyoucancallitthat.MywifehasmeweaneddownnowtoBeck’slight.It’smorelikebeer-flavoredwater.”

“No—that’sokay,Chief.What’sup?HowcanIhelpyou?”

“Youcanhelpmeby just continuing todowhatyoudo,Mike,”Fabretti said ashecrackedopenabrewandsatbehindhisdesk.“Peoplecomplainthatyou’reoverrated—ahotdogandaheadlinehound—but I’vedonemyhomework,andyou’reobviouslynot.You’re just flat-out one of the department’s best detectives, if not the best. I’ve beenfollowingyourphenomenalcareer,Mike.I’mabigfan.”

Afan?Hmm,Ithought.Maybetherumorsweretrue.Politiciansplusflatteryequalswhat?Nothinggoodwasaprettysurebet.

“WhereamIbeingreassigned?”Isaid.

Fabrettilaughed.

“C’mon,Mike.It’sokay,Iswear.IdefinitelywanttokeepyouatMajorCrimes.ButIalsoneedyoutodowhatyou’vebeendoing.Iwantyoutobeflexibleintermsoffloatingtolocalprecinctsoccasionallytohelponextra-pain-in-the-asscases.”

“How can I be inMajor Crimes plus be a precinct detective?” I said. “Whowill Ianswerto?Theprecinctcaptainsormyboss,Miriam,atMajorCrimes?”

“You’ll answer tome,Mike,” Fabretti said after amoment. “You know I’ll alwayshaveyourback.You’llworkoutofMajorCrimesfornow.Whatdoyousay?Thiswillbealittleexperiment.Onewe’llcorrectaswego.”

Or,moreprecisely,makeupaswego.

Idefinitelydidn’tlikeit.Amanwithoutahomeinthedepartmentwasagoodguytoscapegoatwhen the pressure got turned up. I didn’twant to be that goat, but itwasn’tlookinglikemyopinionmattered.

Thebookshadtobethewife’s,Ifinallyrealized.

“Whateveryouneedmetodo,Chief,”IfinallysaidasIturnedtotheflatscreenabovethefireplace,whereEllsburywashittingintoadoubleplay.

CHAPTER9

AT3:23A.M.,thetwoSupervactrucksturnedofftheirheadlightsandpulledoffthe northbound FDR Drive into a junk-strewn abandoned lot beside the Harlem RiveracrossfromtheBronx.

Afterheputthefirsttruckintopark,TonytookabottleoforangeGatoradefromthecooler they’d brought, cracked its lid, and commenced gulping. His stubbled face wasfilthy, and he was sweating profusely; he had in fact sweated through the back of hisheavycoveralls.

“Hey,youwantsomeofthis,Mr.Joyce?”saidTony,comingupforair.

“No.Allyou,Tony.Truly,youbrokeyourbuttdowninthehole.I’mproudofyou,”Mr.Joycesaid.

Itwas true.Tony had some heft on him and could use a few suggestions about hishygiene, but no one could say hewasn’t a worker. He’d been going at it hard for theprevious three hours, shuttling between the two manholes, really hustling. He’d beenJohnny-on-the-spotforeverytaskwithoutawordofcomplaint.

Theywere finallydonenow.At leastwith theprepwork. Ithadgoneoffwithoutahitch.Thetrucktankswereempty,andthemanholeswereclosed.Everythingwassetupandreadytogo.

“How’sthelink?”Mr.Joycecalledintotheradiohetookfromhispocket.

“Crystalclear,”Mr.Beckett,intheothertruck,replied.

TheyhadhackedintotheMTA’sinternalsubwayvideofeed,andMr.Beckettwasnowmonitoringthesecuritycamerasatevery1linestationfromHarlemtoInwood.

“Okay,Iseeit,”Mr.Beckettsaidovertheradioasecondlater.“It’spullingoutofOneFifty-Seventh in the northbound tunnel. There. It’s all the way in. You have the greenlight,Mr.Joyce.”

Mr.Joyce tookacheapdisposablecellphonefromthe leftbreastpocketofhisbluecoveralls.ItwasaBarbie-purpleslidephonemadebyacompanycalledPantech,asimplephoneonewouldbuyasuburbangirl forhermiddle-schoolgraduation.He turned itonandscrolledtothephone’sonlypreprogrammednumber.

Theorybecomesreality,hethought.HethumbedtheCallbutton,andthetwopressurecookerspreplanted in the train tunnel tenstoriesbeneathBroadway twentyblocksawaydetonatedsimultaneously.

CHAPTER10

THE INITIAL EXPLOSION of the pressure-cooker bombs, thoughgreat,wasnot that impressivein itself. Itwasn’tmeant tobe.Itwasjust theprimer, thematchtothefuelthatthetwotruckshadbeenpumpingintotheairofthetunnelforthepreviousthreehours.

Thetunnelwasdome-shaped,seventy-threefeetwideatitsbase,twentyfeethigh,andalittlelessthanfourmileslong.Withinmillisecondsoftheblast,apowerfulshockwaveraced in both directions along its entire length. There were no people on the subwayplatformsthatlateatnight,butinbothstations, thewaverippedapartvendorshacksontheplatforms,MTAtoolcarts,andwoodenbenches.

As thewave hit the south end of the 181st Street station, a three-ton section of thevaultedtunnel’srooftorefreeandcrashedtothetracks—asitwouldinaminecave-in—whileuponBroadway, the fantastic forceof theblast set off countless car alarms as itthrewhalfadozenmanholecoversintotheair.

South of the main blasts, in the tunnel between the 157th Street station and 168thStreet, the shockwave smashedhead-on into the approachingBronx-bound1 train thatMr.Becketthadspotted.Thefrontwindshieldshatteredamillisecondbeforethetraintorefromitsmoorings,killingthefemaletrainoperatorinstantly.

As the train derailed, its only twopassengers, a pair ofManhattanCollege studentscomingbackfromaconcert,wereknockedspinningoutoftheirseatsontothefloorofthefrontcar.Bleeding,andstillbarelyalive,theyhadasplitsecondtolookupfromthefloorof the train through the front window at a rapidly brightening orange glow. It wasstrangelybeautiful,almostlikeasunset.

Thenthebarrelingtwenty-foot-highfireballthatwasbehindtheshockwaveslammedhome,andtheairwasonfire.

BackattheabandonedlotneartheHarlemRiver,Mr.Joycehadtowaitsevenminutesbefore he heard the first call come in on the radio scanner he had tuned to the firedepartmentband.Heclickedapenasheliftedhisclipboard.

“Wedidit,Tony,”hesaid,givingthedriverararegrin.

“Phaseonecomplete.”

CHAPTER11

MOREBLUEANDredemergencylightsthanIcouldcountwereswingingacross the steel shutters and Spanish-language signs at 181st Street and SaintNicholasAvenuewhenIpulledupbehindadouble-parkedFDNYSUVthatmorningaround4:30a.m.

Icountedsevenfiretrucksandanequalnumberofpolicevehiclesandambulances.AsI hungmy shield aroundmyneck, I saw another truck roar up.Rescue 1, theFDNY’sversionoftheNavySEALs.Holyshit,wasthislookingbad.

Ifoundthepitch-blacksubwayentranceandwentdownstairs thatreekedofsmoke.All I could hear were yells and the metallic chirp of first-responder radio chatter as Iswungmyflashlightoverthetiledsubwaywalls.

TheinitialreportIreceivedfrommyboss,Miriam,wasthatsomekindofexplosionand a subway tunnel fire had occurred. One memory kept popping into my head as Ihoppedaturnstileandrantowardthesoundofradiosandyelling.

Don’ttellmethisis9/11alloveragain!

Iwentpastastationboothandalmostknockedoverwhite-haired,blue-eyedfirechiefTommyCunniffe,thumbingsomethingoutofhiseye.

“Chief,MikeBennett,MajorCrimes,NYPD.Whatthehellhappened?”

“Massive tunnel explosion of some kind,Detective,”Cunniffe called out in a drill-sergeant baritone. “Two stations, One Hundred Sixty-Eighth Street and here at OneHundred Eighty-First Street, are completely destroyed. We have the fire almost undercontrolhere,butthere’scolossalstructuraldamage,alargecave-inatthesouthendofthisstation.It’slikeamineaccidentdownthere.We’relookingforbodies.”

“Isanybodydead?”

“Wedon’tknow.IheardoverthehorntherewasatrainthatgotfriedalittlesouthofOne Sixty-Eighth, but everything else is still unknown at this point. I got two enginecompanies down there working a water line that we had to feed seven stories downthroughtheelevatorshaft.It’sanunbelievabledisaster.”

“Chief,”cameavoicefromhischest-strappedradio.“Wegotmovement.Aheartbeatonthemonitor.”

“Comingfromwhere?”Cunniffeyelledback.

“Upnearyou,inoneoftheotherelevatorshafts.”

“Downey,O’Keefe:getmeagoddamnhalogen!”Cunniffescreamedat twofiremen

behindhim.

I ran over with the firemen and helped them pry open the door to one of severalelevator shafts. When we got the doors open, three huge rugby-player-size firemenappearedoutofnowhereandtossedarope.

“Hey, Danny, what the hell are you doing? It’s my turn,” said one of them as thebiggestclickedhisharnessontotheropeandloweredhimselfintothedarkness.

“Screwyou,Brian,”thebigdudesaid.“Yousnooze,youlose,bro.Igotthis.Watchhowit’sdone.”

I shookmy head. These guyswere amazing. Tripping over themselves to help.Nowonderpeoplecalledthemheroes.

“Senddowntherig,”saidthefiremanintheshaftaminutelater.“Wegottwo,amomandadaughter.They’reokay!They’reokay!”

Everyone started cheering andwhistling as a pudgyHispanicwoman, clutching herbeautifulpreschool-agedaughter,waspulledupoutoftheshaftintothelight.

“Okay,good job,everyone.Attaboys!”CunniffebellowedasEMTs took themotherandchildupthestairs.“Nowgetthefbacktowork!”

An hour later, I was deep underground ten blocks south in full-face breathingapparatusandaTyveksuitasItouredthedevastationthathadbeenthe168thStationwithFBIbombtechDanDunning,fromtheJointTerrorismTaskForce.

“Thisisunbelievable,”hesaid,swingingthebeamofhispowerfulflashlightbackandforthoverthevaultedceiling.

“Whichpart?”Isaid.

“Thiswas one of the grandest stations of thewhole subway system,Mike. See thechandeliermedallions next to the cave-in and the antique sconces in that rubble there?Thisused tobe the station for theNewYorkHighlanders,whowenton tobecome theNewYorkYankees.Apartofhistory.Nowlookatit.Gone.Erased.”

“Couldithavebeenagasleak?”

“Not on your life,” Dunning said. “Gas and electric are surface utilities. These aresomeofthedeepeststationsinthesystem.Tenstoriesdown.Whateverblewthemupwasintentionallyputhere.Ican’tsayforsureyet,butyouaskme,thesegoddamnbastardssetoffathermobaricexplosion.”

“Awhat?”

Dunningpulledoffhismaskandspatsomethingout.

“Thermobaricexplosionsoccurwhenvapor-flammabledustsordropletsignite.Theyrelyonatmosphericoxygenforfuelandproducelonger,moredevastatingshockwaves.Asyoucansee,whentheyoccurinconfinedspaces,theyarecatastrophic.Theypumpedsomethingdownhereandlititup.Agasolinemist,maybe,ismyguess.Justlikeadaisy-cutterbomb.Imean,lookatthis!”

Wehopped downoffwhatwas left of a platform andwalked over the burned-to-a-

crisptrackstowardablackenedtrain.Ascrime-scenetechstookpictures,Icouldseethatoneofthetrain’splasticwindowshadmeltedandsliddownthesideofoneofthecarslikecandlewax.Inside,thedriverwasburnedpulp,andthetwootherbodiesinthefrontcarwereskeletalandblack,likesomethingfromahauntedhouse.

“Lookatthat,”Dunningsaid,pointinghislightatahalf-burnedsneakerinacorner.

“Wow,theshockwavemusthaveknockedthemoutoftheirshoes,”Isaid.

“Worse,lookatthesoleofit.It’salmostcompletelyrippedoff.That’showpowerfulthisbombwas. It separated thesoleoffasneaker!Thinkof the incredibleviolence thatwouldtake.”

IshookmyheadasIthoughtaboutit,breathinginthesweetgasolinesmellofburningthattherespiratorcouldn’tfilterout.

Whatwasthis,andwherewasitgoing?

CHAPTER12

THREE HOURS LATER, our command post shifted four blocksnortheast, to the NYPD’s new Thirty-Third Precinct building at 170th Street nearEdgecombeAvenue.

When I wasn’t answeringmy constantly humming phone, I was busy upstairs in ahugesparemusterroomhelpingacoupledozenprecinctuniformssetupacentralstagingareaforwhatwasobviouslygoingtobeamassiveinvestigation.

EverywhereIlookedthroughoutthecavernousspacewerestressed-out,soot-coveredMTA engineers, FDNY arson investigators, and FBI, NYPD, and ATF bomb techschatteringintophonesastheytriedtogetagriponthescopeofthedisaster.

Thebiggestdevelopmentbyfarwasthediscoveryofshrapnelintwoseparatesectionsofthetunnel.Preliminaryfieldreportsseemedtoindicatethatthemetalshardswerefromsomesortofpressure-cookerbombplacedatthetwomainblastsites.Wehadn’treleasedanything to the press as of yet, but it was looking like this was in fact a bombing, amassiveanddeliberatedeadlyattack.

At 6:05 a.m., themayor suspended the city’s subway service systemwide. It was ahuge,hugedeal.Eightmillionpeoplenowhadtofindanewwaytogettoandfromworkandschool.Amegameetingattheprecinctcommandposthadbeencalledforninethirty.The mayor and police commissioner were on their way, as were head honchos fromfederallawenforcementagenciesandtheMTAbosseswhoranthesubway.

I’dmanagedtogetholdofmyfirstcoffeeofthemorningandhadjustdeclinedathirdcallfromsomeannoyinglypersistentNewYorkTimesreporterwhenIlookedupandsawthe chief of detectives, Neil Fabretti, come through the command post door. I almostdidn’trecognizehiminhisstatelywhite-collaruniform.Athisheelswasatall,clean-cutwhiteguyinanicesuitwhomIdidn’trecognize.

“Detective, I can’t tellyouhowmuch I appreciateyoubeingallover this,”Fabrettisaid,givingmyhandaquickpump.“Ialreadyspoke toMiriam.NYPDhas theballonthis,andIwantyoutoheaduptheinvestigation.TherestofMajorCrimesisnowatyourdisposalaswellasanyandalllocalprecinctinvestigators,asyouseefit.Howdoesthatsound?Youupforit?”

“Ofcourse,”Isaid,nodding.

“DoyouknowLieutenantBryceMiller?He’sthenewcounterterrorismheadoveratthe NYPD Intelligence Division,” Fabretti said, introducing the sleek dark-hairedthirtysomething cop at his elbow. “Bryce is going tobe involved in this thing from theintelligence angle, so Iwanted you guys tomeet.You’re going to beworking together

handinglove,okay?”

I’dheardaboutMiller,whowassupposedtobesomethingofahotshot.He’dbeenanFBI agent and Department of Justice lawyer linked closely to the Department ofHomelandSecuritybeforebeinghiredsplashily toshowthenewmayor’sseriousness infightingtheterroristswhoseemedtoloveNewYorkCityforallthewrongreasons.Buthandinglove?IthoughtasIshookMiller’shand.Iwasincharge,butIalsohadapartneror something? How was that supposed to work? And who was to report to whom? Iwondered.

Millershookbackbriefly,asifhedidn’twantmysoot-stainedjeansandWindbreakertomusshisdappergraysuit.

“HerculesteamshavebeendeployedtoTimesSquareandWallStreet,”Millersaidingreeting.

IassumedMillerwas talkingabout the IntelligenceDivision’s tacticalunits,used toflood an area to show any potential attackers the NYPD’s lightning-quick responsecapability.

“Thehelicoptersareup,andthereareboatsinthewater.Justgotoffthephonewiththecommissioner.We’regoingfull-courtpressinManhattan,rivertoriver.”

Weren’tsuchshowsofforcesupposedtopreventattacks?Ithought.

“Now,whatisthisthermobaricbombstuffIkeephearing?”Millercontinued.“That’scrazy speculation at this point, isn’t it? Something like that would take an incredibleamount of technical know-how and meticulous planning. We would expect a blip ofchatteractivity fromsurveillancebefore sucha large-scaleattack,andmy teamandmycontacts inWashingtonare reportingexactlynada.Couldn’t this justhavebeenautilityscrewup?”

“Idon’tknowaboutanyofthat,Bryce,”Isaid,eyeinghim.“Iwasactuallyjustwiththebombguysandsawtheshrapnelfromwhatlookedlikepressure-cookerbombsintwoseparatelocations.”

MyphonehummedagainasItookablackpieceofsomethingoutofthecornerofmyeyewithapinkienail.

“Nomatterhowlittleanyonewantstosayorhearit,thiswasdefinitelynoaccident.”

CHAPTER13

LATERTHATMORNING,Mr.JoyceandMr.BeckettandTonywereina brand-new dark-green Ford F-150 pickup truck rolling south down Faile Street in aheavilyindustrialareaoftheHuntsPointsectionoftheSouthBronx.

Mr.Joycetookalong,soothingsipofhiscoldMcDonald’sOJandbeganhummingtohimselfashelookedoutatthesunnyday.Ashewatched,alowLaGuardia-boundFedExcargojetcameroaringinoverhead.Mr.Joyce,beinganavidplanespotter,tookonelookattheshapeofitspurpletailandknewimmediatelythatitwasaMcDonnellDouglasMD-11F.

Searchingforandfinallyspottingtheexactlocationoftheaircraft’saftgastanks,hevividlyimaginedshootingthemwithoneoftherefurbishedFIM-92Stingermissilestheyhad at thewarehouse.He cocked his head to the left as he calculated the physics of atwenty-two-pound hit-to-kill blast-fragmentation warhead ripping into a six-hundred-thousand-poundplane’sfueltanksattwicethespeedofsound.

HetookanothersipofOJ.Theycontinuedtoroll.Allaroundwasnothingbutblockafter grimblockof run-downbrickwarehouses and industrial buildings.Therewerenoresidentialbuildingsorevengasstationsinthedesolatearea,andmanyofitsstreetsdidn’thavesomuchasasidewalk.

Whichwas preciselywhy theywere operating out of this god-awful area.With noconcernedcitizenryformiles,itwasaperfectplacetobasetheiroperations.

Afteranotherblock,Mr.Beckett,behindthewheel,hitagarage-dooropenerandtheypulled under the rolling steel gate of an unremarkable but dilapidated two-story stuccostructurewedgedbetweenanabandonedwarehouseandastinkingrecyclingcenter.

When the steel shutter was closed behind them, they climbed out of the truck andcame through the garage door into the lower floor of the small building. The dim,windowlessspacehadblack-paintedwallsandalong,fullystockedpinewoodbar.Therewere neon signs, a jukebox in one corner, a pool table, and even several black-paintedcircularwoodenboothsalongthefarwall.

“Now,thisiswhatIcallahideout!”Tonysaid,lookingaroundinamazement.“Thisisawesome!Andunexpected.Iwouldneverpegyousmartguysforlivinginadivebar.”

“I’mgladyoulikeit,Tony,”saidMr.Joyce,goingbehindthebarandclickingagreenneonRolling Rock sign on and off. “It does have a certain ambience, doesn’t it? Thisbuildingwas once an illegal after-hours place.Afterwemoved in, itwas easier just toleaveeverythingasis.”

“Wheredoyousleep?Onthepooltable?”

“Ofcoursenot,”Mr.Joycesaidwithagrin.“There’sanapartmentupstairs.I’mgoingtohittherestroomforapitstop.Whydon’tyouletMr.Beckettfixyouadrink?Sitandrelaxforabit.Ithinkweallneedawell-deservedrestbeforewestartphasetwo.”

Tonyyawnedandsmiledback.

“Whatisphasetwo,anyway,Mr.Joyce?Sameshitlikewiththetrucks?”hesaid.

“Allingoodtime,Tony.Relaxnow.I’llberightback,”Mr.Joycesaidwithawinkasheheadeddownthehallway.

CHAPTER14

MR.BECKETTSATTonyintheboothatthefarendofthelongroomandplacedarumandCokeinfrontofhim.ThenhewenttothefloorsafebehindthebarandcamebackwithawhiteplasticFoodEmporiumshoppingbagcontainingtheagreed-upontwentythousanddollarsintwentiesandfifties.

“Hey,thanks,”saidTony,smilingfromeartoearasheglancedatthemoneyandliftedthedrink.“Youknow,youguysaresuchgentlemen.Imean,IthoughtI’dnevergetajobwithmyrecord,but thenI lookupand thereyouguysareoutside thathomelessshelterlikesomekindofgodsend.MywholelifeI’vepartneredupwithsuckeraftersucker,andIjustwantyou toknowhowprivilegedI feel to finallyworkwithacoupleof realsmartplayers.Youmusthavebeen,like,professorsorsomething,amIright?”

“Well,Mr. Joyce is the real brains,” saidMr.Beckett as heheadedback to thebar.“He’sageniusinmathematicsaswellasmaterialsengineering.Heusedtobeanactualrocket scientist—well, missile scientist, if you want to get technical. And here’s someadvicefrompersonalexperience.”

“What’sthat?”Tonysaid.

“Don’tplaychessagainsthim,especiallyformoney.”

“Not a chance,” Tony saidwith a laugh. “Never touch the stuff,Mr. Beckett.Whydon’tyoupouryourselfadrinkandcomeandsit?”

“Sorry,Tony.Idon’tdrink.Iliketobeincontrolatalltimes,”saidMr.Beckett.

“Youdon’tdrink?Whatdoyoudoforfun?”Tonysaid.

BeforeMr.Beckettcouldanswer,therewasafaint,flicking,whistlingsoundfromthedimnessontheothersideoftheroomnearthebathroom.Thenthereweretwosounds,allbut simultaneous.The firstwas the clickofTony’s droppeddrink landingmiraculouslyupright on the table. The second was the loud crack of his head as it slammed backviolentlyintotheplywoodbackofthebooth.

Mr. Joyce emerged from the hallway with the compound hunting bow after Tonystoppedtwitching.Hestoodbeforetheboothforamomentwithhisdarkgoateecradledinhis free hand, peering at the fletching and the twenty-seven-inch carbon shaft of thebroadheadarrowthatprotrudedfromTony’slefteyesocket.

“Thatwasjustterrible,”Mr.Joycesaid.

“Comenow,Mr.Joyce.IlikedTony,too,butwehavetocoverourtracks,”saidMr.Beckettasheretrievedthebagofmoneyandreturnedittothesafe.

“Please: you don’t actually think I care thatTony is dead, do you?”Mr. Joyce saidwithalaugh.“I’mjustupsetaboutthisnewbowIbought.Iwasaimingforrightbetweentheeyes,butoneofthepulleysmustbeovertight.Ibooteditdownandalittletotherightatthelastsecond.”

“Now,now,Mr.Joyce,”saidMr.Beckettashecameover.“Youhavetoadmitthatthislightishorrendous,andbesides,nooneisperfectonehundredpercentofthetime.Yourlittle toy is quite effective, if you ask me. What’s the expression? ‘Close enough forgovernmentwork?’”

Mr.Joycetookapairofsidecuttersoff thebar,reachedbehindTony’sruinedskull,andcutawaythecarbonshaftembeddedintheplywood.TonylandedfaceuponthefilthyconcreteafterMr.Joycekickedhimofftheboothseat.HeslidthearrowoutofTony’seyebythefletching,thenliftedthedeadman’slefthandandcheckedthecheapdigitalwatchonhiswrist.

“Look at the time,Mr.Beckett,”Mr. Joyce said. “Grab his ankles,would you?Wereallyneedtogetgoing.Youknowtrafficisgoingtobeanightmare.”

CHAPTER15

ATALITTLE after eleveno’clock, Iwas backon the streets ofWashingtonHeights.Well,backunderthestreetsofWashingtonHeights,tobeexact.

“See?It’soverthere,Mike,”saidConEdsupervisorAlKott,afewrungsbelowmeontheSaintNicholasAvenuemanholeladder.Hepointedhisflashlightataruinedsectionoffire-blackenedbrickinthenorthwall.

“Thatwallthereisn’tsupposedtobelikethat.It’sbeenjackhammered,bythelooksofit.Andnotbymyguys.Ialreadycheckedtherecords.There’sbeennomaintenanceinthisholeforthelasteighteenmonths.”

“Youseeanythingthatlookslikeanairshaftinthere,Al?”Isaid.

“Maybe,”hesaid,pointingthebeamofhisflashlightintothegap.“Idon’tknow.It’sallburnedandwreckedtoshit,butIthinkIseesomerippedmetalaboutfiveorsixfeetin.”

I nodded as I thought about that. More details had been revealed at the precinctmeetingbythebombexperts.Evidencewaspointingtotwobombsplacedonthetracksjustnorthofthe168thand181stStreetstations.Massivecrateringabovetheblastsattwoair shafts corroborated the thermobaric bomb theory. Some kind of fuel had beendeliberatelypumpedintothetunnel.

Thathadtobeit,IthoughtasIstaredattheripped-openwallandmassivelydamagedConEdisonmanhole.Thisspotwasoneofthelocationswheretheflammablebombfuel,orwhateverthehellitwas,hadbeenpumpeddown.

Wehadourwhere,IthoughtasIclimbedforthecircleofdaylightaboveme.Nowwejustneededtofindourwho.

CHAPTER16

THEBUILDINGWAS a new thirty-two-story glass high-rise on HavenAvenueoverlookingtheHudsonRiveronthewestsideofWashingtonHeights.

Themanwasinapartment32J.Hewasajunkie,thinandmiddle-aged,vampirepale,withlong,grayponytailedhairandaroad-worn,angularface.Inawifebeaterandonce-blackbutnowfaded-to-graypairofjeans,hesatonthegleamingoakfloorofthesmall,high-endcondo’slivingroom,hisbonykneesupandhisbackflatagainstawall.

Despite this spartan sitting position, he appeared comfortable. Like he’d long agobecomeusedtosittingonhard,barefloors.

Therewasnofurnitureintheroom.Notastickoffurnitureinthewholeapartment,infact. The only other object in the apartment was a white iPad, facedown on the floorbetween thegauntman’sbeat-uphikingboots.Hesat there, staringat it steadily.As if,anysecondnow,itwereabouttoperformsomesortofamazingtrickthathedidn’twanttomiss.

Every once in awhile, he’d flick a glance around the empty room.The barewhitewalls. The rectangle of cloudless, cornflower-blue sky showing through the big,curtainlesswindow.

Hewonderedwhoowned thisplace.Would theyactuallyhavebought anapartmentjustforthis?Ormaybeitwasrented.

Heyawned,rolledhisshoulders,stretched.Asifthatmattered.Hedidn’tneedtoknowaboutallthat.Heonlyhadtomakesurehisownpartworkedsohecouldgettherestofthemoney.

The instructions couldn’t have been simpler. He just needed to do it, leave theapartment,getintotherentalcarparkedinthelotonBroadway,andheadstraightbacktoFlorida.

Heglancedathiswatch.Threeminutes.Hotdamn!Three!hethought.Thenhewentbacktostaringatthetabletagain.

Hewas trying tokeephismindblank, stay serene.Butas theclock tickeddown, itbecameexceedinglydifficult.

Hekept thinkingabout thecraziest,mostscrewed-upshithe’deverdone inhis life.Howhe’dbrokenintohouseswhenpeoplewerehomesleeping.Howhe’dknifedthatkidwhotriedtotakehisshitthattimewhenhewaslivingonthebeachinKeyWest.Inthebackoftheneck,too.Hehadtohavekilledhim.Hesurehadn’tstuckaroundtofindout.

Theworstwasinthemidnineties,when,duringaChristmasvisit tohislittlebrother

Kenny’shouse,heupandflat-outstolehisbrother’snewToyotaEcho,whichhadhistwonieces’carseatsinthebackandawoman’snewwintercoatinthetrunkthatcouldn’thavebeenanythingbutKenny’sChristmaspresenttohiswife.

Butallthatputtogether,thoughtthemanasherubbedhissweatingpalmsonthesoft,threadbarethighsofhisLevi’s,couldn’tholdacandletotheactofcertifiableinsanityhewasabouttocommit.

Literally,noonehadeverdoneanythinglikethis.Noone.Itwasgoingtorearrangepeople’sminds.

Did he really want to be part of that? He didn’t know. Half of himwas afraid, ofcourse,especiallyaboutgettingcaught.Thatwouldnotbegood.Buthereallydidn’tthinkhewould.Theplanwasprettymuchfoolproof.

Theotherhalfofhimwasexcitedaboutit.Notjustaboutthe$150Khewasduebutalso because it was so big-time. Monumental.Wasn’t like he was winning any NobelPrizesanytimesoon,sowhathewasabouttodowoulddefinitelyleaveamark.

Thealarmonhischeapwatchsuddenlywentoff.Thetinnyblip-blip,pause,blip-blipwaslikeanelectronicamplificationofhisracingheart.

Itwastime.

HeflippedovertheiPadandproppeditinhislapandpressedanappandthescreensuddenly showed a live shot of upperManhattan, to the east. Small buildings could beseen far belowwithMatchbox-like cars between themmoving slowly in the congestedstreets.

Itwastheviewfromthecamerahe’dalreadymountedonthehigh-risebuilding’sroofthatwasconnectedtotheiPadthroughWi-Fi.Inthecornerofthescreen,numbersshowedthecamera’ssatelliteGPScoordinates to theseconddecimalpointandthat itselevationwasat326.8feet.

OntheiPadscreen,thetinybuildingsbegantogrowinsizeasheremotelyactivatedthecamera’szoomlens.

Zoomingandmeticulouslysearchingandzoomingagain,themanswipedatthescreenwithhislongfingers,zeroinginonthetarget.

CHAPTER17

ASUDDENFRANTICcallfromChiefFabrettiredirectedmeimmediatelyfromtheSaintNicholasAvenuebombsitebacktothecommandcenterattheprecinct.

Iwastoldthatthemayorwasabouttospeakforthefirsttimeabouttheattacktothepress,andtotheworld,andIwasneededtodeliveranup-to-datebriefingtohiminpersonbeforehewenton.

AsIturnedthecornerofBroadwayonto170th,Icouldseethataportablestageandflag-flanked podium had been set up outside on the street in front of the Thirty-ThirdPrecinct’sfrontdoor.Standingintheblocked-offstreetaroundthestagewasalargecrowdofFBI people and cops andmayor’s-office guys playing copswith coplikeEMERGENCYMANAGEMENTWindbreakersovertheirshinysuits.

And still they were outnumbered by media people. Everywhere there were cameraguysinplaidflannelshirtsplayingwithlightmetersandtripodswhiletheirmetrosexualnews-producer bosses did that one-finger-in-the-ear thing as they gabbed into their cellphones.

Inadditiontoregularnewsvans,Ispottedamassivetrailer-sizenationalnewssatellitetruck, like theonesyouseeoutsideevents like theSuperBowl.Ididadouble takeasIdrovepast a startlinglygood-looking, tall brunette—aname-network reporter—withherheadback,gettinghereyelinertouchedupbyherassistant.

There’sarealbuzzintheair, isn’tthere?IthoughtasIparkedandgotout.Likewewereatared-carpetevent.

I didn’t like it. I knew people were freaking out and needed to know what washappening,butthiswasnuts.Itneverfailed.Everytimethesethingshappened,thecircusatmosphereseemedtogetworse.Lessthoughtandemphasisseemedtobeplacedontheincredible human pain inflicted on the victims and their families and more on thehysterical contagious excitement generated by the knowledge that Something Big IsHappening.

IfoundChiefFabrettiwithLieutenantBryceMilleronthesidewalkneartheprecinct’sfrontdoor.

“Justabouttocallyou,Mike,”Fabrettisaid.“Themayorchangedhismindaboutthebriefing.He’sgoingonanysecondnow,andheneedsto,andIquote,wrapthingsupwithhisspeechpeople.”

“His speechpeople,of course,” I said,nodding, as I lookedout at themediahorde.“Youthinkthisistherightapproachhere,Chief?Littleonthesplashyside,isn’tit?”

Themayor’sbuddy,BryceMiller,jumpedin.“Mayorinsisteditbeoutside,”hesaid.“Notholedupinabunkersomewhere.There’salotofscaredfolksoutthere.Weneedtoproject calm. It’s important people understand that everything’s okay. That we’re incontrolofthings.”

Incontrolofthings?Ithought,cockingmyhead.Weare?Iwantedtosay.

CHAPTER18

AMOMENTLATER, accompanied by a barrage of camera clicks andflashes, the mayor, Carl Doucette, came out of the precinct with his five-man policesecuritydetail.

Normallyaglad-handing,life-of-the-partytype,thenewmayor—tall,withcurlygrayhair—lookedsomber, serious,almostnervousashestepped to thepodiumand tookouthispreparedstatement.Ifhewasfakinglookingshakenup,hewasafineactor,Ithought.

“Aseveryoneprobablyhasheardbynow,veryearlythismorningtherewasamassiveexplosion in the number one train tunnel beneath Broadway in Washington Heights,”MayorDoucettebegan.

“Threepeoplehavebeenkilledthatweknowof,andI’dliketosayfirstthatourheartsgo out to those victims and their families. We are still very much in the process ofinvestigating theexplosion,but fromour initial review,wecansaydefinitively that thiswasnotautilitymalfunction,norwasitindustrialinnature.”

Theclickingofthecamerasincreasedashelookedupfromhisnotes.

“At this point,we can only conclude that thiswas an intentional act, ofwhat exactnaturewecannotsay.Itseemsasifaflammablematerialwaspumpedintothetunnelatsomepointlastnight,andthatthebuilt-upmaterialwasignitedwithoneorperhapstwoexplosivedevices,causingcatastrophicdamagetoalargesegmentofthetunnelaswellasto the Hundred and Sixty-Eighth Street and Hundred and Eighty-First Street subwaystations.

“Thispartofthetunnelistenstoriesdown,oneofthedeepestintheentiresystem,andwehaveengineersstillassessingtheriskoffurthercollapse.Thoughweareplanningtobringbacktrainserviceonarollingbasisthisafternoonintotheeveningrush,peoplecanexpect that number one train service will be down in both directions for well into theforeseeablefuture.”

Hepausedagain,tookabreath.

“But though our train service is shut down,” themayor said, staring at the camerasnowwithacalmandsteadyseriousnessandintensityhe’dneverbeforedisplayed,“Iwantto letwhoever committed this cowardly,murderous act know once and for all that thespiritofthiscityanditscitizenswillneverbeshutdown.”

Therewasasmatteringofspontaneousapplause.

“Wewill continue as we have always done, and youwill be found and brought tojustice.”

“Yeah!”somebodywithadeepvoicecalledoutfromthemediapit,andmorepeoplebegantoapplaud.

“Tryasyouwill,neitheryounoranyoneelsewilleverbeabletoshutdownourcityortheAmericanpeople.”

Maybedoingabigpressconferencelikethiswasagoodideaafterall,Ithoughtastheclappingincreased.Ihadn’tvotedforthemayor,becauseheseemedsoftoncrime,buthewassurprisingme.Watchinghimoperateupcloseforthefirsttime,Icouldseehewasanaturalleaderwithanabilitytoliftpeople’sspirits.

The mayor smiled gently as he raised his hands to wave down the applause. Hebrought themicrophone in a little closer tohimself as a chantof “USA!USA!” startedfromsomewhere.

Themayorsmiledatthechantingandwaswavinghishandsforcalmwhentherewasaglowofsomethingpinkbehindhishead.

Itwasrose-colored,astrange,halolikemistthatIfirstthoughtwassomekindofweirdtelevisionlighting,becauseasitappeared,thesideofthemayor’sheadsuddenlylookedlikeitwascoveredinshadow.

Butthenthetallmayorstaggeredoddlyforwardandtohisleft,andmymindfinallycaughtuptomyunbelievingeyes.

I watched in horror as the mayor dropped straight down behind the podium like abridgewithitspilingsblownout.

CHAPTER19

THENEXTFEWmomentswerebeyondstrange.Frozenanddumbstruck,Istood there unable to do anything but stare down at the fallen mayor and the bloodpumpingoutofhim.Mymindmusthavestillbeena littleshell-shocked,becauseashebledout,allIcoulddowaskeeplookinghimover,againandagain,harpingonthemostuselessdetails.

Likehowhe’dcomeoutofoneofhisshoes,anewcordovanloafer.Howthoughhewasmarried,Isawhewasn’twearingaweddingring.Howtherewerelittlepinkanchorsonhisnavy-bluesocks.

Though there were more than a hundred people standing around—cops, reporters,photographers,neighborhoodresidents—noneofthemseemedtobemoving,either.Itwassuddenly impossibly quiet, as if someone had just called for a moment of silence. Idistinctlyrememberhearingbirdschirpingintheparkacrossfromtheprecinct,andoffinthedistanceonSaintNicholasAvenuetherewasthebriefgrumbleofapassingbus.

Thenoutofthedeadsilence,someoneinashriekingvoicethatwassohighandlouditwasimpossibletotellifitwasamanorawomansuddenlyyelled.

“Sniper!”

Thespellbrokeinstantly.Everyoneinthevicinityofthefallenmayor,includingme,brokeawaylikeastampedingherdfromhisbody.

I didn’t knowwhereLieutenantMiller had gotten to, butChief Fabretti and I doveimmediatelybetweenacoupleofcruisersparkedoutinfrontoftheprecinct.Icouldhearseveralcopscryingout,“Where?Where?Where?”simultaneouslyoverthechief’sradioaswecrawledonourhandsandkneesinthegutter.

“Unbelievable!Thisisn’thappening!Youheartheshot,Mike?Ididn’thearjackshit!”Fabretti said beside me, where he gripped a short-barreled .38 he had pulled out ofsomewhere. “Damn it! We have a sniper team covering the rooftops. What justhappened?!”

Ishookmyheadandwasabouttotakeapeekoutattherooftopsmyselfwhentherewasaloud,thunkingcrackofwoodasanotherbulletrippedintothepodium.

“Down!”Iyelled.“We’restillunderfire!”

Inoticedthattherewasn’tevenahintofaguncrackforthesecondshot,either.Whichmeantoneoftwothings—eithertheshooterwasusingasuppressor,orhewasreallyfaraway. Iwasgoingwith the latter.Themayor’smassivewound indicateda large-caliberround probably shot from a riflewith a long range. I shookmy head.LikeKennedy, I

thoughtinhorror.Themayorhadjustbeenassassinated!

“Thatsecondshotjusthitthefrontofthepodium,Chief,”Isaidafteramoment.“Tellyourmenthatitseemstobecomingfromdeadwest,upaHundredandSeventieth.”

FabrettiwascallingitinwhenIheardawoman’sfriendlyvoice.

“Excuseme,Officer.Overhere,please.Excuseme.”

I lookedupand squinted intoapainfullybright light above the sidewalk.Next to itmaterialized a tall, attractive woman. It was the statuesque network reporter I’d seenpreviously,herpaintedeyeshugeanddarkandalmond-shaped,herthickpancakemakeupa garish, yellowy tan. Her camera guy was a short, stocky, friendly-looking beardedHispanicguywhogavemeawinkwithhisfreeeye.

Wewerestillbeingshotat,andtheywantedasidelinereport?

IguessIwasn’ttheonlyoneinfull-outshock.

“Getdown!”IyelledasIgrabbedthemandyankedthembehindthecar.

CHAPTER20

TWENTY MINUTES LATER I was in my Impala, hammering ittoward the west side ofWashington Heights behind a trio of commando-filled NYPDEmergency Service Unit trucks. The trucks were military surplus BearCat armoredpersonnelcarriers;Iusedtothinkusingthemwasoverkill—atleastIdidupuntilIsawthemayor get blown away. The countersniper team in position near the precinct hadtriangulatedtheshotwiththeirgunshotechosystem,andwewereheadednowtowardahigh-risebuildingonHavenAvenue,whereitseemedliketheshotshadcomefrom.

I almost didn’t believe it when one of the SWAT cops pointed out the suspectedbuildingtome.Itwassofaraway.OntheothersideofManhattan.Easilythree-quartersofamile.Thechillthathadgonedownmyspinehadstayedthere.Becauseonlyaworld-classsnipercouldhavemadeashotlikethat,Iknew.

Whichraisedthequestion:Who,orwhat,werewedealingwith?

“Dude,Iblamethemedia.It’salltheirfault,damnit!”criedoutanuncharacteristicallypissed-offArturointhefrontseatbesidemeasweroaredwesttowardthebuilding.TheyoungPuertoRicancop,whomImeton theOmbudsmanOutreachSquad,wasusuallyprettyeven-tempered.

Alongwithhalfthedepartment,mycrewhadrespondedimmediatelytotheshooting.I’dgrabbedthemandtakenthemwithmethemomentthedecisionhadbeenmadetoraidthesuspectedbuilding.

And nowonderArturowas freaking out. Themayor had been rushed to ColumbiaPresbyterian,buteveryoneknewhewasdead.Firstabombingandnowanassassination?We were in a new territory of spooky, and the adrenaline couldn’t have been runninghigher.

“Whatdidyou just say?”saidBrooklynKale fromthebackseat.“Themedia?Whatareyoutalkingabout,Lopez?”

“Exactly, Arturo,” said Doyle, sitting beside her. “When you open your mouth, itwouldbeniceifyoumaybemadesomesensefromtimetotime.”JimmyDoyle,anotheryoungcopfromtheOmbudsmanOutreachSquad,hadbecomemyright-handman.

“Useyourbrains,fools,”Arturoinsisted.“Themediaarerightnowintheprocessofdoingmillionsuponmillionsofdollars’worthoffreePRworkforwhoeverisdoingthis.Suchover-the-top,wall-to-wallcoveragejustsetsthebarhigherandhighereachtimeforthenutjobsandterroriststogeteverybody’sattention.

“Whichmeansbiggerexplosions,morebodies,andmoreatrocities.Theyshouldtake

theircuefromthebaseballmedia,whichnippedfanstupidityinthebudwhentheywiselydecidedtostopshowingpeoplewhorunontothefield.”

“Sodon’ttellpeoplethere’sterrorism?That’syoursolution?”saidBrooklyn.

“How about at least not sensationalizing it so much?” Arturo said. “This is abloodbath.Stopsellingthefrickin’popcorn.”

“Congrats,Arturo,”DoylesaidasweskiddedtoastopinthedrivewayoftheHavenAvenue building’s underground parking garage. “I think you actuallymight havemadeyourfirst-evergoodpoint.”

“Shut up, people, please,” I said, turning up my radio as a just-arriving NYPDhelicopterswoopedinfromthesouthandhoveredoverthebuilding.

“There’ssomethingontheeastsideofthebuilding,”thepilotsaidafteraminute.“Itlookslikesomesortofarifle.”

TheESUcopsspilledoutintothedrivewayandbustedouttheirballisticriotshieldsandsubmachineguns.Westayedbehindthemaswewentacrossthepavementtowardthesidedoorofthebuilding.Havingneitherthetimenortheinclinationtofindandaskthesuper for the key, the ESU breach team unhesitatingly cracked the door open with abatteringram.

Afterdismissingtheelevatorsasdangerousbecauseofpotential tampering, theESUguysleftasmallcontingentinthenewbuilding’ssleekmarblelobbyastherestsplitupintothebuilding’stwostairwells.

MyteamandIfollowedtheESUteaminthenorthstairwell.Despitebeingpumpedupwithadrenaline,wehadtostoptwiceforshortbreatherstogetupthethirty-twofloors.

Wewerethefirstteamthere.AnalarmwentoffastheleadESUguyhittheroofdoor,andwewereoutinthesuddenlycoolairwiththeroaring,hoveringNYPDBellhelicopterrighttherealmostontopofus.Thepilotpointedtothetopofalittlestructurethathousedtheelevatorequipment.

Iranacrossthetarpapertoitsladderandclimbedupandjuststoodtherestaringatit.

CHAPTER21

I’DNEVERSEEN anything like it before. Iwasn’t an expert, but the longblack rifle lookedhuge, likea sniper rifle,perhapsa .50caliber. Itwasbolted into twostrange,bulkystandsthatcouldhavebeenmotorized.

Butthestrangestthingwaswhatwasattachedtothetopoftherifle.Perchedwherethescopeshouldhavebeenwasabulkydeviceaboutthesizeofahardcoverbookthatlookedlike a robotic owl. It had a single viewfinder in the sighting end andwhat looked likegreenish-tingedbinocularsinthefront.

“You’vegottobekidding,”saidESUsergeantTerryKellyashearrivedbehindme.

“Whatthehellisit?”

Theshort,muscularcopspatsomechewingtobaccoashekneltandcarefullytiltedthegunoveronitsside.

“Oneofthosedamnthings!”hesaid.“Ona.50-caliberBarrett!Ofcourse.Whynot?It’slikethetrainingvideosaid.Onlyamatteroftime.”

“Whatareyoutalkingabout,Sergeant?”Isaid.

“WesawaHomelandSecurityvideoaboutthisthreeweeksago,”Kellysaid.“Seethisscope thing on top? It’s a computerized targeting system. It has a laser range finder infront,likerichgolfguyshavetogetexactdistances.”

Inodded.

“Well, you get behind it and sight your target through the system’s long-rangezoomingvideocameraandjusttagitwiththelaser.Thenthecomputercalculatesallthefactorsoftheshot—theairdensity,Magnuseffect,eventargetmovement—andputsthemthrough the computer. Then the computer—not you—robotically positions the gun andfiresit.

“Anyone,athree-year-oldchild,canbecomeaworld-classsniperwithit.Allyouhavetodoistagthetarget.WhatamIsaying?Youdon’tevenhavetobebehindthegun!IthasWi-Fi.”

“Sothiswasprobablydoneremotely,”Isaid.

“Withoutadoubt,”hesaid.“Whyexposeyourselfonarooftopwhenallyouhavetodo is set thegunupbeforehandand justdo it fromcover?Allyouwouldneed is tobewithinWi-Firange.”

“Calltheotherteamandtellthemtogostraighttothetopfloor,”Itoldhim.“Weneedtogetthesuperuphereandstartsearchingeverysingleapartment.”

Werushedofftheroofanddownontothethirty-secondfloorandstartedbangingondoors like itwasHalloween for cops.Only three of the residentswere home.Afterweweredonesearchingtheirapartments,thesuper,atall,middle-agedguywholookedlikeastoner,finallyshowedupinabrownbathrobe,holdingasetofkeys.

“Listen,man,”hesaid,“I’mstillwaitingtohearbackfromthemanagementoffice.Idon’t even know if I should be letting you into people’s apartments.Don’t you need awarrantorsomething?”

“Tunein,bro,”Kellyyelledinhisface.“WhileyouwerebusywatchingHaroldandKumarGotoWhiteCastle,themayorjustgotblownawaywithariflewefoundonyourroof.”

“What?Okay,okay.Givemeasecond,”hesaid,fumblingwiththekeys.

Onebyone,wesearchedsevenapartments,buttherewasnothing.

“Whataboutthisapartment?”Isaidtothesuper.“Where’sthekey?”

“Uh…thatone’svacant,” the stoner said. “It’s for sale, so Idon’thave thekey.Themanagementcompanyhasit,Ithink.”

“Don’tworryaboutthekey,”saidKellyasheledtheway,holdingthebatteringram.“Fortunately,webroughtourown.”

TheESUmenblastedopenthedoorof32Jandrushedinside.

Whentheygavetheall-clearandwewentin,thefirstthingInoticedwastheshatteredlivingroomwindow.Thesecondwastheskinnyguywithagrayponytailsprawledoutinfrontof thekitchen’sbreakfastbarwith the topofhisheadmissing.Therewasan iPadbesidehim.

Iturnedandlookedwest,outthroughthebrokenwindowattheHudson.

OntheJerseysideoftheriver,aboutamileaway,therewasanotherhigh-rise.

Wheresomeoneelsehadshotthemayor’sshooterwithanothercomputerizedrifle,Ithought.Iwouldhavebetmypaycheckonit.

This isn’tgood, I thoughtas I radioedaviation tohit the roofof thebuildingon theJerseysidetoseewhattheycouldsee.

“Mike,youreallythinkthisistheguywhokilledthemayor?”askedBrooklynasshestoodoverthebody.

Inodded.

“Andwhokilledhim?”askedArturo.

I stared out the window as the chopper appeared overhead on its way across theHudson.Thesoundoftherotorswasalmostdeafeningthroughthebrokenglass.

“Thenutjobwho’stryingtoshowushowsmartheis,”Iyelled.

CHAPTER22

AT EXACTLY 1:23 P.M., thirty-seven minutes after the mayor’sassassination, a hundred blocks almost directly south, awhite delivery van turnedwestonto81stStreetfromYorkAvenueonManhattan’sfamousUpperEastSide.

“Dude, four-two-one. That’s it. Up there,” said the preppywhite college kid in thevan’spassengerseat.

ThehandsomeyoungHispanicdriverbesidehimsquintedaheadoutthewindshield.

“Thatoldchurchthere?”hesaid.

“No,stupid,”saidthewhiteguy.“Thechurch?Howwegonnaputitonthepointyroofofachurch?Nexttothechurchthere.Thatcrappywhitebrickbuilding.”

The white guy’s name was Gregg Bentivengo. His handsome Hispanic buddy wasJulio Torrone. They were recently graduated New York University students, nowroommates and partners in a start-up marketing and promotional firm they’d dubbedEmeraldMarketingSolutions.

“Achurch?”Greggsaidagain,rollinghiseyes.“There’sevenapictureofthebuildingontheinstructions.Didn’tyouseethepictureofit?”

“That’syourjob,”Juliosaid,comingtoadeadstopasagreenpickuptwocarsaheadparallel-parked. “You’re the navigator, bro. I’m the pilot. Where should I park us,anyway?Thisblockisjammed.”

“Too badwe didn’t pick one of those blockswhere it’s easy to park,” saidGregg,rollingdownhiswindowandstickinghisheadout.“Thebuilding’sgotanundergroundgarage.Maybethey’llletusleavethevanofftothesideinthedrivewaythereforasecondwhileweunload.Youknow,IwouldhaveaskedformoreifI’dknownhowbulkythesedamnthingsare.Plustheyweighaton.”

“Youcansaythatagain.I’mnotluggingitacrossthestreetagain,especiallythewayyoualmostletitbailwhenweweregettingitoverthecurb.”

“Ialmostletitbail?Ibegtodiffer,myfriend.You’re theonewhodidn’ttightenthehand truck’s strap,”Gregg said as he rolled thewindow back up and removed a smallnavelorangefromthepocketofhiswhiteNorthFaceshell.

Greggwas always doing that, thought Julio, annoyed.Grossly hoarding food in hispockets likea squirrelor something.Peanuts, little candies.Drovehimnuts all throughschool.

“Besides,you’rethemuscleinthislittlecaper,”Greggsaidashebeganpeeling.“I’m

thesweet-talking,persuasiveguy.”

“Thewhat?”Juliosaid.“YouweretrippingoveryourtonguewiththeconciergemamaatthelastplacesomuchIthoughtyouweredoinganimpressionofthat‘That’sall,folks’pigdudeinthatold-timeycartoon.”

“Screwyou,”Greggsaid,flickingapieceoforangepeelathim.“Whenshelookedup,shewassohotthatIgotalittlestartledisall.Iwaslovestruck.Besides,Irecoveredquickenough.”

“That’strue,”saidJulio,smiling.“Ialmostpissedmyselflaughingwhenyoutoldheritwas thenewfluxcapacitorfor theroof,andshewas like, ‘Oh,okay,elevatorbacktoyourright.’”

“Hey,youknowmymotto. If you can’t bowl themoverwithbrilliance, thenbafflethemwithbullshit.”

“Hey,traffic’smovingnow,”Juliosaid.“Let’sgetthisoverwith.”

Itwaseveneasier thanthelastdrop.Themiddle-agedAsianguyat thegaragemusthavebeenneworsomething,becausenotonlydidhe let thempark in thedriveway,healsolet themintothesidedoorofthebuildingwithhiskeywithoutcallingthesuperorevenseeminginterestedinwhatthehelltheyweredoingthere.

Ittookthemexactlyelevenminutestopositionthegreenmetalboxthatwasaboutthesizeandweightofalargefilingcabinetonthesoutheastcornerofthesix-storybuilding’sroof,aspertheinstructions.

It must have some internal battery or something, Gregg thought idly as they wereleaving the roof, because, like the first metal box they’d dropped off at the hotel onLexingtonand56th,itdidn’tneedtobepluggedinorturnedonoranything.

“Whatdoyouthinktheyare,anyway?”Juliosaidastheygotbackintothevan.

“Weren’t you listening? They’re carbon meters,” said Gregg, picking up the half-peeled orange he’d left on the dashboard. “The clients are environmental activistswhowant to takereadingsof thisone-percent-filledareabutweredeniedby thecityand thebuildingboards.Enterus,undergroundmarketingheroesextraordinaire,totherescue.”

“Carbonmeters,myass,”Juliosaid.“Whoeverheardofafreakingcarbonmeter?”

“DoIknow?”saidGregg.“Youcancallitafairy-dust-readingmeterifyougivemefivegrandcashtosneakitontosomedump’sroof.”

“Probablysomesketchyguerrilladata-collectionthinghooveringupthewholeblock’spasswordsanddataormonitoringpeople’sonlinepornhabits,”Juliosaid.

“IpegthisguyforahotAsiannursesfan,”Greggsaidasthestupidparkingattendantgavethemafriendlywaveandtheybegantobackoutontothestreet.

“Whoknows?”Juliosaidaftertheywererolling.“MaybeourclientsareNSA.”

“IdoubtthosetwobastardswereNSA,”saidGregg.

“Theyweredefinitelybastards, but smart ones,” Julio remindedhim. “Don’t forget,nerdyNSAtypesarecomputergeniusesandshit.”

“Right,”Greggsaidskeptically.“Youplaytoomanyvideogames.”

“True,”Juliosaid.“Anyway,it’sdone.Whatdoyouwanttodonow?Hitthegym?”askedJulio.

“Tooearly,”Greggsaid.“Pizza?”

“Okay, but then we need to get this truck back or we have to pay for eight morehours.”

PARTTWO

THECITYSLEEPS

CHAPTER23

HOMEFINALLY,ANDstilldampfromaglorioushotshower,Iploppedmytiredcarcassdownattheheadofthediningroomtableataround7:30p.m.

IwascladinapairoforangeswimtrunksandaYankeesnumber42MarianoRiverajersey,whichworked better than youmight think as a pajamas ensemble.Actually,myatrociousgetupwastheonlythingIcouldfindnowthatthelaundrywaspilingupatanalarming rate. Iwas down to the bottom of the drawer andwould be staying there, nodoubt,forthetimebeing.

Myhastilyput-togetherlatedinnerforlafamiliaBennettwasFrenchtoast,oneofmygo-todishes.I’dofferedtogetpizzaagain,butthekidswerepizzaedoutanddemandedahome-cookedmeal.Theyhadprobablymeantahome-cookeddinner,buttoobadforthem—theyhadn’tspecified.Theyseemedtoenjoyitwellenough,oratleasttheyenjoyedmywiseheavy-handednesswiththeconfectioners’sugar.

IwasrelishingmyFrenchcuisinewithabottleofGuinness,theonlyadultbeverageleftinthehouse.Likethelaundry,thewholegrocerythingwassomethingIhadtoworkout,sinceMaryCatherinewasstillaway.

SpeakingofMaryCatherine, I’dbeen jazzed to finda letter—anactualpaper snail-mail letter—fromheronthehall tablewhenI’dcomein.Thegoodnewswasthat therewas a new lead on a buyer for the hotel. No definite offer as of yet, but things werelookinggood.

Thebadnewswasthatthoughshehadaskedaboutthekids,therewasreallynothingaboutusorour fabulous romanticweek togetheron thewindsweptCliffsofMoher.Oraboutherheart-wrenchingnote,whichIhadreadontheplane.

Whatcouldthatmean?Iwondered.Coldfeet?Buyer’sremorse?Ididn’tknow.AllIknewwasthatIwantedherbackherewithmesoharditwasstartingtohurt.

ButlikeIsaid,atleastIwashome.Finallycleanandwarmandhome,thoughIwasn’tinarealtalkativemoodaftermytrulyinsaneday.Iwasmorethancontenttojustlistentothedullroarofthekidsallaroundthetable,talkingandgiggling.Eventheirteasingwascomforting.Theirnormalcy, theirobliviousness to thehorrorof today’sevents,was justwhatthedoctorordered.

Iwasstillsittinginmyfamily’swarmchaos,moppingupthestoutandsyrup,whenSeamuscameinatspeedthroughtheapartment’sfrontdoor.

“Longday,eh,Mick?”saidSeamus,lookingalittleflusteredwhenhespottedme.

“Aboutaweek long,Father,” I said.“Make thatamonth,but Ican’t talkabout it. I

refuseto,infact.Pullupachairandaplate.How’sthenannyhuntgoing?”

AfterSeamus’shealthscare,anddownoneMaryCatherine,I thoughtitbesttolookforsometemporaryhelp.

“Beenonitsincethismorning,”Seamussaid.“That’swhyI’mhere.I thinkImighthave found someone. He was recommended quite highly by a friend down at thearchdioceseoffice.”

“He?”Isaid.

“Yeah.He’sabit…well,unconventional,youmightsay.”

“Unconventional?Howso?”Iaskedasthedoorbellrang.

“Seeforyourself,”Seamussaid,blinkingatme.“That’shimnow.”

CHAPTER24

OH,ISEE,IthoughtwhenIwentoutintothehallandopenedthedoor.TheyoungmanwastallandColinFarrellhandsome,withspikyblackhairandblack

ClarkKentglasses.Nineteen,maybetwenty.Hewaswearingawhite-and-greentracksuit.

“Hello, there,” he said with an infectious smile and an Irish accent. “I’m MartinGilroy.FatherRomanssentmehereaboutajob?”

“Thisway,”Seamussaid,usheringhiminbeforeIcouldopenmymouth.

TheruckusinthediningroomceasedimmediatelyasSeamusandIbroughthimintothelivingroom.Thekidsstaredathimindeadsilenceaswewalkedpast.

“Hello,guys,”Martinsaid,smiling.

Ifhewasfazedbythetensetsofwideeyesonhim,hehiditwell.Heactuallystoppedandcranedhisnecktolookinthedoorway.

“Hey,whatareyahavinginthere?Frenchtoast,isit?Breakfastfordinner?”

HecroucheddownnexttoShawnaandmadeafunnyface.“Thenwhat’sforbreakfast,Iwonder?Letmeguess.Steakandgreenbeansandmashedpotatoes?”

I smiled alongwith the kids. This guywas pretty good. I was starting to like himalready.

“Sotellusalittlesomethingaboutyourself,Martin,”Isaidaswesatonthecouch.

“Notmuchtotell,really,”hesaid,crossingabigneon-greenNikeonhisthigh.“MehomeisalittletowninCountyCavan,Ireland,calledKilnaleck.Eightofusinthefamily,notincludingMomandDa.Gotoutoffarmchoresbyplayingfootball,orsoccer,asyoulotcallit,forwhatreasonI’llneverknow.

“Anyway,IgotgoodenoughatittogetascholarshiptoManhattanCollege.I’malsoonthetrackteam.Tryingtogetamechanicalengineeringdegreeontheside,asIthoughtitmightbegood tohaveabackupplan ifmydreamsofbecomingBeckhamdon’t turnout.Idon’tdrink,sothathamperstheol’sociallifeabitatschool.Ilikekidsandstayingbusy,and,um,Icouldusethemoney.”

“Anyexperience?”Isaid.

“Plenty,sinceIwasoneoftheoldestinmyfamily.Noonediedonme.IalsoworkedatthetowncampsinceIwassixteen,soIgotallmyfirstaidstuffandallthat.”

“Doyoucook?”Seamusasked.

“Oh, sure. Breakfast, lunch, dinner,” he smiled. “All at the right times, too, if youwant.Onlykidding.Nothingfancy,butIcankeepkidsfed.”

“Youknowhowtodolaundry?”Isaid.

Hetookoffhisglassesandpolishedthemontheedgeofhistrackjacket.

“Icanironacreaseinapairoftrousersyoucouldshavewith,”hesaidasheslippedthe glasses back on. “Actually, that’s not true. I read that somewhere. But I’ve donelaundrybefore.Separate thewhitesand thecolorsor something, right?Hell, I’lldo thewindows,ifyawant.Improviseandovercome,that’smemotto.Bringiton.”

“Martin,there’stenkidsoutthere.Ten,”Isaid.“Whatwouldyoudowiththem?Whatwouldbeyourstrategy?”

“There’s a park around here, right? Riverside, is it?Well, weather permitting, aftertheirhomeworkandwhatnot,I’dkeep’emoutthere,run’emaround,likewedoatcamp.Get’emtired,wear’emdown,andthendinnerandofftobedwhileIhitthechores.”

Ismiled.Ididn’tlikethiskid.Ilovedhim.

“Whencanyoustart?”

Martinshruggedandsmiledagain.

“Idon’tknow.WhencanIstart?”

“Tomorrow?Say,sixa.m.?”Isaid.

“Seeyathen,”hesaidashestoodup.

“Justasecond,”IsaidasIsawhimoffatthedoor.“Thetrainsareout.How’dyougetherefromtheBronx?”

Hezippeduphistrackjacket.

“Iran,”hesaid.

“YouranherefromtheBronx?”

Henodded.

“AndnowI’mgoingtorunback.Gottokeepintip-topfortrack.Why?”

Itwasmyturntosmile.

“Noreason,Martin,”Isaid.“Seeyoutomorrow.”

CHAPTER25

ITWASDARK and nasty and raining cats and dogs the nextmorning. Thedim,dreary,churningEastRiverbeneaththeBrooklynBridgelookedaboutasscenicandlovelyasafieldoffreshlypouredcementasIcrossedoverit inmydepartmentImpala,headingtowork.

Even so,mydayhad startedat top speed.MartinGilroyhadn’tbeenon time.He’dbeenearly.Allthekidsseemedexcitedtoseehim,especiallytheoldergirls,whoseemedparticularlyreadyandmysteriouslydolleduptogotoschool.

SeamushadstayedoverandwasonhandaswelltoshowMartintheropes.Thelovelyoldcodgerwaslookingprettygood,too,Ithought,afterallhe’dbeenthrough.Pinkandhealthyandcheerful.Backinform.

Iwaspleased.Allmenaremortal,andSeamus,ateighty-plus,wasmoremortalthanmost,Iknew,butIdoggedlyrefusedtothinkhewasevergoinganywhereexcepttosayMass.

Ontheothersideofthebridge,IfoundthefirstexitforDUMBOandtookit.Mytriptothehipster-paradiseneighborhoodofDownUnderManhattanBridgeOverpasswasn’tbecauseofaburningdesireforanironicbeerT-shirtbutaworklocationshift.Withallthemediahooplaover themayor’s assassination, caseheadquartershadbeenchanged fromthe Thirty-Third Precinct to theNYPD’s discreet new IntelligenceDivision building inBrooklyn.

Onadark,narrowcobblestonedstreetjustofftheriver,IparkedinfrontofthelargenondescriptoldbrickbuildingthatI’dbeentoonlytwicebefore.Ishieldedmywaypastthreearmed-to-the-teethSWATcopsmanning theplain,dingy lobbyand then twomorestationedatastainlesssteelconsoleinthehallonthesecondfloor.

Ontheothersideofthesecuritycheckpoint,throughametaldoor,thetransformationfromthenineteenth-centurybrickworkoutsidetothetwenty-first-centuryhigh-techofficeinside became complete. There were sleek glass fishbowl offices and flat screenseverywhere.Clocksonthewallgavethetimesofcitiesaroundtheworld.AlotoffederalHomelandSecuritymoneywasonfulldisplay.

Theofficewasalsopackedwithcops—dozensofdetectives inpoloshirtsandsuits.Thewayeveryonewasrunningaroundwithseriousexpressionsontheirfacesremindedmeofanarmyonthemuster.Atiredonethatjustgotitsasshandedtoitandwastryingtofigureoutwhattodonext.

“Hey,”IsaidtoDoyleashecameoutofthemen’sroom.

“Mike,hey,”hesaid,leadingmetowardacrowdedconferenceroomattheendofthehall.“C’mon,we’realldownhereabouttohaveabriefing.”

“What’sgoingon?”Isaid.

“Noonetoldyou?”hesaid.

Ishookmyhead.

“BrooklynandRobertsonscoredsome footageofwhat looks like thebombers frombothofthebombinglocations.They’reabouttoshowitrightnow.”

CHAPTER26

ATIRED-LOOKINGArturoputacoffee inmyhandas theydimmedthelightsandputthefirstvideouponthesmart-board.

On thescreenappeareda large industrial-style truck—almost likeagarbage truck—withConEdisonmarkings on the cab door. It stopped in themiddle of SaintNicholasAvenuenear181st,andtwomengotoutofitandpoppedthemanholecover.

Itwashardtoseethem,unfortunately.Itwasdark,andtheyworedarkcoverallsandConEdhardhatswith thepeakspulleddown lowover their eyes,whichwerecoveredwithsunglasses.Bothweremediumtotall inheight,fivetentosixfeet;bothwerepaleCaucasians.Onehadadarkgoatee;theotherawhiteone.Theguywiththedarkgoateewasrunningtheshow.Hehadaclipboardandseemedtobebarkingordersas theotherguydrewahugeairhose–likethingfromthebackofthetruckandclimbeddownintothemanholewithit.

“Thetruckisavacuumtruck,”saidBrooklyn,whowasrunningthesmartboardforthestunned-silent roomof cops. “It’s used for cleaningmanholes and sewers.Engineers atConEdsayitcaneasilybemodifiedtobecomealargepump.”

Brooklyn showed the next video, which was of a much better, less grainy quality.AnotherpumptruckwithConEdisonmarkingswasvisibleoutinthestreetbythe168thStreetsubwayentrancewith twomenbehindit.Thesamewhite-goateedguywasthere,but theotherguywasdifferent;on theshortside, tan,nofacialhair,a littlepudgy.Thepudgyguygot into theholewith thepumpthis timewhile theoldermanwaitedby themanholeuptop.

Noneoftheguyshadanydistinguishingmarksthatwecouldreallysee.Notattoosorbirthmarksorbuck teeth.Was thatonpurpose?Iwondered. Itseemedlike it. Itseemedliketheseguysweregoingoutoftheirwaytobenondescript.

“Isthatthesametruck?”acopbehindmecalledout.

“No,”Brooklynsaid.“Thereweretwoofthem.WefoundbothonadesertedstretchoftheHarlemRiverDriveneartheMacombsDamBridgeearlythismorning.Notags;theircabswereburned toacrisp.We’re still trying to tracedownwhere theymightbe fromthroughtheirmanufacturer.ThegoodnewsisthattheFBIlabpeoplefoundtracesofthematerial they pumped into the tunnel in the backs of the trucks. It was powderedaluminum.”

“Powderedwhat?”saidsomeoneelsenearthefrontoftheroom.

“Powderedaluminum,”Brooklynsaid.“It’s themain ingredient in flashpowder, the

stuff theymake fireworks out of.We’re still trying to track downwhere you could getyourhandsonsuchamassiveamount.It’snoteasy,becauseithasmanyindustrialuses.Apparentlytheymakelithiumionbatteriesoutofit.”

“Unbelievable,”Isaid,gapingatthescreen.“Soyou’resayingthesethreeguysgotallthisexpensiveindustrialequipmenttogetherandthenjustupandwentaheadandstuffedthattraintunnelwithgunpowderlikeitwasahugefirecracker?”

Brooklynnoddedslowly,asolemnexpressiononherfaceasshestaredwithmeatthewhite-goateedman,whoseimagewaspausedonthescreen.

“Andthentheysetitoff,”shesaid.

EveryoneturnedfromthescreenasLieutenantBryceMillercamein,clutchingsomephotocopies.

“Attention,everybody.ThisjustcamefromtheStateDepartment.Wesentthemayor’sshooter’sprintstothefeds,andtheyjustID’dhim.

“His name is Alex Mirzoyan. He was born in Armenia, came here when he waseleven,livesinSunnyIslesBeachinsouthFlorida.Wedon’twanttojumptoconclusionstooquickly,butSunnyIslesBeachiswherealotoftheMiamiRussianMafialive.Hehasthepriorsofalow-levelcriminal:creditcardfraud,someburglaries,drugpossession.Butwhat’s concerning is that last year he traveled to Armenia and stayed there for sixmonths.”

“Armenia?IsthatnearRussia?”saidArturo.

“Sortof,”Isaid.“It’smoretowardtheMiddleEast.IthinkitactuallybordersIran.”

Theroomabsorbedthatinstunnedsilence.

“TheMiddle East? Iran?” said Brooklyn. “So we’re thinking terrorism? All this isIslamicterrorism?”

“Now,wait.Slowdown,”Isaid.“Wedon’tknowthat.Terroriststakecredit,usually,andthere’sbeennothingbutsilence,right?Pluswedon’tevenknowifthetwothingsarerelatedyet.Theassassinationcouldhavebeenacrimeofsickopportunity.Likethatnutwhosentricin-lacedletterstopoliticiansafternineeleven.Wehavetotreatthemastwoseparatecrimesuntilfurthernotice.”

Thereweresometentativenods,butevenIwasunsureaboutwhatI’djustsaid.

Likeeverybodyelse,Iwasfreakingoutandhadnoideawhatsoeverwhatthehellwasgoingon.

CHAPTER27

ONTHEEASTERNedgeofthewell-heeledUpperEastSideinManhattan,the crowded and busy neighborhood of Yorkville runs from 59th Street to 96th StreetbetweenLexingtonAvenueandtheEastRiver.

Before9/11,theneighborhoodwasthesiteofthelargestdisasterinNewYorkCity’shistory:in1904,justoffshoreofNinetiethStreetintheEastRiver,thesteamshipGeneralSlocumaccidentallycaughtfireandsank,killingmorethanonethousandpassengers.

And now, at exactly 8:15 a.m., Yorkville’s dark history began to repeat itself as amechanicalcoughingstartedupinthetwometalboxesthathadbeenillegallypositionedthedaybeforeat421East81stand401East66th.

The coughing, followed by a revving sound, came from small but quite powerfulmodifiedgasoline-poweredgenerators contained insideeachdevice’smetalhousing.Asthe engine rose in pitch, the generator drove its steadily increasing electrical currentthrough a four-foot-wide tightly wound coil of copper wire that was surrounded by acopper tube of equal length. Themovement of the current through the copper cylinderinstantlybegan tobuildanelectromagnetic field.One thatmountedandmountedas theenginepitchedhigherandhigher,likeanoperasinger’screscendo.

Thentheexplosivespackedbetweenthedevices’wireandtubingsuddenlywentoff,sendingamassive,invisibleelectromagneticpulseinalldirectionsatthespeedoflight.

The volume of the detonation inside the roof-positioned devices was negligible—aloud electrical pop, like a transformer blowing.But the sudden effectwas anythingbutnegligible.

Thefirstofficial sign that somethingwaswrongwas thecritical-failurealarm in thebusy control room of the city’s Department of Transportation. The supervisor on dutydroppedtheRedBullhe’djustcrackedopenwhenhelookedupandsawonthebigboardthateverytrafficlightfrom59thto90thStreethadjustgoneoff-line,asthoughsomeonehadhitaswitch.

Thetrafficlightsweren’ttheonlythingsinYorkvilletogooff-line.AtGracieMansionand Rockefeller University and Weill Cornell Medical Center and Memorial SloanKettering Cancer Center and Bloomingdale’s and the moneyed Chapin and Brearleyschools and every other buildingwithin a hundred square blocks, all electrical activityinstantly vanished, and every computer and light and elevator immediately ceased towork.ItwaslikethereturnoftheStoneAge.

Peoplescreamedandwentflyingasapackedsouthboundnumber4traincomingintothe86thStreetstationjerkedtoasuddenstop.Thesamethinghappenedonasmallerbut

nolessterrifyingscaleastheRooseveltIslandtramcarcomingoutofitsconcreteberthoverSecondAvenueand59thStreetslammedtoahaltandswungbackandforthabovethetraffic.

Itwasn’tjustthebuildings.InthesidestreetsandavenuesandevenontheFDRDrive,alongside theEastRiver, themorning rush-hour commute’s cars and delivery vans andtaxisanddumptrucksenmassebegantocoastoutofcontrolandplowintoeachotherastheirenginessuddenlyandinexplicablyfailed.

Ascountlesscaraccidentsoccurred,pedestrianshalted,staringattheirsuddenlyfriedcell phones. Shop owners opened the doors of their suddenly darkened businesses andsteppedoutontothesidewalks,lookingaround.

On the riverside jogging path just north of John Jay Park, a female NYU studentstopped by the river’s railing to check what was wrong with her suddenly dead iPod.Tuggingouttheearbuds,sheglancedupatastrangelowwhiningsoundaboveher.

Then she screamed and looked, dumbstruck, at the still-spinning rotor blade fromafallingtraffichelicopterasitmissedherheadbylessthanfivefeet,asplitsecondbeforeitcrashednose-firstintotheEastRiver.

Atasafedistanceaway,andabovetheelectromagneticpulse,onthesixty-fifthflooroftheCourtyardhotelonBroadwayand54thStreet,amaninawhitebathrobestoodintheeast-facingwindowofhisroomwithapairofbinoculars.

Behindhimcamethesuddenhissandpopofradiostaticfollowedbyafranticvoice.Thenanother.Thenanother.

Mr.Beckettloweredhisbinocularsandturnedandsmiledatthepolice-bandradioonthetablebehindhim.

Theabjectconfusionfromtheirlatestattackwasalreadystarting,hethought.

Good.

HesmiledatMr.Joyce,whowassittinginasoftchairbesidetheradio,alsoinawhitebathrobe,fastidiouslyclippinghistoenails.

Mr.Beckettliftedthemimosafromtheroom-servicecartathiselbow.Heraiseditinthedirectionofhisfriend.

“Whatshallwetoastto,Mr.Joyce?”

“Thepowerofthehumanimagination,ofcourse,Mr.Beckett,”saidMr.Joyceashefinishedhisleftfootandrecrossedhislegsandstartedontheright.

Heshrugged.

“Whatelseisthere,afterall?”

CHAPTER28

AFTERTHECONFERENCE ended,my teamand I setup shopat acoupleofdesksinafarcornerofthecrowded,kineticIntelligenceDivisionbullpen.

Althoughitwasearlyinthemorning,everyonealreadyseemedalittlehaggard.Thecops around me were doing their best to hide it, but it was obvious that people weregetting scared. A bombing and an assassination were insane even by New York’sstandards.

Anhourlater,Iwasstillonthehornwiththedepartmentpublicrelationsofficetryingto disseminate stills of the Washington Heights bombers to the news outlets when itstarted.

IhadjusttuckedthedeskphonereceiverundermychinwhenIsuddenlynoticedtherhythmic, low-toned,almostsubliminalbuzzingthathad invadedthesterilewhiteofficespace. When my hip vibrated, I realized that the sound was everyone’s cell phonesvibrating.

Butwhywould everyone’s phones be going off at once? I thought, hanging upmydeskphoneandsnatchingupmycell.

“Mike,didyouhear?”ItwasMiriamSchwartzontheotherend.

“No.What?”Isaidfrantically.

“We’regettingreportsofamassiveblackoutontheEastSideofManhattan.Butit’snot just that. The cars have stopped. All the cars are in the streets. They’ve stoppedworking.”

“Thecarshavestopped?”Irepeatedstupidly.

“Wejustgotnuked!”someonecalledoutbehindme.

Myeyespoppedwideopen.Thatcouldn’tbetrue.Howcouldthatbetrue?Ithought.YetIrememberedfromalate-nightHistorychannelshowthatoneofthesideeffectsofanuclearbombisfrozencars—thebombfriesalltheirelectronics.

Astrangenumbnessinvadedmyface,mybrain.ItwasaweirdsensationthatI’dfeltonlytwicebefore.

Thedaythedoctortoldusthatmywife,Maeve,hadinoperableterminalcancer.

AndonthemorningofSeptember11,2001.

Dear God, my kids! Where are the kids? I thought as Miriam tried to tell mesomething.Thedamnbridge!IneedtogetoverthebridgebacktoManhattan,thengetto

HolyName.ButBrianwent to school in theBronx. I needed to figure out how Iwasgoingtogethim.

“Mike! Damn it, listen to me!” Miriam said loudly. “It’s not a nuke. That’s whateverybodyisassuming,butit’snottrue.”

Iletoutabreathanddidmybesttorefocus.

“I’mlistening,Miriam.”

“ESU reports on scene at the affected region state that there is no radiation beingdetectedanywhere.ThoughitdoeslooklikeanonnuclearEMP-typeweaponorsomethingmight have been set off.The power is out for a hundred square blocks, andNewYorkStateISO—theorganizationthatmanagestheelectricalgrid—saiditisn’tablackout.Ateightfifteen,justbam!EverythingwentoffinYorkvillelikesomeoneblewoutacandle.TheFBI’s JTTF is heading up to a staging area near the base of the Fifty-NinthStreetBridge.Ialreadysaidyou’dmeetupwiththemthere.”

“Onmyway,”Isaid,andIwavedatDoyleandthecrewtofollowmeasIhitthedoor.

CHAPTER29

ITWASN’TON the radio news yet as I sped out of Brooklyn across theManhattanBridge.TrafficwascompletelyscrewedupfromalmostthemomentwearrivedinManhattan.Wemadeitonlyasfaras44thStreetandSecondAvenue,alittlepasttheUnitedNations,whenthetrafficbecameliterallyimpassable.

Ipulledthecaroveranddouble-parkedandstoodontheunmarked’shoodandstarednorthtoseewhatwasgoingon.

Andcontinuedtostandthere,frozenandsilentandblinking,inthecoldfallingrain.

Itwasasighttobehold.Somethingrightoutofadisastermovie.SecondAvenuewasstoppeddeadas faras theeyecouldsee.On thesidewalksandbetween theutterlystillcars,peoplewerewalkingsouth,awayfromthearea.

Therewereofficeworkers,alotofschoolkids.Theworstwerethedoctorsandnursesinmedicalscrubspushingpeopleinwheelchairs.Afranticandconfused-lookingchurningmultitudeofscaredNewYorkerswasheadingstraighttowardus.

“How’sitlooking,Mike?”saidRobertsonashegotoutofthecar.

“Notgood,”Isaid,hoppingdown.“Gettheothers.Weneedtowalkfromhere.”

AtSecondAvenueand59thStreet, twoemptyNYPDcruisersandanemptyFDNYambulance stood in the middle of the entrance to the 59th Street Bridge on-rampominouslysilentwiththeirflasherson.

Iwassilent,too,asIstoodandstaredabovetheemergencyvehiclesattheredtrailer-sizeRooseveltIslandtramcar,lightless,withitswindowbrokenopen,swingingbackandforthintherainlikeahangingvictim.

Wewalkedeast,towardtheFBIstagingarea,alongthestonebaseofthebridge.Therewerealotoffrozenemptycarsinthestreetsandanexodusoffreaked-outpeopleheadingquicklypastthemandus.

AtFirstAvenue,ontheothersideofthebridgeunderpass,Icouldseethatacitybushadsideswipedhalfadozenparkedcarsandwasturnedsidewaysuponthesidewalk.Acrushedmopedappearedtobestuckunderitsfrontbumper.

“Notgood,”Arturocommented.

“Atall,”Doyleconcurred.

Theworstsightofallwasablockeast,onYorkAvenue.Inthedistance, intheareaknown as Hospital Land, a large crowd of emergency personnel beside a line ofambulancesappearedtobeintheprocessofevacuatingSloanKetteringandWeillCornell

MedicalCenter.

“Whataretheydoing?”saidArturo.“Don’ttheyjustneedtogetallthesecarsoutofheresotheycangetinsometemporarygenerators?”

“To power what?” said Brooklyn. “Everything is fried. This isn’t just a blackout,Lopez.Everythingelectronic isbroken.Everything.Everywaterpump to flusha toilet.Everyfridgeandstoveisgoingtohavetobefixedorreplaced.They’regoingtohavetoevacuatetheareaforwhoknowshowlong.”

“You’reright,”Doylesaid.“We’veneverseenanythinglikethis.”

TheFBI’sstagingareaturnedouttobeatthesiteofanoldconcretedockandhelipadjuttingoutintotheEastRiveralmostbeneaththebridge.Adozenagents,sixoftheminolive-drabtacticalfatigues,hadsetuptentsandtablesandagasoline-poweredgenerator.

We’djustreachedthefirsttentwhentherewasalow,thumpinghum,andahelicopterappeared from the fog under the 59thStreetBridge.We stopped and stared at the darknavy-blueBell407withnomarkingsasitslowedandbankedandswungaroundanddidasteady,controlledlandingdespitethewind.

Its rolling door snapped open, and out came four men and a woman in FBIWindbreakerscarryinglargekitbags.Ikeptlookingatthecopper-hairedfemaleagentasthewhininghelicopterliftedoffagainimmediatelyandheadedbackthewayitcame.

IwaseitherhallucinatingorthewomanwasmyoldpalEmilyParker.WithNewYorkCityundersiege,Icouldhavedefinitelybeenhallucinating,butitturnedoutIwasright.

“Mike,”Emilysaid,givingmeagrimhalfsmileasIapproached.“What’saniceguylikeyoudoinginaplacelikethis?”

CHAPTER30

“HERE,GIVEMEahandwiththeseradios,”shesaid,pullingsomeoutofherbag.“We’redefinitelygoingtoneedthemwithallthecellsitesfried.”

“Whatbringsyouhere?”IsaidtoEmilyafterIintroducedhertomyguys.“Ithoughtyou were back down in DC.” Emily worked there for the Bureau’s Violent CriminalApprehensionProgramandlivedinsuburbanVirginiawithherdaughter,Olivia.

“That’s just my luck,” Emily said. “I came up this morning on the Acela and wasstartingaVICAPpresentationtosomejunioragentswhenthebellswentoff.Youknowthedrill.Nowit’sallhandsondeckuntilfurthernotice.Withtheroadsblockedthewaythey are, they’re going to chopper the entire New York office up here from lowerManhattaniftheyhaveto.”

“Haveyouheardanything?”Isaid.

“Iwasabouttoaskyouthesamequestion.Oneoftheagentswithme,JohnBellew,wasonthehornwithsomeStateDepartment think-tankguy.Theinitialreadis that thiswascausedbyoneorseveralNNEMPs.”

“Thewhosiwhatsits?”saidArturo.

“Nonnuclear electromagnetic pulse weapons. It’s a weapon that creates a massiveelectromagnetic field and then pulses it in a given area, creating an energy wave sopowerful that it erasesmagnetic computermemories andwelds closed themicroscopicjunctionsinsensitivetransistorsandcomputerchips.”

Arturolookedbefuddled.AgentParkerhadthateffectonpeople,Iknew.

“Thatseemsprettyhigh-tech.Whocouldpullthisoff?”askedBrooklyn.

“NNEMPsaren’t impossible tobuild,but it’sverydifficult.Youneedsomeonewithhigh-level technical expertise. Basically, this isn’t a homemade pipe bomb. This is theresultofahighlyintelligentoperationthat’sprobablywellfunded.”

“Whichpoints to terrorism—but asofnow, there arenodemands,” I said. “Andnoclaimofcredit.Thesubwayexplosion,theassassination,andnowthis.Whykeepdoingallthis?What’sthemotive?”

“Thesameasallterrorism,”saidEmily.“Toinspirefear,tocausepainandinjury,andinducepsychologicaltorture.Therapidityofeachactseemstobeanattempttocrashthesystem,tooverwhelmourabilitytorespond.”

“They’redoingadamngoodjob,”saidArturo.

“IsitIslamic?”askedDoyle.“AlQaeda?Likenineeleven?”

“They’recertainlyonthelist,butitcouldbeanyone.Iranians,NorthKoreans.”

“Hey,Mike,youhearthat?Iraniansagain,”saidBrooklyn.

“Why,what’stheIranianlink?”Emilyasked.

“Themayor’sshooterisactuallyArmenian,”Isaid.“Itcouldjustbeacoincidence,buthetraveledhomerecently,andArmeniaisnextdoortoIran.”

“Ormaybeit’ssomeramped-upAmericannutjob,”saidDoyle.“Asmartonewitharealhard-onforthepeopleofNewYorkCity.”

WeallturnedasabigNYPDHarborUnitboatsuddenlyroaredpastoutofthefogontheriver,headingnorth.

“Whoeveritis,”Isaid,“weneedtofindthem.Fast.”

CHAPTER31

HALFAMILEsoutheastof theFBI’sstagingarea, thewakeof thespeedingsixty-footblue-and-whiteNYPDHarborUnitboatwashedupabrokenneon-yellowkayakpaddle and a Clorox bleach bottle covered in old fishing line onto the rocky shore ofsouthernRooseveltIsland.

Sittingintherainonanemptybenchabovetheisland’sgarbage-strewnshorelineonWestLoopRoad,Mr.Joycelookedatthejunkandthenoutatthewater.NewYorkwasrarely thoughtof as a coastal city,but it actuallyhad520milesof coastline,more thanMiami,LA,andSanFrancombined.

Hisreddishgoateewasgonenow,andheworehishoodieupoveraKnicksballcapandareflectiveorangetrafficvestoverhisblackdenimconstructioncoat.Besidehimonthebenchwassomeconstructionequipmentaswellasafluorescentyellowconstructiontripodalongwithasurveyor’sgraduatedstaff.

Heturnedasacarpulledup.Itwasabig,bulkyold’76CadillacCalais,atwo-doorhardtop thatwasnineteen feet longwitha7.7-literV-8andacurbweightofmore thanfivethousandpounds.

Mr. Joyce did not have to look at who was behind the wheel to recognize itimmediatelyasoneofMr.Beckett’smanycars.Mr.Beckett,whowasabitofagearhead,wasobsessedwithAmerican cars,with a particular andpeculiar soft spot forCadillacsfromthe1970s.

“You’relate,”saidMr.JoyceasMr.Beckettemergedfromhismetallic-brownbarge,puttingonhisowntrafficvest.

“Howisthatpossible?”Mr.Beckettsaid,smiling,asheextendedhishandsplayfully.“Thebossisneverlate.”

“Wastheretrouble?”Mr.Joycesaid,eyeinghim.

“Please,”Mr.Beckettsaid,knockingonthetrunk.“You’rethebrains,I’mthemuscle.Youdoyourpart,andI’lldomine,okay?Isittimetodoourlittlesurvey?”

“Yes.”

Mr. Joycehandedhim the staffandawalkie-talkieas theywalkednorth toward thebaseofthe59thStreetBridge.

“So theydiduse theabandonedhelipad,asyouanticipated,”Mr.Beckett saidashegazedacrossthewaterandsawtheactivityontheManhattanshoreofthechannel.

Mr.Joyceshrugged.

“Withthestreetsimpassable,adockwithhelicopteraccessisthemostlogicalplace.”

Mr.JoycestayedbacknearthestreetwiththetripodwhileMr.Beckettwalkedoffabitwiththestaffandstoodonapatchofmuddygrassnearthewater.

“Thisisonebigbitchofabridge,eh?”Mr.BeckettsaidovertheMotorola.“Howoldisit?Givemethetour.Iknowyouwantto.”

“Itwasbuilt in1909,”Mr. Joycesaid.“Between1930and1955, in thatbridgepierbehindyou,theyactuallyusedtohaveacarelevatortobringpeopleonandoffRooseveltIsland.”

“Acarelevatorinabridge?That’sincredible.Whatanamazingcitythisis.It’salmostashamebringingittoitsknees.”

“Emphasisonthealmost,”Mr.Joycereplied.“Movetoyourleft.”

“IfIgoanymoreleft,I’llbeswimming.”

“Okay,staythere.Don’tmove.”

Insteadofaconstructionlevelontheyellowtripod,therewasaNikoncamerafittedwithazoomlens.Forthenexttwentyminutes,Mr.Joycetookphotographsofthepoliceand FBI agents. It was time in their campaign for reconnaissance. Time to assess thecompetition,as itwere.Thepolicecouldhardlybecalledcompetition,especiallyat thispoint,butoneneverknew.Thetwopartnerscouldn’tgettoococky.Besides,informationwaslikeweaponry.Bettertohaveitandnotneeditthanneeditandnothaveit.

Mr.JoycesnappedaphotoandsentitthroughWi-Fitothefacialrecognitionsoftwareon his iPhone.Michael Bennett came up on the readout with an address onWest EndAvenue.Mr.Joycenodded.Goodtoknow.

“Foggyouthere today,” commentedMr.Beckettwhen theyweredone andheadingbackforthecar.

“Yes,isn’tit?”Mr.Joycesaid,walkingwiththetripodonhisshoulderlikeasoldieronparade.“AndIhaveafunnyfeelingit’sgoingtogetevenfoggier.”

“Whatdoyouthinkofthishoney,Mr.Joyce?”saidMr.BeckettinthecarastheydidabrokenU-turn.“Rideslikeadream,doesn’tshe?”

“Tellme,howmanymilestothegallondoesitget,Mr.Beckett?”askedMr.Joyce.

“Cityorhighway?”askedMr.Beckett.

“City,”saidMr.Joyce.

“One,”saidMr.Beckett.

Hestoppedsuddenlyanotherhundredfeetup,byanabandonedconstructionsite.Thehugecar’sweightbouncedlowandsoftinthesprings.

“Well,whatdoyouknow?”Mr.Beckett said, lookingaround.“Opportunityknocks.Givemeahand,Mr.Joyce,andwe’llkilltwobirdswithonestone.”

Mr.Beckettpoppedthetrunk,andtheygotout.Mr.JoycewenttothebackofthelongcarandstareddownatthetwoNYUgraduatestheyhadhiredtoplacetheEMPdevices.

Theyoungmenstaredbackupwith their emptyeyesopenand theirhandsandmouthsboundinducttape.Theyhadmultiplebulletholesintheirheads.

“Wouldyoulookatthistrunk,Mr.Joyce?”Mr.Beckettsaidproudly.“Justlookatit.It’sbiggerthanmostapartmentsinthiscity.”

“It is rather roomy,”saidMr.Joyceashebentand lifted thefirstdeadkidup tohisshoulderandcarriedhimtotheDumpsteranddroppedhimin.

CHAPTER32

SEVERALHOURSLATER,EmilyandtheteamandIwerejusteastofEast78thStreetandCherokeePlace,alongsideJohnJayPark.

I’dneverbeentotheparkbeforeorevenheardofit.Thebuildingsthatformedakindofhorseshoearounditwereniceones,Isaw.Theparkandplaygroundwereempty,butIcouldeasilyseeitontheweekendsbeingpackedwithkidsandnannies.ItwasanupscaleleafyenclavethatremindedmealittleofthefamousGramercyPark.

Whatwasn’tlookingveryupscalewasthesilverVolvoSUVthathadjumpedthecurbon 78th and plowed into a fire hydrant and utility box and the wrought-iron fencesurroundingthepark.

TheVolvowasnowjustacrumpledmassofmetalandbrokenglass.Theairbagshadalldeployed,butthehydrantandahugedislocatedsectionofthefencehadgonethroughthe car all theway to the backseat. Everybody in the car had died in an unimaginablyhorribleway.

Threemoredead,Ithought,sickenedandangryandgettingangrier.I’dheardthatanoldwomanbeing transportedoutofSloanKetteringhadgone intocardiacarrest,whichmadethebodycountatleastfour.IthoughtofallthestoreswehadpassedinoursearchfortheEMPdevices.Blockafterblockofownersstandingtheremuteanddevastatedinfrontof thedarkeneddoorwaysof theirnailsalonsanddrycleanersandrestaurantsandgrocerystores,theirlivesandlivelihoodsintatters.

Allthesepoorpeople.Isuddenlyfeltincrediblytired.Andwhatwasmorefrustratingwasthatwecouldn’thelpthem.Weweresupposedtopreventthesethings,protectpeople,savethem.Andweweren’tdoingit.Weweren’tdoingadamnthing.

ThesearchfortheNNEMPshadcomedowntothemostbasicfootwork—i.e.,walkingtoeverybuildingin thedevastatedareaandaskingsupersandstaff if theyhadreceivedanystrangedeliveries.We’dbeendoingitalldaytothetuneofnadaprogress.Theneedlewasstillhidinginthehaystack.Ifthereevenwasaneedle.

EmilycameoverasIsatonthecurbbythepark’sentranceandcrackedopenabottleofwater.

“Howmanyinjured,youfigure?”Isaidupatherafteralongsip.“Howmanydead?”

Isuddenlychuckedthehalf-filledwaterbottleinmyhandashardasIcouldintothemiddleofthestreet.

“Andwhythehellisthishappening?!”Iyelledatthetopofmylungs.

I was losing it a little, I knew.Maybe more than a little. I was beyond frustrated,

beyondworried.I’dbeenhittingithardfor thelastcoupleofdays.Watchingthemayorgetshotwasaloneenoughtogiveanyoneacaseofpost-traumaticstressdisorder.

Thiswholesituationwasjustsofreakinginsane!

“I know you’re angry, Mike,” Emily said calmly, after a beat. “We all are, butunfortunately,angerwillgetusnowhere.”

“Yeah,well,neitheriscalm,cool,andcollected,Emily,ifyouhaven’tnoticed,”Isaid.“That’swhyI’mgoingtotryragingpissed-offforabit.Feelfreetojoinmeatanytime.”

That’swhenDoyleranatmefromacrossthestreet,holleringintohisradio.

“Thatwas froma uniformwhoknows the area,”Doyle cried. “He said some supersaidsomekindofdevicewasinstalledrecentlyontheroofofhisbuildingonEastEighty-First, just twoblocksfromhere.Hesaid it’sametalboxthat looksburned.That’swhatwe’relookingfor,right?”

EmilyandIexchangedaglance.

“That’sexactlywhatwe’relookingfor,”shesaidassheofferedmeahand.

CHAPTER33

SITUATEDHALFWAYBETWEEN York and First Avenues, 421East81stStreetwasanarrowsix-storydisco-erawhite-brickapartmentbuilding.

WaitingforusoutinfrontofthebuildingwereagentAshleyBrookClark,anintenseFBI technical analyst, andDr.MichaelAynard, a pudgy, aginghipster in a yellow-and-brownflannelshirtandbigglasseswhowasaphysicsprofessoratNYUandoneoftheforemostexpertsonNNEMPsintheworld.

Therewerealotofmirrorsinthebuilding’ssmall,low-ceilingedlobbyandevenmoretenants—a tense crowd of mostly older people and a few young moms with toddlers.Severalhadflashlights towardoff thedimnessof theunlit lobby,andsomehadpackedsuitcaseswiththem.

Everyone except for the children looked distraught and confused. I thought of thethousands upon thousands of people who lived and worked in the area and felt trulyterribleforthem.Thepowerwasout,andallarrowswerepointingtoitstayingoutforalong,longtime.

Thisreallywasadisaster,I thought,notforthefirst timethatday.Likeafloodorahurricane, it was affectingmultiple thousands of random innocent people. It was whatinsurance companies used to call an act ofGod. Iwondered if thatwaswhat thiswas.SomeonewhobelievedhewasGod.

Iwassnappedoutofmywonderingsbyawirymiddle-agedwomaninarattygreenbathrobewhobeganarguingloudlywiththeFilipinosuperintendentbythefrontdoor.

“Whatdoyoumeanyoucan’t?”thewomancried.“WhydoyouthinkweboughtthedamnthingafterHurricaneSandy?Asvicepresidentoftheboard,Idemandthatyougetthatportablegeneratoronnow.Mymedicationisgoingbadaswespeak!”

“But I keep explaining. It’s broken, Mrs. Schaeffer,” the young, stocky super saidsoothingly. “Everything is broken. No one’s phones work, right? See, it’s not just theelectricity.Theremusthavebeensomekindofcrazysurgeorsomething.Italkedtoeverysuperupanddownthestreet.Thisisn’tanormalblackout.”

“Butmymedication!”Mrs.Schaefferinsisted.

“Your medication is toast, ma’am, unless you get out of here with it as soon aspossible,” Dr. Aynard interrupted in a bored voice. “In fact, unless everyone here isinterested in what it’s like to live in the Dark Ages, I recommend you pack up yourvaluables, pick a direction, and start walking until you find yourself in an area wherethere’selectricity.”

Heclearedhisthroat.

“Ding-dong!It’sfact-facingtime,people,”hesaid.“Thepowerisn’tcomingbackontoday, tomorrow,orprobably for somesixmonthsat least,andsittingaroundhere isn’tgoingtochangeit.”

“Waytosugarcoatthings,Dr.BedsideManner,”BrooklynKalemumbledbehindmeaswesteppeduptothesuper.

CHAPTER34

THESUPERINTENDENT’SNAMEwasLionelCruz,andafterwetoldhimwhywewere there,he ledusacross the lobbyandupsix flightsof stairs inadarkenedstairwellandoutintherainontotheroof.

Thedevicewasinthesoutheastcorneroftheroof,ontheothersideofadark,loomingwater tower. A strange, narrow, chest-height aluminum box about three feet wide. Ithoughtitlookedalmostlikeafilingcabinet.Onewhosesideshadbeenrippedopenfromasmallbomborexplosivedevicethathadgoneoffinsideit.

“Howdiditgetuphere?”IsaidtoLionel.

“That’s just the thing,” thesupersaid,shakinghisheadrepeatedly.“I like to thinkIrunapretty tight shiphere,but Ihaveabsolutelyno idea. I’dcheckoneof thesecuritycamerasat thefrontdooror in thegarage,but they’rebothnotworkingwith thepowerloss.I’dcallmystaffaboutit,exceptthephonesaredown.IonlycameuptolookaroundwhenMrs.Willett,who lives on the top floor beneath here, said she thought she heardsomekindofexplosion.”

“Does this look like thedevice?”Emilysaid toAgentClark,whowasdownononekneeon the tarpaper,peeringwitha flashlight into thestrangemetalbox’sblown-opengap.

“It has to be,” saidDr.Aynard,whowas lookingover thekneeling tech’s shoulder.“The remains of that metal cylinder there is the armature, and that segment of coiledcopperisobviouslythestatorwiring.”

“AndI’dsaywhat’sleftofthegasengineintherewasthepowersource,”AgentClarkfinishedgrimly.“Thisisatextbookfluxcompressiongeneratorbomb.”

“Brilliant, really,” saidAynard as he knocked on themetal housingwith a knuckle.“Simple,efficient,notexpensive,andhighlyeffective.”

“Oh,it’sbrilliant,allright,”saidArturosarcastically.“Quick!SomeonecalltheNobelPrizepeopleandnominate the terrorists forefficientlyerasingcivilizationforahundredsquareblocks.”

“Soyou’resayingthissmallboxdidtheentireneighborhood?”Doylesaid.

Aynardwincedashethoughtaboutit.Helookedinagainatthebox’sburnedremains.

“Maybe not,” he finally said. “Though this device definitely packed quite anelectromagnetic punch, it does seem a little small. I’d say there’s probably at least onemoresomewhere,maybeeventwo.”

I thought about that. How a box as small as the one before us could do suchunbelievable,unheard-ofdamage. Ialso thoughtabouthow therecouldbedozensmorereadytogooffatanymoment.

I liftedmy radio and calledMiriam Schwartz, whowas coordinating from the lawenforcementstagingareabythebridge.

“Miriam,wefoundtheNNEMP,”Isaid.“Butit’ssmall,andtheexpertsonscenesaythere are probably more. We’re going to need search teams. Boots on the groundinspectingrooftops.”

“Searchteams?Forwhere?Theaffectedarea?”sheradioedback.

Istaredoutatthewildernessofbuildingsineverydirection.

“No—foreverywhere,”Isaid.“Therecouldbemoreofthesethingsalloverthecity.Ithinkit’stimetoassumethatthereare.”

CHAPTER35

THE 59TH STREETBRIDGE staging area had turned into a full-fledgedcarnivaloftrailersandtentsbythetimewegotbacktoitanhourorsolater.Totheconstanthammeringoftemporarygenerators,twentyorthirtyFBIagentsanddoublethatnumberofNYPDofficerswerebusysettingupacrisiscommandpost.

We had ameeting under a rain-soaked tent, wherewe got some of the brass up tospeed.Aspermy recommendation, itwasneedle-in-the-haystack time all over the city.Copsandfiremeneverywherewerenowintheprocessofsearchingrooftops.

At the end of themeeting, Chief Fabretti and BobMadsen, the NewYork office’sassistantspecialagent incharge,whowerenowjointly running theshow,namedEmilyandmethecase’sinvestigativecoordinators.

I was definitely pleased to be getting the case lead but even more psyched aboutofficially working with Emily again. We worked well together. We’d stopped apsychopath who was kidnapping and killing rich kids a few years before, and morerecentlywehelpedtakedownaMexicandrugcartelhead.Notonlywassheparticularlyadeptatappeasingthegovernmentpenpushers,shealsoprobablyhadbetterback-channelcontactsintheBureau’svariousinvestigativesupportunitsthanthedirector.Shewasallaboutresults.

Emilygrabbedusacoupleofcoffeesfromanothertentafterthemeeting.

“C’mon,Mike.Therain’sfallingoffabit.Iwanttostretchmylegs.”

Emilysaidthiscasually,butInoticedherexpressionwaspensive,alittlestandoffish.Hermentalgearswerespinninguptospeed,Iknew.Herinvestigativeapproachwaslikemine,oneofebbandflow.Theideawastogatherasmuchinfoaspossibleandthenbackoffof it inorder to let thingssinkin.Giveone’s initialandintuitiveimpressionsa littletime to set, so that after awhile, a telltale pattern could be detected.You couldn’t talkthingstodeath.Especiallyinthebeginning.

Ifollowedheroutonto60thStreetalongsidethebaseofthebridge.Wewalkedwest,staringoutattheUpperEastSide.Anevacuationhadbeendeclaredalittleafternoon,anditwasquiteaspookyscene,withallthestoppedcarsintheemptystreets.Itwassosilentyoucouldactuallyhear thedead traffic lightscreaking in thebreezeat the intersectionsandtheneedlesofraindrummingonthepavement.

UponSecondAvenue,westoppedandwatchedasaNationalGuardunitwrestledalength of chain-link out of the back of a olive-drab army truck. We stood there andwatched as the soldiers unwrapped the fencing andheld it uprightwhile strapping it tolampposts on opposite sides of the avenue. When they were done, it looked as if

everythingnorthof60thStreethadbeenturnedintoaprison.

“Whatthehell?”Emilysaidinhorror.“Thatlookssowrong.”

“It’stopreventlooting,Iguess,”Isaid,shakingmyhead.

ThelasttimeIsawsomethinglikethiswasonCanalStreetafter9/11.DefinitelynotamemorylaneIlikedtostrolldown.

WeturnedrightandwalkednorthupdesertedSecondAvenue.

“How’s the kids, Mike?” Emily said out of the blue. “And Seamus? And MaryCatherine,ofcourse.”

Igaveherabrieffamilyupdateaswewalkedupthedesolateavenue.IleftoutthepartaboutSeamus’srecentmemorytroubles.Ilookedaround.Lifeseemeddepressingenough.

“ThatstinksaboutMaryCatherinestuckinIreland,”Emilysaid.“Whatareyoudoingaboutthekids?”

“Seamus finagled a temporary nanny,” I said. “Some nice Irish college kid namedMartin.Heactually juststartedtoday.Howaboutyou?Haveyoubeenkeepingyourselfbusy?”

“Well,” Emily said, a little less pensive, “I’ve actually been seeing somebody. Foraboutthreemonthsnow.Iguessyoucouldsayit’sprettyserious.AtleastIthinkitis.”IwasshockedtosuddenlyfeelalittlecrushedwhenIheardthis.ItwasprobablybecauseEmily and I had almost gotten together a few times during previous cases. There wasdefinitely some attraction there between us, a mostly unspoken chemistry. She was asmart, energetic, good-lookingwoman.And a heck of a hard-hitting investigator.Whatwasn’ttheretobeattractedto?ButIreallyshouldn’thavebeenjealous,especiallysinceMaryCatherineandIwereseriousnowandgettingmoreseriousbythemoment.

Emilyhasarighttobehappy,too,right?Ithought.Sort-of-ish.

“Hey,that’sgreat,Emily,”Ifinallysaid.“Whoishe?Acoporarealperson?”

Emilylaughed.

“He’sarealperson,asamatteroffact.He’sa linecookatMontmartre inDC.He’salsoaveteranofAfghanistan—aSpecialForcesmedic.HisnameisSeanBuckhardt.He’sthis tall, serious, tough, hardworkingman, but underneath, he really cares, you know?Abouttheworld,aboutbeingalive.Andhe’sgreatwithOlivia.He’ssmartandsarcasticandfunny,likeyou.Ireallythinkyou’dlikehim.”

Wannabet?Ithought,glancingintoherbright-blueeyes.

“Alinecook?That’sascore.Tellmehecooksforyou,”Isaidinstead.

“Allthetime.Doesitshow?”shesaid,smiling.“Itshows,right?Allthebuttersauce.I’llcomehomefromacase,andit’sProvenceinmykitchen,withallthecoursesandthewinepairings.Hemakes this lemon-chicken thing. Iswear itshouldbeon thenarcoticslist.Imusthaveputontenpounds.”

That’s a lie, I thought as Iwatched her do some kind of re-knotting thingwith hershoulder-lengthhair.Outofthecornerofmyeye,Iwatchedasshewalkedaheadofmea

little.Whatevershewasdoing,itwasworkingout.Quitewell.

ButIkeptthattomyself.Instead,IquicklytookoutmyphonetoseeiftherewereanynewmessagesfromMaryCatherine.

Badcornerofmyeye,Ithought.

CHAPTER36

THEHOTELDININGroomwasallbutemptyasthelastcouplehuddledtogetheratthebesttable,rightbythelowturffireinthemassiveriver-rockfireplace.Thecandlelightwassoftandlow,aswasthecozyromanticmusicplaying.

“Ga!Willtheyneverleave?”saidMaryCatherine’scousinDonnellastheyhungbackbythekitchendoor,allowingtheAmericancouplecelebratingtheirfiftiethanniversarytoenjoyamoment.

“Haveaheart.It’sromantic,”MaryCatherinesaid.

“They’ve enjoyed about a trillion and a halfmoments already, bymy calculation,”complainedDonnell.“Thesun’llbecomingupsoon.”

“GoinandhelpPete,yastone-heartedcynic,”MaryCatherinesaid.“I’llgetthemforyouandmaybeevenpassalongthetipifyou’relucky.”

“Thank you so much,” the silver-haired American CEO type said after he finallyhandedoverhisAmex.Hepattedhis amplemidsection. “The lamb, thewine reductionsauce,allofitwas—”

“Justperfect.Really,”insistedhisprettybrunettewife.“Especiallythedessertyousentover.Whowouldhavethought?RealNewYorkcheesecakeinIreland?Wheredoyougetit?”

“Ihavemysources,”MaryCatherinesaidwithasmile.

Donnellwasnowheretobefoundwhenshereturnedtothekitchen.

“Whereishe?”sheaskedherothercousinPete,thechef,whotossedathumbtowardthebackdoor.

“Romanceinfrontandnowinthebackofthehouse,too,Isee,”MaryCatherinecriedinmockshockasshebustedDonnellcanoodlinghisgirlfriendagainstthesideofhercar.“Backtowork.Youcansnogonyourowntime.”

“AreallyouYankssuchslavedrivers?”Donnellsaidashewalkedpast.

“No,youlazyPaddy.Justme,”MaryCatherinesaid,whippinghiminthebuttwithatowel.

Shegrabbedarackofhotglassesfromthemachineinthecornerof thekitchenandbroughttheminthroughtheswingingdoorintothehotelbar.

Therewere a lot of large and loud red-facedmen at the bar and evenmore in theadjoining banquet space. A three-piece rock band was playing in the party room, and

everyonewassingingtheoldSqueezehit“Tempted”atthetopoftheirlungsanddrinkingGuinnessandHarpLagerasfastassheandthebartender,Kevin,couldchangetapsonthebasementkegs.

AnAustralian-rulesfootballclub,mostlyfiremenandcopsfromSydney,wasintowntoplaythelocalLimerickclubatvariousformsoffootball,andtheplacewaspacked.Shesmiledat theyoungandhappydrunkmenwho’dbeentherefor the last threedays.Shereallylikedthemostlygood-naturedOzzies,butifsheheardanotheroneaskherwhatanicegirllikeherwasdoinginaplacelikethis,shewasgoingtostartscreaming.

The best news of allwas that the hotel’s potential buyer,Mr. Fuhrman, a tall, dourGerman, had come by in themidst of all themerriment about an hour before.He hadsuddenlyseemedprettymerryhimselfwhenhesawtheplacepackedtocapacityandallthemoneyflyingintothetill.

“I’mgoingtomakeaphonecalltothebrokeronMonday,”Mr.Fuhrmanhadassuredherbeforeheleft.“AndIthinkyou’regoingtolikewhatyouhear.”

“Hey,MaryCatherine.Didyouseethis?”saidKevin,suddenlypointingupattheTV.

Shelookedup.TheBBCwason.Behindasleekglassanchordesksatasharp-facedblondewearingadeadlyseriousexpression.

ThenMaryreadthegraphiconthescreenbeneaththeanchorwoman,andtheglassesintheracksrattledloudlyasshesetthemdownheavilyonthebar.

NEWYORKATTACKED!itsaid.

“Turnitup,Kevin,”shesaidastheimageontheTVchangedtoashotofthestrandedRooseveltIslandtram.

“FBIsourceshaveconfirmedthat this isyetanotherattackseeminglycarriedoutbyterrorists,”saidtheBritishanchor.

Anotherattack!What?

She flewbehind the bar andgrabbedher bag anddugout her cell phone. It almostslippedoutofherhand,andshehad to takeadeepbreathbeforeshemanaged to focusenough to find the speed dial for the apartment. She bit her lower lip as she waited,listeningtosilence.

“C’mon,”shesaid,waitingontheconnection.“Pickup,Michael.C’mon,pickup!”

CHAPTER37

THATNIGHTATaquarterafterseven,cranky,definitelydrained,andyetatthe same time extremely grateful just to be here, I stepped offmy elevator and finallymadegloriouscontactwiththeloosebrassknobofmyapartment’sfrontdoor.

Sometimesbaddaysatworkdepressedmeandstayedwithme,butthiswasoneofthedaysthatmademehappyjustforthefactthatitwasoverandI’dgottenthroughitinonepiece.

I was locking the apartment door behind me when a horrendous crunching soundrippedoutfromthevicinityofthekitchen.

IpeekedinsideandsawMartin,withhisbacktome,throwingabunchofcarrotsintoa blender. He seems to be in one piece, I thought. The same busy, assured, positive,energeticpersonwho’dcometoworkthismorning.Firstdaysweretough.Especiallyonesthat involved taking care of double-digit kids.But itwas looking like it had gonewellenough.Excellent,Ithought.Sofar,sogood.

Insteadofinterruptinghim,Ipeekedintothelivingroom.

Uh-oh.Maybenotsogood,IthoughtwhenIsawthekids.

All theboyswere thereexceptBrian.Theywere lyingallover theplace.Eddiewaspassedoutontheottoman.Rickywasonthecarpet,red-facedandstaring,dazed,upattheceiling.Trent,huffingandpuffing,wassprawledfacedownonthecouch.

Seamus, who was on the end of the couch, thumbing through the Irish Voicenewspaper,rolledhiseyesatme.

“What’swrongwiththem,Father?”Isaid.

“I don’t know. I just got inmyself, and theywon’t say,” said Seamus. “They keepsighingandmoaning, though. Ibelieve they’vecomedownwithsomesicknessperhapsmentalinnature.”

“Help,Dad.Justhelp,”saidEddieashelookedupweaklyfromtheottoman.

“He makes us run, Dad,” said Trent, pointing toward the crunching sound in thekitchen.“Weweredoingdrills.Soccerdrills.”

“YoumadeMaryCatherinedisappearand replacedherwithadrill sergeant,”Rickysaid.“We’renotthatbad,arewe?Well,Imean,we’resortofbad,butthisbad?Honestly,whatdidwedo?”

Theblenderstopped,thenwhirredagain.

“Andhesayshe’smakingussmoothies,”saidEddie.“ButIsawvegetables,Dad.Heboughtvegetablesfromthecornermarket!Idefinitelysawcarrotsandevensomegreenstuff.That’snotasmoothie,Dad.That’sV8juice!”

“Giveitup,fellas,”Isaidwithasmile.“Youcouch-potatoNintendoathletescouldusesome running around. Not to mention some vegetables. Mary Catherine would bepleased.”

CHAPTER38

IWASTURNING intothehallwaynear thebackbedroomswhenIranintothefemaleBennettcontingentneartherumblingwasheranddryer.Theyglaredatmeinunison.Anothergroupofunhappycampers,apparently.

“Firsttheboys,nowyou,”Isaid.“What’swrong?Whatareyouguysupto?”

“Doingourlaundry,thankyouverymuch,Father,”saidJuliana.

“ButMartincanhandlethat,”Isaid.

Sixsetsoffemaleeyesglaredbackatmeinunholyunison.

“Are you nuts, Dad?” said Jane. “Do you know how embarrassing that would be?Martinisnot—andImeannever—doingmylaundry.OrI’ll…runaway!”

“Weallwillifthatmaninthereevenglancesatthelaundryofanyfemalememberofthisfamily,”chimedinFiona.

“Forever!”saidChrissy.

“Forever?Wow,okay,ladies.I’llworkonit.Sheesh,”Isaid,slowlybackingaway.

“Heythere,Martin.How’dthefirstdaygo?”Isaidbackinthekitchen.

“Ah,they’regreat,sotheyare,”saidMartin.“Theycomplainedabitabouttherunningaround,whatwiththerainandall,butthat’snatural.Listen,Ithinkthatlittleonethere—Trent, is it?—hassomerealpotentialasa footballer,especially fora three-footedYank,butwhat arewe talkin’ aboutmyday atwork for? I heard it on the radio.They hit usagain,havethey?”

Inodded.

“Isitbad?”

“It’sprettybad,Martin,”Isaid.

“AndIthoughtthetroublesinNorthernIrelandwerebad.Who’sdoingit?IsitthosealQaedanutjobsagain,doyathink?”

Ishrugged.

“Wedon’tknowyet.”

“Well,I thoughtitbesttokeeptheTVoffonaccountoftheyoungestones,”Martinsaid.“Ithoughtyou’dhandlethesituationbest.”

“Goodcall,Martin,”Isaid.

Andnowforanother,Ithought,takingoutmyphoneandhittingaspeed-dialnumber.

“Hey,Tony,” Isaid.“I’d like toget four largepies,oneplain, twosausage,andonewithpepperoni.”

“Mike,whatchadoin’?Don’tbotherwiththat.Igotdinnercovered.I’mmakingthemsomesmoothieswithCaesarsalad.”

“Hey,that’sperfect,Martin,”Isaid.“We’llhaveeverythingwiththepizza.”

CHAPTER39

“MMM,THISPIZZAsureisgood,”Isaidinthedeadsilencetobreaktheice.

Itcertainlyneededsomebreaking.Ilookedaroundthetableatthekidswiththeirfacesdownturnedattheirfood.ItwassuddenlyBuckinghamPalaceformalandpin-dropsilentwithMartinhavingjoinedusfordinner.

“Fine.I’llsayitifnooneelsewill,Dad.Areweallgoingtodieorwhat?”saidBrianaroundamouthfulofpepperoni.

“What?”Isaid,glaringathim.

“What’swrong?”askedBridget.

“Oh, it’s nothing really, little sis. We’re just under attack by a bunch of insaneterroristsagain,”Briansaid,staringatmelikeitwasmyfault.“Notfornothing,Dad,butifwehavetomoveagainsomewhere,youcancountmeout. I’mgoingto lieaboutmyageandjointhemarinesorsomething.”

“Relax,” I said, looking around the table. “There was a blackout on the East Side.Theythinksomebodydiditdeliberately.That’sall.Wedon’tknowwho’sdoingit,okay?It’samess,andweneedtoprayforalotofpoorpeoplewhoareaffected,butit’sokay.Honestly.”

“Okay?”saidJuliana.“Firsttheyblowupatraintunnel,thentheykillthemayor,andnow—”

“You’regoing topass thegarlic salt, young lady, andwe’re all going tohave somenicedinner-tableconversation,”Iinsistedloudly.

IguessIwasalittlelouderthanIintendedtobe,becauseeveryonestaredatmelikeIwasnuts.ExceptforMartin,who,Icouldsee,wastryinghardnottolaughatmeandtherestofusBennettlunaticsfrombehindhisnapkin.

In the awkward silence, I suddenly tossed out an evenmore awkward conversationstarter.

“Hey,howaboutthoseYanks,Eddie,huh?Pettitte’slookingsharp,isn’the?”

Eddiestaredatmequizzically,asthoughIhadjustgrownanotherhead.

“Well?”Isaidagain,louder.

Eddieputhisslicedownonhispaperplatecarefully.

“Idon’tknow,Dad,”hesaidslowly.“He’sretired.”

That’swhenMartincouldn’tholditinanymoreandburstoutlaughing.Seamusjoinedhim.Theneverybodyelse.

“Goahead.Yuckitup,everybody.Seethis,Martin?It’slaugh-at-Daddytimehereatthe Bennett abode. It’s a common dinnertime stress reliever,” I said, sticking out mytongueatthembeforeIstartedlaughingatmyself.“Workseverytime.”

I leaped up immediately three minutes later when the phone rang. It was MaryCatherine,IsawonthecallerIDinthelivingroom.Finally!IwassoeagertotalktoherthatImanagedtohangupinsteadofpickup,andIwasplacingthehandsetbackdownwhenshecalledback.

“Finally, Mike! Oh, you had me so worried!” Mary Catherine said. “I had thedamnedesttimegettingthrough.Ijustsawthenews.What’sgoingon?Tellmeeverybodyisokay.”

“We’reallfine,MaryCatherine.Everybodyisashealthyandsarcasticasever,”Isaid.

“Butwhat is thisEMPbomb?Whatabout thenuclearstuff theyweresayingon thenews?”

EvenafterIexplainedittoherasbestIcould,she—likeeveryoneelse—didn’tseemveryreassured.

“How’sthingsonyourend?”Isaid,changingthesubject.

“Thenewbuyerislookingveryserious.I’llknowonMonday,”shesaid.

Icouldhearthesmileinhervoice.

“I’ll keep my fingers crossed,” I said, hearing music in the background. “Are youcelebratingalready?”

“Oh,no.That’sjustsomeAustraliansrelivingtheeighties.”

“Any room for an American?” I said. “I could be there in six hours. I do a killerDepecheMode.”

MaryCatherinelaughed.

“Wow,howIwishIweretherewithyou,Michael.Ican’ttellyouhowmuchImissthosekids,too.Allofthem.”

“Allofthem?”

“Oh,Michael,you’llneverknow.Everylittlestinkerinthebunch.It’skillingmenotbeingthere.Whatdidthatoil-spillCEOguysay?‘Iwantmylifeback.’”

“Iwantourlifeback,”Isaid.

Therewasapause.

“Ihavetogo,”saidMaryCatherine.

“SodoI,”Isaid.

Therewasapause.

“Whyhaven’tyouhungupyet?”Isaid.

“Iwasjustabouttoaskyouthesamething.”

Welaughed.Therewasanotherpause.

Thenithappened.

“Iloveyou,”Isaid.

Iheardagaspandthenaloudearfulofdialtoneasecondlater.

Whatthehellareyoudoing?Ithought,smilingatmyreflectionintheTVscreen.

I’mrelivingtheeighties,allright,I thoughtasIrealizedthatIhadbutterflies inmystomach.IfeltlikeIwasaboutsixteen.Ilikedit.

“DetectiveBennett,whathaveyoufinallygoneanddone?”ImumbledasIstood.

CHAPTER40

MYCELLPHONErangalittleafterthreeo’clockthatmorning.Likemostcallsthatcomeatungodlyhours,itwasnotgood.ItwasfromNeilFabretti,thechiefofdetectiveshimself.

“Mike,sorrytobotheryou.Ijustgotoffthephonewiththenewmayor’speople.Thegistofitisthey’rebeyondpissedatthepaceoftheinvestigationandwantwhoever’sonitoffitandsomeonenewputonpronto.”

ThoughIwasalittlestunnedtoactuallyhearit,partofmehadbeenwaitingforthiscall.I’dbeenonhigh-profilecasesbefore,andIknewthatnowwithseveralpeopledead,including themayor, tensof thousandsofpeopledisplaced,andmillionsmoreonedge,the pressure to do something, even unfairly sacrificing a convenient scapegoat likeme,wasimmense.

Goodinvestigationswereaboutbeingpatientandmeticulous,butthatwasn’texactlyapopular sentiment, I knew from reading yesterday’sNewYorkPost headline,WHAT THE#$%@ISBEINGDONE?

WhenyoulosttheusuallyNYPD-friendlyPost,youknewyouwereindeeptrouble.

“Isthatright?”Ifinallysaid.

“Yeah,well,Itoldthemtopoundsand,”Fabretticontinued,surprisingme.“Isaidthatwecouldn’tjustgoshufflinginvestigatorsaroundbecauseofthepressureofthetwenty-four/sevennewscycle. I told themyouwere thebestwehadandthatIwasbehindyouonehundredpercent,yada,yada,yada.

“But there’s a big meeting scheduled for one o’clock this afternoon at thecommissioner’soffice,andyouneedtobetherefortheinvestigation’supdatewithbellson,ifyouknowwhatI’msaying.Nothingpersonal,buttherealityis,ifyouwanttokeepbeingtheleadonthis,Mike,yougotabouttenhourstomakesomethingdrop.”

“I’llbethere.Thanksforthe‘lookout’andtheheads-up,Chief,”IsaidbeforeIhungup.

Wideawakenow,Iknewitwastimetomakemyown3:00a.m.callstoseeiftherehadbeenanydevelopments.DoyleandArturodidn’tpickup,butIcaughtBrooklynKaleburningthemidnightoilattheNYPDintelligencedeskwe’dbeenassigned.

“Mike,thankgoodness.Iwasjustgoingtocallyou,”shesaid.

“Whathaveyougot,Brooklyn?”

“Something good for a change.Wegot video of the guys—twoguys—bringing the

EMPdeviceintoEastEighty-FirstStreet.”

“Video?” I said. “But I thought the super said that theon-site computerwhere theystorethefeedwasfriedwiththeEMP.”

“Itwas,butwecanvassedatthehigh-riseacrossthestreet,anditturnsouttheirvideoisrunbyanationalfirmthatbacksupeverythingoff-site.Thesecurityfirmsentthefilmoveraboutanhourago.It’sbeautiful.Youcanseetheguysbringinginthebox,Mike…theplatesonthevantheyweredriving—thewholeshebang.Checkyoure-mail.Ijustsentaclipofittoyou.”

Iopenedthevideo.

Itwasincredible.

Ithoughtitwasgoingtobethetwomenfromthevideoofthetraintunnelbombing,butitwasn’t.Iwatchedincolorastwoyoungguysinawhitevan,collegekids,maybe,pulled into the garage next to the building and unloaded themetal device onto a handtruck.

“Theplatesonthevanlookfunnytoyou?”IsaidtoBrooklynasIhitPause.“They’reNewYorkState,butwhatarethey?Commercial?”

“Yep.Alreadyranthem.ThevanisfromaHertz locationdowntown—orat least itsplatesare,”Brooklynsaid.“Doyle’sonthephonewiththemanager,who’sonhiswayin.Themanager said you can’t rentwithout a credit card and a driver’s license, sowe’relookinggoodonapotentialleadthere.I’llhityouwithitthesecondDoylecallsmebackandIhearanything.”

“Greatjob,Brooklyn,”Isaid.

“Onemorething,Mike,thatjustcameup.Mayormaynotberelated,”shesaid.“TwoyoungmenwerejustfoundshotdeadataconstructionsiteonRooseveltIsland.Icalledthedesksergeantatthepublicsafetydepartmentontheisland,andhetoldmetheydon’thaveIDonthem,butthegeneraldescriptionseemsaboutthesameasthesetwoguysonthevideo.Youwantmetoheadoutthereorstayherecoordinating?”

Aleadwasalead,Iknewfromexperience.Evenifthesuspectswerenolongerinapositiontotalktous,theycouldstillprovideuswithvaluableinformation.

“No,youstaythere,”Isaid.“I’llgrabAgentParkerandcheckitout.”

CHAPTER41

TWENTY-SIX MINUTES after I hung up the phone, I sat in myunmarked on SeventhAvenue and 50th Street, staring at the garish neon lights as theygeyseredandflashedsilentlyonthebeautifulpeople-filledbillboardsabovethewornandemptyconcretecanyonsofTimesSquare.

As the song says,NewYorkCity never sleeps, but between 4:15 and 4:30 a.m., itsometimes takes a quick catnap. Even so, itwasweird seeing Times Square devoid ofpeople.Nottomentionquiteoff-puttingunderthehorriblecircumstances.

IsawthatEmily’shairwasstillwetfromhershowerwhenshefinallyappearedatarunfromherglass-frontedhotel.Ismiledtomyselfasshepulledthecardooropen.Thesightofherwasanythingbutlonely.

“Let me bring you up to speed on some economic forensics I did on the mayor’sshooter, AlexMirzoyan,” Emily said, thumbing her smartphone as we headed east forRooseveltIsland.

“First, the good news. That robotic gun-aiming device used in the mayor’sassassinationishighlyspecialized,andwewereabletotrackdownthemanufacturer.Thecompanyisgivingussomepushbackafterweaskedfortheircustomerlist,butwehavetheUSattorneydrawingupawarrant,andIthinkwe’llbemakingprogressthere.”

“Whatabouttheownershipoftheapartmenttheshooterwasin?”Isaid.

Emilyscrolledthroughscreensonherphone.

“No dice there, unfortunately. Apparently, the owner is a Columbia Universityinternationallawprofessorwho’sinBrusselsforasemester’ssabbatical.Itdoesn’tseemlikehe’s involved.He rented itoutanonymously fora thousanddollarsaweek throughoneofthoseInternethouse-swappingservicestoafakee-mailaddressthatMirzoyanmusthavesetupcalledwoopwoop-two-two-sixatAOLdotcom.”

“Well, iteliminatesmeasasuspect,at least,” Isaid,shakingmyhead.“Myfakee-mailaddressiswoopwoop-two-two-sixatYahoodotcom.”

“Very funny,” Emily said, tapping her smartphone screen again. “But what’s morepromisingissomeweirdstuffwefoundwithMirzoyan’sfinances.LastweekheopenedaPayPal account that had three thousand dollars wired into it, which he immediatelywithdrewfromabankinSouthMiami.”

Iglancedoverather.

“Expensemoney?”Isaid.“SohecouldcomeuptoNewYork?”

“Couldbe.Likewe’redoingwiththeriflecompany,we’reintheprocessofhavingtheattorney’sofficetrytopersuadePayPaltotelluswhothemysterioussomeonewhowiredthemoneyis.”

CHAPTER42

WEWEREINQueenstwentyminuteslater.IgotturnedaroundafterIgotoffthe first exit of theMidtownTunnel andwandered around the industrialmaze ofLongIslandCityforabit.

“Howarewelost,Mike?”saidEmily,yawning.“IthoughtyouwereMr.NativeNewYorker.”

“Iam,Emily,butthisisn’tNewYork,it’sQueens,”Isaid,makingaU-turn.“Imean,we just passed Forty-First Avenue and Twenty-First Street—or was it Twenty-FirstAvenueandForty-FirstStreet?Copsfromotherboroughsusuallyhavetoleaveatrailofdoughnutcrumbsbehindtheminordertofindtheirwaybackout.”

“Whatis thiscrazyplace,Mike?RooseveltIsland,Imean,”Emilysaidaswerolledsouth under several varieties of train and car underpasses and finally swung onto thesmall,two-laneRooseveltIslandBridge.

“Oh,justanotheroneofthebizarrerealestatesituationsyoufindinthiscrazycity,”Isaid.“Ithinkitusedtobethesiteofamentalasylumintheearly1900s,andthentheyputupsomekindofrent-subsidizedhousingcomplex.Iguessitsclaimtofameisthatithasitsveryownskichalet–likecablecaryoucantaketogetintoManhattan.”

“AEuroskitraminNewYorkCity?”saidEmily,hermidwesternfacescrunching.“IsitaheavilySwissimmigrantneighborhoodorsomething?”

“Like I said, this is Queens, Emily.” I nodded out at the water. “What happens inQueensstaysinQueens.”

Thecrimescenewasatthebaseofthe59thStreetBridge,towardthesouthendofthesmall,narrowisland.

I could see that the contingent of cops already waiting for us was definitelymuchlargerthanwhatyou’dseeataregularhomicidescene.Inadditiontoat leastfourblue-and-whites from the island’s public safety people, therewas awagon circle of variousunmarked detective cars, FDNY ambulances, themedical examiner’smobile commandcenter,andevenanNYPDEmergencyServicesUnittruck.

Walkingthroughtheflashingblueandredlightstowardthetape,IspottedLieutenantBryceMiller standingwith his ESU intelligence commando cowboys. Even before thecrackofdawn,thetallandpolishedprettyboy,lookinglikeasoapoperaactor,wasinhispowersuit,readyforhisclose-up.

“Hey,Bennett.Gladyoucouldmakeit,”Brycesaidsarcasticallyaswewentpasthim.

Hemustbeaprettygoodintelguyafterall,Ithought,noddingathim.Itseemedthat

he,too,hadheardtherumorsaboutmyupcomingdemiseascaselead.

Iwas coming around the back of the buslikemedical examiner’smobile commandcenterwhenIsawtheMEhimself,TomDurham,helpingoneofhisassistantsslide thefirstofthetwostretcherswiththealreadybody-baggedsuspectsonthemuparamptothevehicle’sbackdoor.

“Holditthere,Tom,”IsaidtotheNBA-tallmedicalexaminer,whomI’dworkedwithafewtimesaboutadecadeearlier,whenIwasinHomicide.

“MikeBennett,”Durhamsaid,peelingoffhisrubberglovetoshakemyhandoverthecorpse.“Well,well,outofthemistsoftime.You’veputonweight.”

“Ah,c’mon,Tom,”Isaid.“Youknowhowtheseblueandredlightsalwaysputontenpounds.Thisismypartner,Emily.AnychanceyoufindanyIDonthesetwo?”

“Nope.Notathing.Wealreadyprintedthem,too,forthatguyinthesuitoverthere.Nohelpthere,either,apparently.”

“Youmindifwetakeaquickpeekatthem?”Isaid.

“Nope,”Tomsaid,grabbingthebody-bagzipper.“Andneitherwillthey,Iimagine.”

Iplacedthevideostillofthedarkerkidnexttothekidonthegurney.Thekid’sheadwasgrotesquelydeformedfromseveralgunshotwounds,butIthoughtthepicturelookedlikehim.

“Whatdoyouthink?”IsaidtoEmily.

“Ithinkit’shim,”shesaid.

Tomlookedoverhershoulder.

“Me,too,”theMEsaidwithanod.

WequicklyID’dtheothersuspectasthesecondguywhodroppedofftheEMPdevice.Weneedednames,though.Somehow.TherewasnowayIwasgoingtoallowthistobeyetanotherdeadend.

I thanked Tom, but instead of heading back to the car, I pocketed my phone andwalked with Emily away from the police lights to the rocky edge of the island’s darkshore.

“Waitasecond,”Isaidafteraminuteoflookingoutoverthewater.“Look.”

Acrossthequickcurrentofchoppywater,nottoofarawayattheManhattanbaseofthebridge,werethelightsofourcrisispostfortheYorkvilledisaster.

“The bastards were right here watching us yesterday, weren’t they?” Emily said inshock. “Watching us scramble. The panic.All those poor souls having to be evacuatedfromthehospitals.Theyjuststoodherehappilywatchingtheresultsofwhatthey’ddone.”

“Andbyleavingthebodiesrighthere,Iguesstheywantustoknowit,”Isaid.

“I’mreallystartingtonotlikethesefellas,Mike,”Emilysaidasshekickedabrokenkayakhandleintothewater.“Imean,notevenalittlebit.”

CHAPTER43

SEVERALHECTICHOURS later thatday,at tentoone,EmilyandIwaitedinanarrow,crowdedhallwaybeforeasetofdoubledoorsontheeighthfloorofOnePolicePlaza.

Ontheothersideofthedoors,wecouldhearavoicedroningonaswehastilywentoverthefinaldetailsofthereportwewereabouttogivetothepolicecommissionerandactingmayorandvariousandsundryotherofficials.

Thedoorofthethunderdomeopenedafteraminute,andChiefFabrettiwasthere.

“Mike,youready?”hesaid.

The coliseum-like, bowl-shaped CompStat conference room behind him was a penpusher’sparadise,Iknew.Itwasaplacewhereinnovativecomputer-modelformatswereused to illuminatedetailedprocesses thatwere compared for effectivenessof indicesofperformance before implementations of flexible tactics to achieve the development ofcomprehensivesolutionswerediscussedinateam-buildingenvironment.

InplainEnglish,itwasabureaucraticversionofhellonearth.

But before I could answer the chief’s question, Emily and I were inside, front andcenter.

There were about twenty or thirty people up on the amphitheater-style seatssurroundingus,a lotof tense-lookingNYPDandFBIbrass,andtheactingmayor.AlsosomesuitsfromtheWhiteHouse,we’dbeentold.

IfIneededanyfurtherindicationofwhatwasatstake,Isawitonthewhiteboardthatthelastspeakerhadbeenusing.TwowordshadbeenwrittenwithaSharpieinlargeblackletters.

EVACUATIONPLAN

“Whothehellisthisagain?”saidtheactingmayorovertherimofhereyeglasses.

The tall, long-necked, white-haired woman’s name was Priscilla Atkinson, and IalmostfeltlikeaskingtheParkAvenue–raisedgrandedamethesamequestion,asheronlyexperiencebeforebeingnameddeputymayorwas runningpublicevents for theCentralParkConservancy.

InsteadIbegan.

“Hi. I’m Detective Bennett. This is Special Agent Parker, and we’d like to bringeverybodyuptodateonwhatwehavesofar.”

Anaidewhisperedintheactingmayor’sear.

“Onequestion,”Atkinsonsaid,interruptingme.“What’sgoingon,DetectiveBennett?Who’sdoingthistous,andwhythehellhaven’tyoufoundthemyet?”

Insteadofpointingoutthatshe’djustasked,infact,threequestions,Icontinued.

“I’mheretoanswereverybody’squestions,Ms.Mayor,okay?I’vebeeninformedthateverybodyhasalreadybeenbriefedabouttheEMPdevicewediscovered.Whatyoumaynotbeawareofisthatlastnight,wewereabletoobtainvideofootageofmen—twomen—placingtheobjectontheEastSidebuilding’sroof.”

“Are they the same two men seen on the video at the train bombing?” said thecommissionerfromtherowbeneaththemayor.

“No,they’renot,Mr.Commissioner,”saidEmily.“Theyweredifferentmen.”

“HaveyouID’dthem?Whothehellarethey?”demandedthemayor.

“We’ve located them, ma’am,” I said, “and we’ve actually just ID’d them as tworecentNYUgrads.”

“Why’dtheydoit?”

“Wedon’tknow.WefoundthemthismorninginaDumpsterataconstructionsiteonRooseveltIsland,bothshotmultipletimesinthehead.”

Thatgotthemurmuringgoing.

“Themenranamarketingfirm.They’relocalkidswithnoterroristties,”Emilysaidbefore themayor could jump in with another stupid obvious question. “We think theywerehiredbythepeoplebehindthis.”

“Sowe’restillinthedark?”saidMs.Atkinson.

“Not entirely,” I said. “We scoured their Internet and phone records and discoveredthatbothwerepaidlargesumsofmoneyovertheInternetthroughwhatseemstobethesame PayPal account. With the help of federal authorities, we are in the process oftrackingdowntheowneroftheaccount.”

“Gettoit,Bennett,”thecommissionersaidafterabeat.“Keepusapprised.”

InoddedathimandatLieutenantBryceMiller sittingbelow thecommissioner likethegoodlittledoggiehewas.

GuessI’mstillonthecaseafterall,Brycey,Imentallytextedhim.

As Fabretti showed us the door, I saw one of the White House suits startBlackBerryinglikecrazy;IhopedtheywereputtingsomepressureonPayPaltocoughupa name. Themayor nodded at us before she took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes.Seeingtheobviousgreatconcernandworryinhersuddenlyold-seemingface,Ifeltbadforher.Shewasjustasstrainedandconcernedandtiredastherestofus.Andthatwassayingalot.

CHAPTER44

THATNIGHTAT around9:30,approximately fifty-fivemilesduenorthofNewYorkCity,Emily turnedoffherphoneas Ipulledmyunmarkedoffabackcountryroad into a remote campground at Clarence Fahnestock Memorial State Park, on theborderbetweenPutnamandDutchessCounties.

Unfortunately,weweren’tatthestateparkforamidnightweenieroast.TherewereatleastadozenNewYorkstatetroopervehiclesalreadyinthelargeparkinglot,alongwiththesamenumberofunmarkedFBICrownVictorias.Beyondatroopercommandbusweretwomatte-blackBearCattrooptrucks,andattheendofthelot,inamuddyclearing,satabulkyolive-drabBlackHawkhelicopterwithmilitarymarkings.

Wewerefinallyonthehuntnow.Ataroundfivethatafternoon,PayPalhadrevealedthenameofthepersonwhohadsentfundstoboththemayor’sshooterandthedeadEMPguys,anditwasadoozy.

ThenameonthePayPal transferwasJamilalGharsi.AlGharsiwasaYemeni-bornMuslim clericwhowas already on the FBI’s terroristwatchlist, suspected of running amilitantandpotentiallyviolentIslamicgrouponagrubbycattlefarmfivemilesdueeastofFahnestockStatePark.

Al Gharsi’s two dozen–strong group had a website that billed them as a kind ofMuslimCubScouts, though theywere anythingbut.TheFBIhadbeen following themclosely since their inception sixmonths ago, and they had been observed trainingwithweapons.

ThegroupalsohadtiestoalQaedainYemen,whichboggledmymind.Whyhadn’ttheybeenshutdownalready?Nooneknew,orat leastnoonewouldsay.IfalGharsi’sgroup turned out to be responsible for the bombings and for the assassination in NewYork,Iwastrulygoingtokicksomebody’sass.IfHomelandSecurityhadletyetanotherIslamicterroristattackoccur,Iwasgoingtobethefirsttoproposeitsdisbanding.

Emily and I passed a bunch of troopers wearing their Smokey the Bear hats andclimbedontothecrowdedbus,wheretheFBI’sHostageRescueTeamhadalreadystarteditsbriefing.

A flat screen behind the driver’s seat showed a series of photographs fromreconnaissancethathadalreadybeendone.

Thepicturesfeaturedaclusterofbuildingsinthecenterofalargehillyfieldnearthebottom of a ridge. There was an old farmhouse—a low concrete building that almostlooked like a school—and a large dilapidated barn that was listing so far to the left itlookedasifsomemagicspellhadfrozenitinthemidstofcollapse.

“This is al Gharsi,” the HRT leader, TerryMusa, said as he handed out a printoutshowingamean-lookingbaldguywithabeard thatwouldmakeanyof theBostonRedSox’sstartinglineupgreenwithenvy.

“Heissixfootthree,”Musasaidashetightenedastraponhishelmet.“Heisalsoamixed martial artist and one tough bastard, apparently. We don’t know what kind ofweaponsorexplosiveswe’regoingtoencounter.Iwouldn’tevenrecommendgoinginonthebirdwiththisEMPshit,butthere’snootherway.Sobottomline,bevery,veryfuckingcareful,okay,folks?Payingtheseassholesbackwon’tbeanyfunifyou’redead.”

CHAPTER45

ATTHEENDofthebriefing,EmilyandI,alongwithtwotrooperteams,wereassignedtowatchabackroadupontheridgebehindthefarm.

Fifteen minutes later, with our headlights off, we coasted to a stop on a tree-linedgravel road beside a barred cattle gate. Beyond the gate was another gravel road thatcurveddowntotheleft,outofsightthroughsometrees.Downbelowthetreeswerethefieldsandfarm.

Whentheothertwoteamsradioedthattheywereinpositionahundredfeetbackdowntheroadbehindus,Iturnedoffthecarandrolleddownthewindow.

I looked down at the farm’s rugged, unkempt fields. It was some desolate-lookingcountry, all right.An almost constantwindwhistled in the creaking roadside pines andwhitebirchesaroundus,likesomethingoutofTheBlairWitchProject.Likemostborn-and-bredNewYorkcops,thecountryatnightalwaysscaredthehelloutofme.

“DidyouknowtheysayRipVanWinklefellasleeparoundtheseparts?”Isaidafteraminutetofillthecreepysilence.

“IthoughtthatwastheCatskills,”Emilysaid.

“You’reright.MaybeI’mthinkingoftheHeadlessHorseman,”IsaidasIheardalowthumping.

IlookedupastheFBI’sBlackHawkswungovertheridgeabovethecar.

“Herewego,”Isaid,turninguptheradio.

The world went green as I peered through the night-vision telescope we’d beensuppliedwith.As Igot the farmhousebelow in focus, Icouldsee thechopperhoveringover its roof and the FBI commandos already fast-roping into the front yard. Blasts ofgreen-tingedlightblazedatthehouse’sfrontwindowsastheFBIguystossedflashbangs.

That’swhen I heard a soundupon thewoodedhill beside the car. I heard it again.Somethingcrackling,somethingmovingthroughthetreesandunderbrushtoourleft.

“Adeer?”EmilywhisperedbesidemeasIswungthenight-visionscope.

Shewaswrong.

Atthetopofasmallhillthroughthetrees,Icouldseethreemencomingdirectlyatus.ImadeoutthattheywerelargeandincamoandhadlongbeardsbeforeItossedthenightscopeandswungaroundforthebackseat.

“Shit!It’sthem!Getbehindthecar!”IhissedatEmilyasIturnedandgrabbedmyM4

offthebackseat.

Idouble-clickeditfromsafetofullautoandflungthedooropen.WetmudsuckedatmykneesasIrolledbesidethecarintoaproneshootingposition.

Themen,whomusthavefinallyseenthecar,stoppedsuddenlyhalfwaydownthehill.

Myheartbashingaholeinmychest,ImanagedtosightonthefirstmanasIyelled,“Police!Down!Allofyou!Now!”

Theylookedateachother,thenstartedwhisperingastheystayedontheirfeet.Oneofthemwas taller than the other two, I saw.Was it al Gharsi? Damn it, what were theydoing?Didtheyhaveguns?Suicidevests?Iwondered.

Theydefinitelyweren’tlistening.IdecidedIneededtochangethat.

ThesilenceofthenightshatteredintoamillionpiecesasIwentaheadandsqueezedoffalongburstofaboutadozenorso.223roundsupthehill.WoodsplintersandleavesflewasIrakedleadalloverthetreesandforestfloorinfrontofthem.

“Wegiveup!Pleasedon’tshoot!”oneofthemsaidasallthreeofthemdroppedintothefetalposition.

Istoodwith thegun tomyshoulderandmyfingerstillon the triggeras Iheard thesweetsoundofthefirsttroopercarscreamingupthegravelroad.

CHAPTER46

“THISISTOTALbullshit!Thisisracism!Iknowmyrights.Howdareyoushoot atmeonmyownproperty?” said the large andbroad-shouldered alGharsi asheglaredhatefullyatmeinthebackofhiscrumblingfarmhouseatensetwentyminuteslater.

“Hey, I’m not the daring one,Al,” I said, kicking a cardboard box of double-aughtshotgunshellsacrosshisdirty,scuffedfloor.“RunningajihadistcampinNewYorkStatesixtymilesfromGroundZero?Talkaboutchutzpah.”

Andtalkaboutlivingoffthegrid,Ithought,shakingmyheadatthesurroundings.Thehousewasbarelyhabitable.Therewasnophone,andwhatlittleelectricitytherewas,wasprovidedbyasmallpropanegenerator.Icouldn’tdecidewhichpartofthedecorwasmorecharming—the little room off the kitchen, where a roughly butchered deer lay on ahomemade plywood table, or the upstairs bedrooms, where Arabic graffiti covered thewallsabovesleepingbags.

Handcuffedbehindhisback,alGharsishifteduncomfortablyonaratty,fadedorangecouch,wherehesatbookendedbytwostandingFBIcommandos.Theonlyotherfurniturewasamassivegreenmetalgunlockerinafarcornerandtwelvepaleimmaculateprayermatssetinadisturbinglyprecisefour-by-threerectangleinthecenteroftheroom.

Thelockerhadkickedoutsomegoodnewsforachange.SeveralofthesemiautomaticAK-47sinsidehadbeenillegallyconvertedtofullyautomatic.Afelonyfederalweaponsviolationwouldbeagoodstartatgainingsomeleveragetofindoutjustwhatinthehellwasgoingon.

“This is not a jihadist camp,” al Gharsi said through yellow gritted teeth. “We arewoodsmen,hunters.”

“Woodsmen,” I saidwith a laugh. “I guess thatArabic on thewalls up there says,‘Giveahoot,don’tpollute.’You’renotwoodsmen,butI’llconcedethatyouarehunters.It’swhatyou’rehuntingthat’stheproblem.”

IwalkedbehindalGharsi and took thephotographsEmilywasholding.Theblack-and-whiteblown-upstillsshowedthetwomenfromthesubwaytunnelbombing.

“Whoarethey?”Isaid,flappingthephotographsinfrontofalGharsi’sface.

Heshruggedashestudiouslyrefusedtolookatthem.

“Whoarethey?”Isaidagain,patiently.

“Wait.Iknowthem.Yes,”hesaid,nodding,ashefinallyglancedatthepictures.“Theoneontheleft,hisnameis…let’ssee…Fuck.That’sit.HisnameisFuck,andtheoneonthe right is…um…You, I believe. There they are together, Fuck andYou,my dear old

friends.”

“That’s pretty good, Al. Your delivery needs a little work, but it’s almost happilysurprisingtoseethatyouhaveanysenseofhumoratall.”

That’swhenIwalkedbehindhimagainandtookadocumentandanotherpicturefromEmily.IshowedhimthePayPalstuffalongwithaphotoofhimsendingfundsfromthenearbylibrary.

“Last Thursday at three o’clock, you sentmoney to these two different accounts. Iwanttoknowwhy.”

“What?”hesaid,peeringatthephoto.

“Yousentmoney.Why?”

Therewas a glimmerof something in his face then.Recognition, definitely.Then alittleconfusion.Thenhismaskofimpertinencewasback.Afteramoment,hegavemeacoldyellowsmile.

“Iwantmylawyer,”hesaid.

Ismiledback.

“Don’tworry,Al.Alawyerwillbeprovidedforyou.That’swhatmakesourcountryso great, you see. Free lawyers, stuff like that.Maybe one day youmightwant to askyourselfwhyyouwanttowreckitsobadly.”

Hestartedlaughingthen.

“More amusement,Al?” I said. “I got you allwrong.You’re just a big teddy bear,aren’tyou?”

“You’rehereabouttheattacks,”hesaid.“Themayor,thebombing,theEMP.”

“Why,yes,”Isaid.“Haveyouheardanythingaboutthesethings,bychance?”

“No,” alGharsi said calmly. “But Imust admit, I am quite a fan ofwhoever is sobrilliantlyattackingNewYorkCityandbringingthiscorrupt-to-the-coreGreatSatantoitsknees.”

Alstartedchucklingagain.

“You think I have something to do with it. Me! You come up here with yourhelicopters andmen kicking in the door.But you are clueless.You are losing.You areflailing.Youdon’tevenknowwhichdirectiontoduck.Allahwilling,youareabouttobedefeated,Ithink.”

Aminutelater,IleftthelivingroomandfollowedEmilyoutofthehouseandontothebackporch.

In thefarmyard’ssoleelectric light, thirtyyards to thesouth,someshoelessmiddle-school-age kids, al Gharsi’s, probably, were kicking a basketball around as troopersinterviewedblackclad, burka-wearing aunts andmothers. Iwished suddenly that Iwerehomewithmyownkids.

“Whatdoyouthink?”IsaidtoEmily.

“Ithinkwhatyouthink,”Emilysaid.“Ithinkwejustdugourselvesanotherdryhole.”

CHAPTER47

SIXTY-FIVEMILES due south, between the Brooklyn neighborhoods ofFortGreeneandBedford-Stuyvesant,threeglowingwindowsstoodoutsharplyonthetopfloorofthePrattInstitute’sotherwisedarkNorthHallbuilding.

Ontheothersideofthetranslucentwindowshadeswasalarge,white-walledlabspacethatwastheshowpieceofPratt’sbrand-newroboticsfacility.Atitscenter,ayoungmanand two young women sat at the largest of the stainless steel lab tables, side by side,workingbusily.

Theyhadanassemblylinegoing.Aaronstartedoffwiththebrushlessmotorcontrollerandflywheelandtheflywheel’sbrakingmechanism.Gia,whohadalighttouchwiththesolderingiron,fitinthetinyelectronicsboardandtheradioreceiver,whileShuipoppedinrolling-pin-like magnets and put additional magnets onto the face of the small, squarewhiteplasticpanels.

Thefinishedproductwasawhite-and-silvercubeaboutthesizeofaquarter.Itlookedinnocuousenough,likeatinyfuturisticchildren’sblock.

ButthesedefinitelywerenotJunior’sLEGOs,Shuithoughtassheclickedontheminirobot’stestsoftwareontheiPad.

Immediately there was a whirring sound as the computer-initiated radio signalactivatedthebot’s interiorflywheel.Whenthecomputer-dictatedamountofRPMswerereached,theflywheelhaltedsuddenly,catapultingthebotacrossthetable.Anotherwhirandflip,andthebotsnappedintopositionontotheendofalineofsixminibotsthatwerealreadyarrangedinastraightrow.

Then, with another click on the iPad, the magic really began as the tiny minibotsstartedleapfroggingeachother,movingsteadilyacrossthetablejustasahalf-trackwouldrolloveratank.Shuiknewshewassupposedtoplacethebotscarefullyintoafoam-linedboxattheendofthecounter,butthebosswasn’taround,washe?Onebyone,shemadetheminibotswhirandflipintothebox.

“Ah, my aching wrists!” said Gia, a 4.0 junior, as she removed her magnifyinggoggles.“Therehastobealaborlawagainstthis.Howlonghavewebeenatit?Tenhoursnow?IfeellikeoneofthosekidsinIndiaforcedtohand-rollcigarettes.Imean,IreallythinkI’mgettingcarpaltunnelsyndrome.”

“Now,now.Time ismoney.We’renot gettingpaidby thehourbut by theminibot,remember?KeeprowingtheslaveboatsoAarontheBaronherecanscorehimselfsomenicefront-rowseatsatCoachella,”Aaronsaid,snappingcomponentstogetherandflickingthemtowardGiaasthoughtheywerelunch-tablefootballs.

“Nooneisgoingtogetpaidadimeifthesebotsaredamaged,damnit,”saidDr.SethKeshetashestormedin.

Freshfromrunningtheworld-renownedPhDprogramatCarnegieMellon’sRoboticsInstitute, tall, dark, and cockyKeshet was one of the top three people in the world indigitaltopology.Butwithhismeticulouslytailoredcasualsuitsandvisiblechesthair,heactedmorelikeascuzzyEurotrashclublizardthanafamousscientist.

“Howmany?”hewantedtoknow.

“Ahundredandeleven,”saidAaron.

“Ineedanotherhundred.”

“Anotherhundred?We’vebeenhittingitsincethreethisafternoon.Bywhen?”

“Sixa.m.”

“Six?You’reeffingkiddingme.We’vebeengoingtenhoursnow.”

“Stopwhining.We’re on a deadline,” the doctor said, checking his Patek Philippe.“That’swhyIpayyouthebigbucks.”

Aaronponderedthisforamomentwithathoroughlydepressedlookonhisface.Thenhefinallystood.

“I’msorry,Professor,butI’mdone,”hesaid.“Youkeepyourfiftyabot.Ican’ttakeitanymore.I’mdone.Totaltoast.I’mgoingtodroprighthere.”

“Exactly,Seth,”saidShui,withanuncharacteristicdefianceinhervoice.“We’renotbots,we’rehumans.Youseemtohavelostsightofthat.”

“Okay, okay,” the professor said, changing his tune instantly from demanding tocharming.“Sorryforbeingsuchanass.I’munderalotofpressure.I’lldoubleyourpayfortonight.Ahundredabot,butonlyifyoufinish.”

Aaronlookedathimandblewoutabreath.

“Fine,”hesaid.“Butwe’regoingtoneedmorepizza.”

“AndRedBull,”saidGia.

“Asyouwish,mychildren.Daddywillgogettherefreshments,”saidKeshetasheleftthelab.

HisiPhonejingledashehittheschoolbuilding’sconcretestairwell.

Howarewelooking?theclienthadtexted.

We’reontarget,Mr.Joyce.Noworries.Everythingwillbereadybysixasyousaid,Keshettextedback.

CHAPTER48

THESUNBROKEoverthetopofthetreesontheHighLineinChelseaasadingywhitevanwiththewordsHARRISONBROSPLUMBINGon itssidepulled toastoponWest27thStreetbetweenEleventhandTwelfthAvenues.

Asthevanidled,awaiflikeman-childinadesignerbusinesssuitbikedpastoverthesidestreet’shalf-lit,wornpavement.Thenawhistlinghomelessmanfollowed,towingadirtywhiteleatherPINGgolfbagpiledwithjinglingempties.

Oncethemenhadpassed,Mr.Beckettopenedthereardoorofthevanandsteppedoutontothestreetdressedlikeaplumber.

Withtheminibotssecured,hewastheretoretrievethelastitemontheirshoppinglist.Anditwas,astheAmericanssaid,quiteadoozy.

Theplumber’sgetupwasprobablyalittleoverkill,hethought.Buthisimagehadtobeinthehandsoftheauthoritiesbynow,soeverycautionwasmostprudent,heknew,ashehitthebuzzerofafamiliarfadedbricktenementbuildingonthestreet’snorthside.

Upstairs,Senturk,thebodyguard,wasalreadystandingintheopendoorwayattheendofthesecond-floorcorridor.HeworegrayslacksandniceItalianshoesandawhitesilkdressshirtthatwasjustalittletootightforhissodamachineofatorso.

Mr.Beckettfeltararebeadofsweatrolldownhisbackasthegreen-eyed,muscularTurk wanded him with the metal detector. He knew the man had been in the MilliIstihbaratTeskilatibackwhentheTurkishversionoftheCIAhadbeenrunbythebrutalmilitary.Sincethen,hehadbeenabodyguardforMiddleEasternbillionairebusinessmenandsultansandwasahardmanoflegendaryreputation.

Senturkledhiminthroughadoorintotheback.Therestofthebuildingwasarotten,dustydump,butbackhere,ithadbeentransformedintoaposhloft.Itwasthesizeofanindoor basketball court, with fabric wallpaper and million-dollar lighting and massivemodernpaintingsonthewalls.

AhmedDzurdzuk,theyoungmanMr.Becketthadcometosee,wassittingbehindanimpressive,shiningchromedeskthatlookedlikeithadbeenmadeoutofaWorldWarIIairplane wing. Dzurdzuk didn’t bother looking up fromwhatever he was doing on hisiMacasMr.Beckettsatinthemidcenturymodernchairinfrontofthedesk.

Mr. Beckett sighed silently at this disrespect. These kids today. He’d been doingbusinesswiththepsychopathicChechencrookforthelastyear.TheleasthecoulddowasacknowledgeMr.Beckett’sexistence,butalas,no.

Many peoplewere afraid of the twenty-five-year-old, butMr.Beckett—not only an

experienced connoisseur of dangerouspeople but also a dangerouspersonhimself—didnotfallintothatcategory.

Senturk was a problem, without question, but Ahmed was sloppy, often high, andalwaysdistracted.

Hecould,toborrowanexpressionfromanAmericanbookhehadonceread,swallowtheslight,girlishfopwithaglassofwater.

“Ahmed?Yoo-hoo,”Mr.Beckettfinallysaidafteralongtwominutes.

“Well,my friend,what brings you by for a face-to-face?Youmissme?Ha-ha…ofcourseyoudo.WestillhavesomeofthatbeautifulnewEcstasyfromDenmark.Plentyofit.Allyouwant,”Ahmedsaid.

Mr.Beckettglanced tohis leftatSenturkstandingbackby the insideof the interiordoor,justoutofearshot.Good.Heslowlycrossedalegasheleanedbackinhischair.

“TheEcstasywas excellent, but I don’t need that. I needwhatwe spoke of on thephone,Ahmed.RememberthatitemIorderedaboutthreemonthsago?”

“Come, now,” Ahmed said, frowning. “Please, I told you that that fell through,remember?”

“Iremember,Ahmed.Idon’tmindifyouwanttonegotiate,butI’minahurry,soyouwin.I’lldoubleyourfee.”

“Youdon’tunderstand.Itwasseized,”Ahmedsaidashetookarolledjointoutofacigaretteboxonhistableandlititwithamatch.

Hetossedtheburnedmatchintoafilthycrystalashtrayandshrugged.

“That’stherisk,”hesaid,blowingganjasmokeupatthetwenty-foot-highceiling.

“Iknowallaboutrisk,”Mr.Beckettsaid.“IalsoknowthatoneofyourcousinswhodoesyoursmugglingforyoucameinonaNigerianfreighteroutoftheCanaryIslandslastweek.HehadalargebagwithhimwhenhejumpedshipoffthecoastofConeyIsland.Itwasfilledwith twenty-sevenpoundsofC-fourplasticexplosive.Youhave ithere.Nowtrotitout,andlet’sdobusiness.”

“Howdoyouknow this?”Ahmed said in surprise, putting the joint down. “Scratchthat.Idon’tcare.Thatwasn’tyourshipment.Thatwasforanotherclient.Ican’thelpyou.Honestly.Youneedtobegoingnow.Ihavesomegirlscomingover.”

“Youdon’tseemtounderstand,”saidMr.BeckettcalmlyashereachedoverandtookalongpuffonAhmed’sjoint.“Here’swhatyou’regoingtodonow.You’regoingtotellyourotherclientthathisshipmentwasseized,andthenyou’regoingtosellhisproducttome.Simple,okay?NowgetoffyourassandgogetmewhatIwantlikeagoodlittleboy.”

CHAPTER49

AHMEDSATUPinhischair,adarklookonhisface,adeeperdarknessinhiseyes.

“Senturk,canyoubelieve theballsonthisfatbastard?Noonetalks tomelike that.Throwthisassholedownthestairs.Hard.”

“Myapologies,”saidMr.BeckettinfluentChechen,smiling.“We’vegottenoffonthewrongfoot.Iknowthefriendsyouorderedtheplasticfor.Wehavethesamefriends.Weare all on the same side here, Ahmed. Don’t you see? I’m the one who bombed thesubwayandkilledthemayorandsetofftheEMP.Thatwasme.”

Theyoungpunk’sjawdropped.

“You?”saidAhmedindismay.

Mr.Beckettnodded.

“Yourstruly,”hesaid.“Andtheplasticisneededtocontinueourcampaign.Weareonthesamerighteouspath.”

The kid thought about it.You had to give him that.He sat nodding to himself.Hewasn’tthatdumb.Thenheshookhishead.

Mr.Beckettwasupandrollingoverthedeskfasterthanthekidcouldkickoutfrombehindit.Theywenttothefloorinaheap.Whentheystood,Mr.Becketthadthepunkbyhiscurlyhairandtheceramicknifehe’dhiddeninhisbelttothekid’sthroat.

“I’ll cut him!” Mr. Beckett exploded at the bodyguard, who had his gun out andtrained.“I’llopenhiscarotidarteryandwritemynameonthiswallinhissprayingblood!Getmemyexplosivesnow!”

“You’vemadeamistake,”theevillittleChechenhissed.“CutmythroatandSenturkwillblowyour fatheadoffandcutoffyourballs.Youdon’tknowwhoyou’re fuckingwith.”

“Thatmakes twoofus, Iguess,”Mr.Beckett saidashe finallysawwhathe’dbeenwaitingfor.

Itwasarefreshingsight,allright.

Mr.Joyce,havingpickedthelocksofthebuildingandapartmentdoors,stoodsilentlybehindSenturkwithasuppressedMossberg500inhishand.

Mr. Beckett dove to the floor behind the desk with Ahmed again as the shootingstarted.Thereportofthesuppressedshotgunwasalmostmusical,likeacymbalshakenin

ablanket.Mr.Beckettstuckhisheadbackupafterfourclangsandsmiled.

Senturk,thegiant,nowlookedlikeapileofbloodylaundrydumpedonthefloor.

“Whereisit?Youhaveithere.Weknowyouneverleavehere.Wherethefuckisit,youlittletwerp?”saidMr.Joyce,puttingthehotmetalbarreloftheshotguntoAhmed’sforehead.

“Screwyoumaniacs.Iamwillingtobemartyred!”saidAhmedashetriedlamelytopushoffMr.Beckett’sirongrip.

“Ithoughtyoumightsaysomethinglikethat,”saidMr.Joyceasheshruggedoffthebackpackhewaswearing.Hetooksomethingbulkyoutofitandclunkeditontothedesk.

“Letustestyourfaith,shallwe?”Mr.Joycesaidashepluggedinthehome-kitchenmeat-slicingmachinethey’djustboughtfromBedBath&Beyond.

AhmedpissedhimselfasMr.Beckettchockedhishand into themeatholder, inchesfromthespinning,shiningstainlesssteelcircularblade.

“It’sinthebedroomcloset!”saidAhmed,weeping.“Please!Intheupstairscloset—Iswear!”

“Whatapigsty,Ahmed.Didn’tyourmommyeverteachyouhowtomakeyourbed?”Mr. Joyce said after he came down from the bedroom with the duffel bag full ofexplosivesaminutelater.

“Please, I can help. I havemoney.Millions in cash.You know that. Iwant to helpyou!”AhmedsaidashedroppedoutofMr.Beckett’sgripontohisknees.

“Youwanttohelp?”Mr.Joycesaid.

“Yes,ofcourse.Please,”Ahmedsaid,stillweeping.

“Thendon’tmoveaninch,”Mr.Joycesaid,andheraisedtheshotgunone-handedandshotAhmedpoint-blankintheface.

CHAPTER50

UNDER NORMAL CIRCUMSTANCES, Peter Luger SteakHouse,anoldredbrickBrooklynlandmark,wouldhavebeenasightforsoreeyes.

Butnothingisevenclosetonormal,I thoughtasIpulledintotheparkinglotacrossfromitsfamousbrownawning.

EmilyandIweren’t theretochowdownonsomeUSDAPrimebut tomeetupwithChief Fabretti. They’d put themayor in the ground atQueens’sCalvaryCemetery thismorning,andalotofbrassandpolshadgatheredwiththemayor’sfamilyathisfavoriterestaurantaftertheservice.

Still too busy scouring through everything we’d found at al Gharsi’s to attend theservice,Emilyand Ihadwatched snatchesof itbroadcast liveonTV.Several thousandpeoplehadattended,includingthevicepresident.

Watching Mayor Doucette’s bright American flag–draped coffin being broughtthroughthecemeterygatesonahorse-drawncarriage,Icouldn’tstopshakingmyhead.

I also couldn’t stop thinking about the rousing speech he’d given right before he’dbeen shot and howhe’d bravely insisted on holding the speech outside to help the cityheal.Thoughthesunwasshining,itwasoneverydarkdayforthecity.

IspottedFabrettistraightoffinsidethedoorattheendofthethree-deepbartalkingtoawhite-shirtedfemalecopwhosplitaswesteppedup.

“Mike,Emily—thanksformeetinghereonshortnotice.Drink?”Fabrettisaidoverthecrowdhum.

Fabrettitippedhisglassatusceremoniouslyafterthebartenderbroughtusacoupleofice-coldStellas.

“First, I want to congratulate you guys on a job well done. I knew you wouldn’tdisappointme,Mike.”

EmilyandIlookedateachother.

“Ican’ttellyouwhatareliefit’sbeentotellthosepressjackalsthatwefinallyhavesomeoneincustody,”Fabretticontinuedashepattedmeontheshoulder.

“Whoa,boss,”Isaid,shakingmyhead.“Idon’tknowwhoyou’vebeentalkingto,butthisthingain’tover.”

“Whatdoyoumean?YoubaggedalGharsi lastnight, right?Hehasn’tescaped,hashe?”

“No.AlGharsi is involved.Heobviouslyknows somethingabout thePayPal thing,buthe’snotbehindit,”saidEmily.

“Thisguyisn’tit?”Fabrettisaid.“Herunsafrickin’terroristtrainingcamp!Thisguy’saffiliatedwithalQaeda.”

“All that is true,but the levelofsophisticationof theattacks impliesa lotofmoneyandmassive technicalexpertise.Adeep thinkerwithdeeppockets.Thatdoesn’texactlydescribealGharsi.”

“Emily’sright,”Isaid,“especiallyaboutthedeeppockets.I’dsayalGharsiwasonashoestringbudget,excepthiskidsdidn’tevenseemtohaveanyshoes.”

“Precisely.Thewholeplacestinksofpovertyanddesperation,”Emilysaid.“IthinkalGharsiwasused.LiketheNYUstudents.Hewasapatsy,acutout.”

“Whatabouthispocketlitter?Youknow,hiscomputersandcell-phonerecords.Whathaveyoufound?”saidFabrettihopefully.

“Nothingconclusiveandnothingnew,”Emilysaid.“We’renotbacktosquareone,butwe’reclosetoit.”

“Shit,”hesaid,staringaglumholethroughthebottlesatthebackofthebar.

Ofcoursehewasupset.Careershadbeensmashedtopiecesoverfarlessercasesthanthis.Butitwasn’tjustthat,IthoughtasIrememberedFabrettiwithhisdoginhishouse—ameeting that felt like it took place a billion years ago. He lived here, too. This waskillinghim.Killingallofus.Thecityhadn’tbeenthispsychologicallyscrewedupsince9/11.

“Weneedtofindthesepeople,”Fabrettisaid.

Inoddedas I staredover thecrowdedbar into the restaurant.TheTudorbeamsanddarkpaneling.Thebusywaitersintheirold-fashionedwhiteshirtsandapronsandblackbowties.Lookingatthem,Ithoughtofallthemillionsofbusypeopleinthecitytryingtokeepthewheelson,tryingtodoright,tosupportandprotecttheirfamilies.

Butnothingwassafe.Notanymore.

PARTTHREE

ALLWORKANDNOPLAY

CHAPTER51

THE NEXT DAWN’S early light found Emily and me on NineteenthAvenueinEastElmhurst,Queens.

Neartheon-rampofthebridgetotheRikersIslandjail,wehadtheunmarkedtuckedbehindanabandonedtrucktrailer.Toourrightwasanoldchain-linkfencewithemptyginbottlesandscragglytreesbehindit.Toourleftwasafour-square-blockindustrialzoneofmanufacturingfirmsandwarehouses.

IglancedatmyphoneasthemetalhowlofanunseenairlinerfromnearbyLaGuardiaAirportrippedthroughthegrayskyoverhead.

“Whattimeyougot?”Isaid.

“Anotherfiveminutes,”Emilysaid,muchmorecalmlythanIfelt.

ItuckedmyphonebackintoapouchofmyheavyKevlarvestandblottedsweatoffmyfacewithaDunkin’Donutsnapkin.

I’msweating,allright,IthoughtasIblinkedattheblackbarreloftheautomaticM4rifleproppeduprightonthedashbesidemyknee.

Sweatingbullets.

Wewereabouttohitoneoftheindustrialbuildingsonoursecondantiterroristraidinforty-eighthours.Thisnewest leadhadcome in lastnightaroundmidnight. Ithadbeensiftedoutof theelectronics thatwehadcollected fromalGharsi’sdumpupstate. Ithadbeenpulled fromhis kids’Xbox, of all things.TheWi-Fi–linkedgamingnetworks thatallowedplayers to communicatewith eachotherwerebeingusedbyalGharsi tomakecontactwiththegroupofQueens-basedterroriststowhomwewereabouttopaywhatwehopedwasanunexpectedmorningvisit.

ThisgroupofnefariousanddangerousAmerican-hatingloserswasanewoneforme.TheywereNigerians,anditwasspeculatedthattheyweremembersofanoffshootofalQaedabasedinNigeriacalledBokoHaram.Ahastysurveillanceoperationonthelocalehad spotted at least six to eightNigerianmenworking, and apparently living, inside amassivecarpet-andrug-importingwarehouse.

TwooftheNigerianshadbeenidentifiedfromphotographsasbeingonstudentvisas.Whathadreallysetoffalarmbellswerethecell-phonerecordsofoneofthetwostudents,whohad apparently been in contactwith amanoverseas namedAbubarKwaja.Kwajawas a wanted Nigerian-based wealthy arms dealer who supplied Boko Haram withweapons.

Thatahalfdozenlikelyheavilyarmedjihadistjackwadswereinsuchcloseproximity

toLaGuardiaAirportwasblood-chilling.That’swhythebrasshadlet theleashoffonatacticalraidimmediately.Weneededtogoonthisandgoonthisnow.

Althoughthenewleadwasagodsendaftersuchalackofprogress,itwasactuallyaroughsetupintermsoftakedown.Ourtarget,twoblocksaway,wasanoldone-storybrickindustrialbuildingthatcoveredthewholeblockfrom47thto46thStreets.Thefortresslikebuilding had closed steel shutters over both its doorway and driveway and rustedwiremeshoveritswindows.Itwasalsosomewhatisolated,sandwichedbetweentwostorageyards,whichputadamperonanykindofflankstealthapproach.

Thereweremorethanahundredcopsandagentsabouttoswoopin,butIstillhadabad feeling. You wanted to model and game a raid for a bit before going into such aheavily fortified target;havebackupplans forbackupplans;beaspreparedaspossible.Butwedidn’thavetimeforallthat.Gettingintherewasnotgoingtobequickoreasybyanystretch.

“If there’s anything good to say about things,” Imumbled to Emily, “at least therearen’talotofpeoplearound.”

“Besidesme.”EmilynoddedwithhereyesclosedandherhandsclaspedasshesaidtheLord’sPrayerunderherbreath.

Idecidedtojoinherwhenherphonesuddenlypingedwithatext.

“Hitit,Mike,”shesaid.“It’sagreenlight.Allunitsconverge.”

She didn’t have to tellme twice. I pinned it, peeling out behind a half dozen otherunitswaitingupanddownthedesolateblock.

Two BearCat armored personnel carriers filled with FBI hostage rescue agents andNYPDESUcopswerealreadyontargetbythetimeImadethecornerof46th.Overtheconvoyofcopcars,Iwatchedthetwoformidableblackcommandotrucksswerveintothebrick building’s driveway, the chug of their big turbo-diesel engines roaring. Twojarheaded commandos in olive-drabKevlar poppedout of the left sidedoor of the leadtruckandquicklyattachedthecableofthetruck’swinchtothegateddoorway.Amomentlater,therewasahigh-pitchedwhinefollowedbyanenormousrippingsound.

“Now, that’swhat I call ano-knockwarrant,” I cheeredas theentirehousingof thetargetbuilding’srollinggatewastornfromthefacade.

ButI’dspokentoosoon.Waytoosoon.

Thewreckedgatehadjustclatteredontothedrivewaywhentheheavydrumrollbangofautomaticgunfireeruptedfromthenowgapingholeinthebuilding.Theagentsonthesidewalk dove behind cars and the balaclava-clad agent in the BearCat’s rotating roofturret turtled down as a swarm of bullets and tracers exited the building and raked thetruck’sthickmetalplate.

Thenamomentlater,Iwatchedinjaw-droppedaweasaseriesofwhooshing,smokingorangeflaresstreakedoutfromtheblack,cavelikegapinthebuilding.SmokingcontrailsaccompaniedthelightstreaksastheyskimmedinchesfromthesidesofthenowrapidlyreversingBearCats.Then a string of thunderous explosions ripped chunks off the brickwarehouseacrossthestreetfromthetarget.

Glassandbricks rainedoncopcarsasahugecloudofpaledustbillowed, instantlyobscuringanddarkeningtheentirenarrowstreet.

“Shit! Back it up! Back it up!We have rockets! RPGs! RPGs!” screamed a voicethroughthecracklingradio.

My mind wobbled as the pale fog billowed over the windshield of my unmarked,leavingbehindapink-sugardustingofpulverizedbrickonthehood.

Thiscan’tbehappening,Ithought.It’simpossible.AmIdreaming?AmIstillhomeinbed?

ButIwasn’thomeinbed.NomatterhowmuchIwantedthattobetrue.

WarhadcometoQueens.

CHAPTER52

ISNAPPEDOUTofitasabullethittheasphaltjusttotherightofthecar.Ibailedleft,keepinglow,asIputaparkedcarbetweenmeandthegunfirerippingoutoftherugwarehouse.Whentherewasapauseintheshooting,Iboltedoutfrombehindtheparkedcarandacrossthesidewalk,pressingmyselfagainstthebuilding’sbrick.

I’d justmade it when our side recovered and began returning fire. I’d never heardanythinglikeourreturnfirebeforeinmylife.Itseemedlikeasinglesound—oneragged,deafening,smashingdeathwallofgunfireasfiftyorsixtyagentsandcopswentfullautoatthebuildingatthesametime.

Iwashunkereddownagainstthebrick,thinkingthatmaybeIshouldheadbacktomycarbeforeIwashitwithfriendlyfire,whensomeoneblewpastmeinthebrick-dustfog.Thetall,darkfigureflashedpastmesofastthatIwasjustabletorecognizethatinsteadofaraidjackethewaswearingalight-brownsweatsuitwiththehoodiepulledup.

AndcarryingasmallAK-47.

Hadhecomeoutofawindow?Hadn’tanyoneelseseenhim?Howhadheavoidedgettingshotinthebarrage?IwonderedasIgapedathisfleeingback.

Asifitmattered.Ileapedupandboltedafterthefigure.

ItwasonlyasthespeedingsuspectturnedthenearcornerthatmyadrenalinekickeddownenoughformetorealizethatI’dleftmyradioandlonggunbackinthecar.Notimetogobacknow,IthoughtasIturnedthecorner,pumpingmydrawnGlockhandgunlikeitwasarelaybaton.

Iknewpertheraidplanthatthesurroundingblocksweresupposedtobeinlockdown,patrolledbythelocalprecinct,butsomeonemusthavelostthescript,becausetherunningNigerianandIwereallbyourlonesomes.

Whenthelean,sprintingNigerianshiftedoutintothestreet,Icouldseehewasalmostthree-quartersofablockawayandgettingmoredistantbythemoment.Itriedvaliantlytokeepup,butbeingpastfortyandnon-KenyanandwearingKevlar,Ihadmyworkcutoutforme.

IcursedwhenIgottothecornerofthenextblockandsawthattheindustrialareahadbecomearesidentialone.Assmallhousesblurredpast,Ipicturedbusesandkidsgoingtoschool.

“Get down!Staywhere you are!” I screamed at awoman coming out of her housewithababyinastroller.Howcouldthisthinghavegonewrongsoquickly?

I’d just made the next corner when I saw the Nigerian start firing at a tow truck

passingthroughtheintersection.Thedriverdidn’thaveachanceashissidewindowblewin.ThetruckjumpedthecurbandsmashedintothesideofaC-Townsupermarket.

TheNigerianwasn’ttryingtogetaway,Irealizedasheranintothesupermarket.Hewasonasuicidemission,outtokillasmanypeopleaspossible.

I’d justmade thecornerpast thehonkingcrashed towtruckwhenautomaticgunfireboomedfrominsidethesupermarketandtheglassonthemarket’sslidingdoorsshatteredinto a million pieces. I dove headfirst beside the truck as screams came from inside,followedbymoregunfire.

Waitorgo?Ithought.ThenIclimbedbackuponmyfeet,keepinglowasIcrunchedoverthebrokenglassintothestore.IswungmyGlockovertheopenproducesectionontheleft.Nothing.Noone.Ipeekedintothefirstaisle.Againnothing—justcerealboxes.

IbrokeintoanotherrunwhenIheardscreamsandthengunfireatthebackofthestore,inthefarright-handcorner.WhenIgotthere,IsawtheNigerianrakinggunfireoverthebutcherandfishcounters.

I firedmyGlock—emptied it at the figure so fast I thoughtmaybe I’d forgotten tofullyloadthefifteen-roundmagazine.IreloadedandtraineditontheNigerianasIwalkedover.

Hewasdownonhisbackwheezingashelayintherefrigeratedmeatcase.Thehoodiehadcomedownnow,andIcouldseeforthefirsttimethatitwasawoman.

Icouldn’tbelieveit.

Atall,regalblackwoman.Smooth,darkskinshiningwithsweatandbloodfromthebulletwoundinherjaw.Shewasstillalive.Shelookedatme,dazed.ThensheseemedtonoticethatthesmallAK-47wasstillinherlap.

“Don’tdoit!”Isaid.“Don’t!”

Butshewouldn’tlisten.

Shewentforthegun,andIshothertwicemoreastheguninherhandfellovertherimofthemeatcaseandclatteredtothewornlinoleum.

“Mike!Mike!”saidEmilyatmybackwhenIkneltinfrontofthewomanaminuteorsolater.“Mike,areyouokay?Areyouhit?”

“No,”Isaid.“Whathappenedoutthere?Didwegetthem?”

“We got them, all right.Our intelwas FUBAR.Therewere twenty of them,Mike.Theyallfoughttothedeath.They’realldead.”

“Didweloseanyone?”

“No,thankGod.Anagentwasshotinthecalf,buthe’sgoingtobefine.Areyousureyou’reokay?”

I nodded, sweat pouring offmy chin and cheeks. I shookmy head at theNigerianwoman’sbrainsontheglassofthemeatcase,herbloodontheplastic-wrappedpackagesofsausagesanddrumsticks.

Istoodtheresearchingherface,herexpression,hereyesforsomething—anything—thatmightexplainanyofthis.

Butevenafteranotherminute,Ididn’tseeadamnthing.

CHAPTER53

APPREHENSIVE,ANGRY,AND still very much stunned numb, Ipeeledmyself away from the incredible Queens crime scene at a little past one in theafternoon.I lookedoutat therubbleandthepockmarked,bullet-scarredbrickwallsasIputtheunmarkedintodrive.

“WelcometoBeirut,Queens,”IsaidtomyselfasIpeeledoutaroundajust-arrivingnewsvan.

Idecidedtoheadhome.

FirstIshowered, thenI threwmyclothesintothewash,sincetheyweremakingtheapartmentsmell likea firingrange.As themachinefilledwithwater, IpouredmyselfastiffmeasureofWildTurkeyandcrackedopenabottleofBudandsatonthecouchintheblessedlysilentapartment.

Probablynotwhatfouroutoffivedoctorswouldrecommendatquartertotwointheafternoon,butitactuallydidthetrick.Myhandsstoppedshaking,andIwasmomentarilyabletogettheimageofthedeadNigerianwoman’sbrainsoutofmymind.

Iwaswell intomy next round of Irish therapywhen the phone rang. It was ChiefFabretti.Isippedbourbonandlistenedidlyashechewedmyassabouttheraid.Iwasn’tcompletelysober,butsomewhereinthereIcaughttheimplicationthathethoughtImighthavebeenresponsibleforallthedeaths.

Idecidedtohanguponhimandshutoffmyphone.

“There.Muchbetter,”IsaidasIpouredanotherdrink.

IwasbusymakingdinnerwhenSeamuscameinaroundtwothirty.Cornedbeefwasonthemenutonight.BeinganIrishmanfromNewYork,IofcoursedidittheJewishway,deep-sixingthecabbageandreplacingitwithryebread—heavyonthecarawayseeds—andmustardtomakehugeCarnegieDeli–stylesandwiches.

Iwasn’treallyinthemoodforeating,butitwasChrissy’sfavoritedinner.AfterwhatI’dseentoday,Iwantedtomakemybabyhappyforsomestrangereason.

“Cornedbeef?IsitSaintPaddy’sDayagain?”Seamussaidwhenhepeekedintothepot.

“’Tis,”IansweredasIpouredameasureofWildTurkeyintoatumblerforhim.“Andluckyyou:you’rejustintimefortheparade.”

Hetookasipandsmiledandrolledhiseyes.Helookedgood.Stillkicking,whichwasgood,becauseIlovedtheoldman.

“Yecanstopwiththeeagle-eyetreatment,yaknow.”

“Whatdoyoumean?”Isaid.

“IseeyouwatchingmelikeI’mgoingtofalloveranddie.Thatlittleincidentwasaone-off.I’mfine.”

“Iwasn’tworriedaboutyou,Father,somuchastheglassyou’reholding,”IsaidasIpattedhimonhiswhite-hairedhead.“ThatWaterfordcrystalisafamilyheirloom.”

“Littleearlyforthebartobeopen,eh?”Seamussaid.“WasitthatthinginQueens?”

Boy,wastheoldcodgerstillontheball.

He huggedme then.Wrappedme in his frail arms like Iwas five years old again,thoughIwastwicehissize.Ashedidit,Icouldseethewomanlyingthereinhermeat-casecoffin.Itriednottocryaboutit,butIfailed.

“Godblessyou,Mike.Itwasn’tyourfault,”Seamussaid.

“Godblessusall,”Iwhisperedthroughmyfallingtears.

CHAPTER54

ATFOURMINUTES past 3:00 a.m., the image appeared on the tablet’stouchscreenwiththelightpressofafinger.

Itwasalivevideofeed,agrainypictureofadimlylitdowntownalley.Withaflickofthetouch-screencontrols,thecameramovedforward,zoominginonthedarkfaceofoneof the alley’s shabby apartment buildings. Then, with another flick, the image teeteredsuddenlyasapartmentbuildingwindowsbegantoscrollvertically,asifthecamerawereattachedtoacraneandsomeonewereraisingtheboom.

Thescreenshowedawindowwithayellowedlacecurtain,then,ontheflooraboveit,awindowcoveredbysomeoldbrokenblinds.Thenextfloor’swindowwasshadelessandshowedabedroominwhicha leanAsianwomanwas in theprocessofunbuttoningherblouseinalitbathroomdoorway.

Thecamerawentuptothenextdarkwindowforamomentbeforeitreverseditselftothedisrobingwoman.

“Mr.Beckett,please,”Mr.Joycewhisperedharshly.“Wehaveaschedule,youknow.Ifyoucan’tresistdistractions,thenpromptlyhandoverthecontrols.”

“Fine,”saidMr.Beckett,smilingsheepishlyasthecamera-equippeddronereturnedtoitsascent.

TheywerewearingEMTuniforms now andwere standing in the back of an idlingambulanceparkedina littlealleyoffWorthStreet intheheartofdowntownManhattan.Theyneeded tobe in theareaovernight, and,after some research, they realized thatnovehiclewaslesssuspiciousormoreubiquitousthananambulancewaitingforacall.

Mr. Joyce nervously wrung his hands as Mr. Beckett piloted the large quadcopterdrone over twoblocks of buildings and lights.Down at the far end of the alley, acrossWorth, was some kind of underground dance club. It must have been ’70s night orsomething,becausetherewasaconstantmuffledthrumofdiscomusic.

Hemassaged his temples as the drone approached the imposing, almost industrial-lookingsquareofficebuilding thatwas their target.All theywouldneedwassomefoolspillingoutoftheclubtotakeapissandseethedrone.

Heknewtheirattackplanwasunprecedentedandthereforealmostimpossiblefortheenemytoguardagainst.He’dthoughtofithimselfaftermuchdeliberation—hadgamedittwentytimes,lookingforeverypossibleglitch.Heknewinhiswell-informedgutthatitwouldwork.Butstill.Anydamnthingcouldhappenin thiscity.Therewasknowingit,andthentherewasactuallydoingit.

With the drone finally alongside the target,Mr. Beckett swung it right until it wasaround three feet away from thebuilding’snortheast corner, thebest route for avoidingdetectionfromthewindows.Itcontinuedtoascend.Fivemorefloorsscrolledpast, thenten,andthenafewmore,andtheywerefinallythere.Theywerefinallyupontheroof!

“Thereitis,”saidMr.Joyce,pointingatthetopleftcornerofthescreen.

“Allover it,”saidMr.Beckettashepiloted thedroneover to the teal-coloredmetalboxthathousedtheair-conditioningunit.

Hepressedabutton,andtheimageonthescreenshiftedtothecameraatthebottomofthedrone,besidethepowerscrewdriverthey’dinstalled.

Mr.JoyceheldhisbreathasMr.Becketttookthedronedownslowlytowardtheedgeof thegrate covering theACunit’s fans.Hemaneuvered it carefully,hoveringover thefirstofthePhillips-headscrewsholdingthegrateinplace.Closerandcloser,andthen…yes!Hewasthere.Thetipofthedrone’smagneticscrewdriverwassnuginthegrooveofthefirstscrew.

“TheEaglehaslanded,”Mr.Beckettsaidhappilyashehitanotherbutton.

Fortyminutesofmeticulousmaneuveringlater,sevenoftheeightscrewswereoff,andMr.Beckettengagedthedrone’ssmallgrabber,hookeditonthegrate,andbeganshiftingthegratelittlebylittle.Fiveminutesaftertuggingitmillimetersatatime,hedisengagedthegrabberandhoveredthedroneuptotakealook.

Mr.Joycesmiledthroughthestreaksofsweatdrippingoffhisface.

AboutathirdoftheACunit’sintakeopeninghadbeenexposed.

Theywerein.Thedoorwasopen.TheynowhadaccesstotheentireiconicbuildingthroughtheHVACducts.Everyfloorandeveryroom!

Mr.Joyce lookedawayfromthescreenat theotherfour largequadcopterdronesonthefloorofthefakeambulance.Attachedtoeachoneofthemwerethefourcornersofadarkplastictarp.Insidethebulgingtarpwerehundredsandhundredsofcubelikemobileminibots.

Eachoneof thebotshadbeenfilled tocapacitywithseveralouncesof thepreciousplasticexplosives,alongwitharadio-controlleddetonator.Oncethebotswerepouredintothe AC ducts, they would distribute and maneuver the eighty pounds of explosives toappropriateareasofthebuilding’smostvulnerablestrutsandtrusses.

Then,tomorrowmorning,justastheenemysatdownattheircubicleswiththeirno-whipnonfatcappuccinos,thetwomenweregoingtopressabuttonandblowitup.Theywere going to blow up the building with everyone in it in the most spectacular waypossible.

Mr. Joyce opened the rear doors of the ambulance, then powered up the four bigdronesusinganothertablet.HeandMr.Becketttookastepbackastheswarmofdronesbeganspinningtheirquietlywhirringblades.It tookanother thirtyseconds, thenslowly,withincrediblecoordinationandprecision,theybeganliftingthepayloadoutofthebackoftheambulanceandupwardintotheair.

Hissweatcoolingintherotorwash,Mr.Joycegiggledasherealizedthatheactuallyrecognizedoneofthediscosongsthatwasplayingfromtheotherendofthealley.

“Ilovethenightlife,”hesang,boppinghishead.

ThenheandMr.Beckettwerebothlaughingasthedronesascendedthroughthedarkalleytowardthenightsky.

CHAPTER55

UPANDAT’EMat7:00a.m.,Isawfrommye-mailthatanothermassiveVIPemergencymeetinghadbeencalled,thistimeatOnePolicePlaza.

ThoughIhadsnaggedaninvite,Ihadn’tbeenaskedtospeakatthemeetingforsomestrangereason.Actually, Iknewthereasonall toowell.Myboss,Miriam,hadcalledatdawnand toldme that I’d been takenoff as lead in the case andwouldnowbe takingordersfromandreportingtoLieutenantBryceMiller.

I arrived early enough to score a precious visitor parking spot atOne Police Plaza,which was no small feat, considering howmany people worked in the neighborhood’scourthousesandgovernmentbuildings.On thecrowdedeighth floorof thebrownbrickmonolith, I spotted Chief Fabretti in the hallway. Instead of giving me his usual hail-fellow-well-metroutine,heblewpastmewithhisiPhonegluedtohisearandanevillookgluedtohisface,likeIwasemptyair.

Iactuallydidn’treallycareorreallyevenblamehim.Thesituationandthestressleveleveryonewas under had reached the impossible zone. I knewwe all wanted the samething—forthekillingtostopandforthishorrortobeover.

I had a little time before themeeting, so I hit the break room,where Imanaged toscorethelastthreesurvivorsinaboxofcinnamonMunchkins.Therewasnomorecoffee,soIhadtosettleforgreenteathatImadesemitolerableonceIpouredinalotofhalf-and-halfandsugar.

ItookmygrubovertoacornerwindowoverlookingtheFoleySquarecourthousestothenorthwestandgaveEmilyacall.

“Hey,Agent.Thereyouare,”Isaidwhensheanswered.“Itriedtocallyouearlier,butyoumusthavebeenintheshowerorsomething.I’mdownhereatOnePPatthelatestbigemergencymeeting.Areyouheadingoverorwhat?”

“Notthistime,”Emilysaid.“Likedogsandpeoplewithoutshirts,fedsaren’tallowed,apparently. The press is asking questions about what they’re calling ‘shortsighted andbrutal’ tactics at the Queens raid yesterday, and now everybody involved is workingovertimetothrowanyonetheycangrabunderthebus.Somuchforourhappytaskforce.Lookslikethefedsandthedepartmentaresopissedatoneanotherthismorningthey’renolongertalking.”

Ilaughedgrimly.

“Great. Dissension and infighting are just what we need while the city is beingdismantledbrickbybrick.Sowhatareyoudoing?”

“I’matourVIPemergencymeeting,of course. Just a coupleofblocks fromyouatTwenty-SixFed.”

“So close and yet so far,” I said, looking at the federal building two blocks away,above the courthouses. “Hey, after our respective ass-covering sessions, how aboutChineseforlunch?WoHop.Mytreat.”

“WoHop?”Emilysaid.“HowcouldIturnthatdown?”

CHAPTER56

So…how’syourmorninggoing?

GaryFriedmansmiledashedroppedhismopinthecornerofthestairwelllanding.Hesatdown,light-headed,ashelookedatthetextthathadjustcomeinonhisphonefromGina.

Hecouldn’tstopsmiling.Orreadingthetext.

“Thankyou,Lord,”hesaid,kissinghisGalaxy.

He reallywasn’tone for screwingoff andgetting lost inhisphone like a lotof theother guys on themaintenance crew.Especially after his rat bastard of a boss, Freddie,busted him playing Angry Birds two weeks back and chewed him out in front ofeverybody.Justbecause theyworked ina lawenforcementbuilding,Freddie thoughthewasinlawenforcement,thestupidjackwad.

Butafterlastnight,afterthebestnightofhislife,Garydidn’tcare,hethoughtasherereadGina’s text. Thingswere changing in the life ofGary Irving Friedman—for thebetter,finally.

LikealotofhisclassmatesatBrandeis,he’dmovedtoBrooklynfromBostonstraightaftergraduation.Withhiscinematographydegreeandhisaward-winningshortfilmunderhisbelt,he’d thought it’dbe justamatterofhookingupwithotheryoungartists in theborough’svibrantartsscene,thenitwouldbeHollywood,hereIcome.

Buthesoonwokeupandsmelledthefairtradecoffee,becausepracticallyeverybodyheknewinWilliamsburghadacinematographydegreeandashort-filmawardorwasinabandorhadawritingMFA.Whatnoneof themhadwereconnections.Or jobs in theirrespectivewinner-take-allfields.

Six months in, when his summer job money ran out and the janitor job came upthroughafriendofafriend,hewasdumbfounded.Afuckingjanitor?Itwasagovernmentjob,with job security and benefits and all that, and it actually paid prettywell, but hisfatherwasaneyedoctor,fortheloveofPete,andhewasgoingtobescrubbingurinals?!

Butintheend,hetookit.Swallowedhispride.BecauseitwaseitherstartmoppingorgohometoDr.Friedman’smustybeigebasementinBrockton.He’ddecidedtostickitoutandmopitup.

And thewhole time he’d been trying tomeet girls, but it had been one depressingstrikeoutafteranother.Untillastnight.Therehewas,wallowinginthemiseryofhisXboxas usual, when the doorbell rang and the black-haired Katy Perry look-alike fromdownstairswasstandingthere,drunk.She’dbrokenherkeyinherdoor,andcouldhehelp

her?Why,yes,asamatteroffacthecould!Fiveminuteslater,hewasknight-in-shining-armoringitdownthefireescapeintoherapartmentwindow.

Inthanks,shepouredhimaGreyGoose,andtheystartedtalking,andtherestofthenightwasablurofvodkashotsandtellingherhislifestoryandshowingherhisshortandhergoinggagaoveritandthentheyweremakingoutonherbed.Theydidn’tgoallthewaybutdamnclose.Damn,damnclose.

Andnowshewastextinghim!

Gary stared at the screen again, still not completely convinced it wasn’t a mirage.Therewasprobablysomeadviceaboutwhattodonext,playhardtogetorsomething,buthedidn’tgiveashit.Shewashotandshelikedhim.Toldhimhewastalentedandfunny,anditwaslikehisBrooklyndreamwasfinallycomingtrueand—

That’swhenGaryheardit.Itwasaweirdsound.Itseemedtobecomingfromabovehim,ontheceilingofthestairwell.Itwasalittlewhirringsoundfollowedbyacoupleofmetallicclicks.

He looked up as he heard it again. It seemed like it was coming from inside therectangularACductabovehim.Thenthereweremoreofthesounds.Alotmore.“Whatthehell?”Garysaid,standing.ItsoundedlikesomeonehaddumpedaboxofChicletsintothealuminumduct,onlyweirder.

“Freddie?”Garysaid,keyinghisradio.

“Whatnow?”saidhisperpetuallysurlybastardofaboss,whowasoutsidehosingthesidewalk.

“Idon’tknow.There’ssomethingweirduphere.I’monthesixthfloorinstairwellC.”

“Weirdhow?”

“Idon’tknow,butyoushouldcomeup.”

“Thisbetterbegood,”Freddiereplied.

CHAPTER57

THEAMBULANCEWASonParkRowbesideacoffeecartwhenthesuncameup.They’dhadtomovetwiceduringthenighttoavoidsuspicion.Itdidn’tmatterwhere they were as long as they were within the two thousand feet of the bots’ radioreceiver.

“Hey,whatthehellisthat?”saidMr.Beckettaroundacrumblingappleturnoverashesuddenlysawsomethingonthescreen.

Thetabletscreenwasdividedintoagridofhundredsoflittleboxesnow,aviewfromthecameraoneachindividualbot.Mr.Beckettdidn’tknowhowMr.Joycewaskeepingtrackofthemall.Itlookedlikealotofgobbledygooktohim,butthenagain,hewasn’tamathematicalgeniuswithanIQof170,likeMr.Joyce.

“Which?Where?What?”saidMr.Joyce,whowasasfrazzledasMr.Becketthadeverseen him. The guy had been a ball of sweat and nerves all night as he clicked at thekeyboard, moving all the bots around. It was a miracle he didn’t have carpal tunnelsyndrome.

“It’saface,Ithink.Inthisone.Canyoumakeitlarger?”Mr.Beckettsaid.

Mr.Joycehitabuttonand,loandbehold,aconfused-lookingHispanicguywearingamaintenanceuniformappearedonthescreen,asifhe’djustsnappedapuzzledselfie.

“Maintenance!”Mr.Beckettcried.“Theymusthaveheardthebotsintheduct.Shit!Detonatenow!It’souronlychance!”

“No,”Mr.Joycesaid,clickingthemanoffthescreenandgoingbacktohistyping.

“Whatareyoutalkingabout?”

“Ineedmoretime,”hesaidcalmly.“It’snotreadyyet.”

“Time just ran out,” Mr. Beckett cried as he shook Mr. Joyce’s shoulder. “We’rediscovered.Weneedtogowithwhatwegotnow!”

“No,” said Mr. Joyce more firmly. He flipped a page in the pile of the building’sschematicsontheworkbenchbesidethetabletandbegantypingevenfaster.

“Ineed tenminutes,”hesaid.“We’re thatclose.Mycalculationsdonot lie.Wecanstillgetitdone.Thinkaboutit.Theydon’tknowwhatthebotsevenare.Itwilltaketimeforthemtocallthebombsquadandpieceittogetherandsoundthealarm.BythenI’llbeready.Ipromise.”

“Well,hurryupalready,wouldyouplease?”Mr.Beckettsaid,goingtothealuminumblindsontheambulancewindowthatfacedthetarget.

CHAPTER58

IIMMEDIATELYSPOTTED thecommissionerandtheactingmayor,PriscillaAtkinson,inattendancewhenIenteredthehuge,crowdedconferenceroom.AsIglanced up to the nosebleed section of the amphitheater seating, I was happy to seeBrooklynKaleandArturoandDoyleandclimbedupandsatdownnexttothem.

Downon the floor in thecenterof the room, Icouldseemynewfair-haired leader,LieutenantBryceMiller,goingoverhisnotes.IwasalmostgladI’dbeentakenoffascaselead.ItwashightimetoallowanotherChristiantobefedtothelions.

Someonedimmed the lighting, and a satellite imageof theQueenswarehouse fromyesterday’sraidappeared.Brycehadjuststeppedtothepodiumandwasstilladjustingthemicrophonewhentheconferenceroomdoorsburstopenandtwouniformedcopsrushedin.

Oneof themmadeabeelinefor thecommissionerandwhisperedinhisear. Isatupstraight when the puzzled, annoyed look on the commissioner’s face became one ofintenseconcern.

“Ms. Mayor, everyone, excuse me,” the commissioner said, standing as the lightscamebackon.

BrooklynandArturoandDoyleandIalllookedateachotherwiththesamewide-eyedexpression.

“Goodgrief.Whatthehellnow?”Brooklynsaid.

“Somethinghascomeup,”thecommissionersaid.“I’llexplaininaminute,butrightnow I’mgoing toneedeveryone toplease standandcalmlyhead for the stairwells andproceedoutside.”

Heclearedhisthroataseveryonestartedfreakingout.

“Quiet,now,everybody,okay?Headfortheexitimmediately.Wehaveaproblem.Aredterroristalerthasbeenissued.Weneedtoevacuatethebuilding.”

CHAPTER59

“ITOLDYOU,youstupidbastard,”Mr.Beckettsaidfromthewindow,wherehe looked at the building through binoculars. “They’re coming out now! They’reevacuating!Blowitnow!”

“Onemoreminute,”saidMr.Joyce.

“No! Now!” Mr. Beckett cried. He watched as a truck pulled up in front of thebuildingandaguyleapedoutwithablackLabintow.

“It’sthebombsquad!Doitnow!”

“Onesecond,”saidMr.Joyce,clickingawayatthekeyboardlikeajazzpianosoloist.“Justacouplemoreadjustments.”

Mr.Becketttoreaschematicinhalfandkickedthecooler.

“You’veadjusteditenough!It’snowornever!”

Mr.Joyceignoredhim,eyesonthescreen,clickingbuttonslikemad.

Mr.Beckettlookedthroughthebinocsagain,thenstartedbanginghisheadagainsttheambulance’smetalwall.

“Blowit,”hewhimpered.“Blowit.”

“HowmanytimesdoIhavetotellyou?”Mr.Joycesaid.“It’sallabouttheplacement,otherwiseit’lldocosmeticdamageatbest.”

“Idon’tgiveashit!Blowthedamnthingnow!”

“Fine,”saidMr.Joyce.“Youwin.Justsoyouknow,it’snotready.”

“Blowit!”

“First say that it’syourcall,” saidMr. Joyce.“Idon’twantyoublaming thisonmelater.”

“It’smycall!It’smycall!”Mr.Beckettcried.

Mr.Joycesetoffthedetonatorsontheeightypoundsofplasticexplosiveswithasoftpressofhisthumb.

CHAPTER60

WEWEREINthestairwell,nervous,feelingaspowerlessasschoolchildrenina teacher-led fire drill. It wasn’t the weird sound we suddenly heard that was thatconcerning.Itwasthehardshudderthatamomentlatercameupthroughthegroundandwrenchedthroughthestairsandwallsintothemarrowofourbones.

Everyonestoppeddeadonthestairswithacollectivegaspastheconcretedrunkenlyswayedbackandforthunderourfeet.Ilookedupimmediatelyattheceiling,alongwitheveryoneelse,suddenlyfeelingthehardbeatingofmyheartasIwonderedifitwasabouttodropdownontopofus.

“Oh,myGod,Mike!Look!”saidBrooklyn,elbowingmeintheneckasshepointedupatthestairwellwindow.

Ilooked.

Behind the courthouses, up on Broadway, about two long blocks away, I saw 26Federal Plaza, the huge, monolithic FBI headquarters building. Something was wrong.Smokewasrisingintheairaboveit.Thesmokeseemedtobecomingfrommanyofitsseeminglyblown-openwindows.

Emily!

Iwatchedhelplesslyasmoreofitswindowsblewoutsimultaneously,almostinaleft-to-rightdiagonalline,flashingwithablindingwhitelight.

Ilookedsilentlyatwhathappenednext.

The top floors of 26 Fed seemed to tremble andwaft back and forth. Therewas athunderclapcrackofconcreteandahorridcreakandgroanofshearingsteel.Thenthetopstoriesofthebuildingfreedthemselvesfromtheirblownmooringsandslowlyslidawayintoemptyair.

“Dear holyGod,” I said. The building around us rocked again asmost of 26 Fed’smillion-poundavalancheofglassandstonecrasheddownontothestreetsbelow.

When I peeledmy eyes away from themushrooming dust cloud out thewindow, Icouldhearsomebodycrying.Itwasthemayor,twostepsaboveme.Shewasbawlinghereyesout.

“They’redead,”shekeptsayingasshecrumpledtothefloor.“They’redead.They’realldead.”

Everycopthereturnedandlookedateachotheras thedustplumeroseintothesky.DoyleandArturoandBrooklynandChiefFabretti.Theshockwasfine.Whatwasn’tso

finewasthefear.Thepaleandshiveringcrazedlooksoffear.

“Déjàvuallover again,” saidDoyle, lickinghis lips.Hehadhisgun inhishand. Igentlyhelpedhimputitaway.

“Thisiscrazy.Thisiscrazy.Thisiscrazy,”saidArturohysterically.

IputmyarmonArturo’sshoulder.Iopenedmymouth,butIwasspeechless.Hewasinshock,thesameasme.Hewasalsoright.

ThenIwasrunningdownthestairstwobytwo,speed-dialingEmilyasIbegantopraythatshemiraculouslymightstillbealive.

CHAPTER61

IHITTHE street and ran as fast as I could up narrow Saint Andrew’s Plazatowardthedestruction.

Icouldn’ttearmyeyesawayfromtheskyabovethebuildings.Amistycloudofgraydustwasaboveit.Itkeptbillowingwiderandwider.Withintheexpandinggraycloudwasaconfetti-like,glitteringmassofdebristhatIrealizedafteramomentwaspaper.

IkepttryingtocallEmilyasIran,butherphonekeptkickingintovoicemail.

Maybe she’s just on the phone, I thoughtwith desperate hope.Or her phone needscharging.Orthecellsitesaredown.

AsInearedFoleySquare,theIrishprayertoSaintMichael,thepatronsaintofcops,which Seamus hadmademememorize when I graduated from the academy, suddenlypoppedintomyhead.

Blessed Michael, archangel, defend us in this hour of conflict. Be our safeguardagainstthewickednessand…something,something…thrustSatandowntohellandwithhimthoseotherwickedspiritswhowanderthroughtheworldfortheruinofsouls.

“AndpleaseletEmilybeokay,God,”Iwhispered.“Letmehavethisone.Youhavetoletmehavejustthisone,please.Amen.”

Fire-truckhornsblattedandblastedinthedistanceasIfinallysprintedpasttherowofCorinthiancolumnsfrontingtheThurgoodMarshallcourthouseintoFoleySquare.Iwasgoingataprettygoodclip,butwhenIglancedupandgotmyfirstgoodlookat26Fed,Iimmediatelyslowed,thenabruptlystoppedinmytracksandjuststoodthereinthestreetstaringup,completelyoverwhelmedbywhatIwasseeing.

Twenty-SixFederalPlaza’snormallyperfectlysleekrectilinearforty-one-storyglass-and-stoneslabnowlookedlikeagiantcerealboxthathadbeenchewedupbyarabidpitbull.Igrimacedatthegridofexposedofficesinthehorrificallywreckedupperhalfoftheskyscraper. Everything was completely pulverized. Every ruined nook and cranny wasfilledwithsmokingwreckage.

AnevenharderpulseofdreadshudderedthroughmeasIsuddenlynoticedthatwhatremainedofthestructurewasstillvisiblyswayingbackandforth.Igrippeddownhardonmycellphone,wondering if Iwasabout towatch the restof itgo, about to see it startpancakingdownliketheTwinTowerson9/11.

Whenitdidn’thappenimmediately,Istartedrackingmybrain,tryingtoremembertheoneortwotimesIhadbeenintheFBIbuilding.ItriedtothinkwhatfloorEmily’sofficeormorningmeetingroommighthavebeenon,butforthelifeofme,Icouldn’tremember.

AllIcoulddowasstandtherefeelingnumbasIstaredupatthetorn-apartofficetower.

I wasn’t the only one. All over Foley Square, I suddenly noticed people standingsilently out on the steps of the courthouses and on the sidewalks in front of thegovernmentbuildings.Theoneswhoweren’tfilmingwiththeirsmartphoneswerelikeme—juststandingtherefrozen,aregimentofjaw-droppedstatuesstaringup.

Somehow, after a minute or two, I shook myself out of my stupor and continuedhaltinglyupLafayetteStreet.WhenIgottothenextcorner,atWorthStreet,I lookedtotheleft—west,towardBroadway.

When I saw thedevastationupclose for the first time, I shookmyhead. I couldn’tbelieveit.

Howcouldanyone?

It looked like the entire top half of 26 Federal Plaza had fallen intoWorth Street,filling it up like dirt in a trench. Through the concrete dust, I couldmake out a dark,immense,almostthree-storymoundofdebristhatcompletelyblockedthestreetandbothsidewalks.

At its top, a half dozen steel girders stuck up crookedly like a stand of burned,branchless trees. Around the girders, huge folded sections of the office building’sdistinctivefacadewereslumpedoveronthemselveslikeunspooledboltsofcloth.Inthewarm breeze that hit my sweating face, I smelled the acrid, industrial stink of burnedmetalandplastic.

Afalling,flappingsheetofpapersuddenlyhitmeinthetemplelikeatap,andIbeganshufflingforwardattheterriblemoundthroughthehaze.

CHAPTER62

THEREWASAsoftflappingsoundasasteadyrainofprinter-papersheetsfelldownaroundme.Thedustabovemusthavebeendoingsomething to the light,becauseeverythingwastintedwithastrange,unrealbluishtinge.

Iwalkedupthewidesidewalkaroundahaphazardmazeofsplintereddesks,smashedofficechairs,andcrackedcomputerscreens.Iblinkeddownatanintactframedbachelor’sdegreefromTulaneUniversityproppedupagainstthegutterasifsomeonehadplaceditthere.

AsIcontinuedmyapproach,atall,skinnyblackbikemessengerwithascratchedfacesilentlystaggeredpastinthestreet,coveredinapale-graycoatingofdust.

ThenIcamecloserandsawsomethingreallyamazing.

Peoplewerealreadyuponthemoundofdebris,adozenorsopeople.Therewereafew uniformed cops, butmostly they were civilians—office workers, a guy in a whitedoctor’scoat,alooselineofpeoplesilentlypassingdowndebrisandrubble.

I climbed up over some chunks of concrete, immediately joining them.As the dry,stale tasteof concrete anddrywalldust filledmynostrils andmouth, I acceptedahugehunkofconcretefromashort,Italian-lookingguyinaruinedpinstripedsuitaboveme.AsI turnedtoheaveit, Isawthataburlyuniformedsecurityguardhadarrivedbehindme,waitingtoacceptit.

“Whathappened?”theguardsaidtomeasIpassedhimtheconcrete.

Isquintedathim.Hewasareallydistinctive-lookingguy.Hehadlongishbrownhairunder his navy ball cap and bright, light-blue eyes. He must have played football incollegeorsomething,becausehewasjacked.

“Someonesaiditwasaplane,”hesaidasIcontinuedtostareathimstupidly.“Wasitaplane?”

Afterhehandedtheconcretetothenextpersondowntheline,Ishookmyheadandcarefullypassedhimthetwo-yardlengthoffracturedrebarI’djustbeenhanded.

“Itwasexplosives,”Ifinallysaid.“Isawit.Theyblewit.Someonetookitdownwithhighexplosivesorsomething.Demo’dit,like.Ididn’tseeaplane.”

That’swhenmycellphonewentoffinmypocket.Icroucheddowninthewreckage,frenziedlywipingthedust-coveredscreentoseewhowascalling.

Iclosedmyeyeswithreliefasmyheartsomersaultedinmychest.

Allwasnotlost.Therewasstillhope.Atinydrop.

“Emily?!”IyelledasIputthephonetomyear.

“Mike! Are you okay?” she said. “We got hit. I just made it out of the building.Someonesaidyouguyswerehitaswell.Areyouokay?”

Thankyou,God.Youcamethrough.Thankyou.AndSaintMichael.Youguyscamethrough.Ioweyou.

Iclenchedbackmytearsofrelief.ThenIcouldn’tanymore.

“Yes,” I said,wipingdust and tears offmy face. “I’m fine.Perfect now.Where areyou?”

“OnthewestsideofBroadwaynearWorth.”

“Okay,staywhereyouare.I’mcomingtoyou.”

WhenIstoodandturnedaroundagaintoaskthemuscularsecurityguardtotakemyplaceinline,Istoppedandjuststoodthereblinking.

Because all of a sudden the guy,whoever he had been,whatever he had been,wasgone.

CHAPTER63

THENEXTTHREEdaysweresomeofthemosttumultuousinNewYorkCity’shistory.

Twenty-twopeoplehaddiedintheblast.Elevenspecialagents(oneofthemthedirectassistanttotheheadoftheNewYorkoffice),threecivilianclerks,andeightmaintenanceand security people.More than a hundredwere still in the hospital,manywith internalinjuriesfrombeingcrushedunderheavydebriswhenthebuildingcollapsed.Manypeopleweremissing fingers, arms, eyes, feet.The fact that half ofManhattan’s hospitalswerestilloutofcommissionaftertheEMPblastinYorkvilledidnothelpthesituationatall.

The initial investigation into thebombingshowed that ithadbeenas ingeniousas ithad been devastating. Incredibly, robots had been used. Investigators had found threeunexploded robots in the pile. They looked likeminiature children’s blocks, but insidetheyhad intricate flywheels and radio receivers andelectronics that allowed them tobemovedaround remotely, likea swarmof insects. Inaddition to theelectronics, thebotshadbeenladenwithexplosivesandhadbeeninsertedprobablythroughtheACunitontheroofintotheairducts.

Expertswerespeculatingthatwhoeverhadradio-controlledthebotsintopositionmusthave been an engineer or a demolitions expert, because each unit had been preciselyplacedalongsidethebuilding’ssupportstrutsformaximumdestruction.

Asintheaftermathof9/11,thegovernorofNewYorkhadissuedacitywidestateofemergency, and the National Guard was called in. Soldiers armed with rifles stood atmultiple checkpoints throughout the city,with countersniper teams on various rooftops.Therewere even rumors that therewas aCIA surveillance drone high in the air aboveNewYorkCity24-7.Itwastrulyunreal.

Butinsteadofcommittingthementallyunhealthyactofdwellingonthings,EmilyandIandmyOmbudsmanOutreachsquaddiesbusiedourselvesbydoublingdown,tryingtoshake out everything we could on the investigation. It was all dead ends so far, butsomethingwouldbreak.Ithadto.Oratleastwecouldn’tstopbelievingthatitwould.

“Ifthey’reterrorists,Mike,thenwhywon’ttheycontactus,claimcredit?”saidNoahRobertson, starting up our Friday morning team meeting at the Intelligence DivisionbuildinginBrooklyn.

We were all camped around my desk—Emily and Arturo in commandeered officechairs,whichwereinhighdemandsinceaboutahundredcopshadbeenreassignedtothecase.DoyleandBrooklynandNoahwereactuallysittingontheflooragainstthepartitionwallamongthestacksofpaperandcoffeecupsandpizzaboxesthatwerestrewnaround

theonce-fancyofficespace.

EveryonewasinjeansandhoodiesandT-shirts—evenEmily,whowasusuallyinherFBI-mandated fancyofficeclothes.Nonstopsixteen-hourdays tend tomakeeveryonealittlelessformal.

“Becausethatwouldbetheconventionalthing,”Emilysaid,pickingoneofthelittlebotsthey’dfoundintherubbleoffmydesk.

“Theseguysdon’tdoconventional,”shesaid,tossingthebotintotheairandcatchingit.

“They figure it’s evenmore terrifying tonot claimcredit, to continue to stay in theshadowsbeingafacelessmenace,”Isaid.

“Ithinktheymightberight,”saidArturoaroundthestrawofhisblueCoolatta.

“Buttheyareterrorists,right?Imean,theyhavetobe,consideringhowwellfinancedtheyare,”Brooklynsaid.“Onlyateamofcomputerexpertscouldhavecomeupwiththatrobotswarmbomb,orwhateverthehellyouwanttocallit.”

“OrbuiltthoseEMPdevices,”saidDoyle,yawning.“Hell,we’veallheardtherumors.It’smostlikelybeingsponsoredbyaforeigngovernment.”

“No,”IsaidasIstaredupattheceiling.

“EarthtoMike,”Doylesaidafterabeatofsilence.

“It’snotagovernmentorevenateamofterrorists.It’stoo…elegant,”Isaid,snatchingthebotEmilywastossingoutoftheair.

“For all its destruction, this is handcrafted,” I said. “It’s one or two people. This isbeingdonetoprecision.Theattacks.Theheadfakes.Andifyouwantsomethingdonethisright,youhavetodoityourself.”

CHAPTER64

“ONEORTWO people are systematically leveling New York City?” saidArturo as he made an annoying squeaking sound with his drink straw. “How? It’simpossible.”

“In 2000, there was a famous article inWired magazine,” I said. “Some computergenius satdownandmappedouthowall thesenewcomputer-assistedbreakthroughs intechnology will pan out. The potential pitfalls of things like artificial intelligence andnanotechandroboticsandbiotech.”

“I think I read it,” Noah said. “It was written by the guy who cofounded SunMicrosystemsandcreatedJava,right?”

“That’stheguy,”Isaid.“Oneofthetheoriesinthearticleisthatascomputertechgetsmore powerful for regular folks and makes their lives easier, this more powerful techcouldalsoputpowerintothehandsofdisgruntledindividuals.”

Irolledthebotinmypalmlikeitwasadie.

“That’swhatIthinkishappeninghere,”Isaid.“We’reseeingthepivotwherecutting-edgetechnology,beingverywellutilizedbytwoorevenjustonemotivatednutjob,cankillamassiveamountofpeople.”

“Oneguyisdoingallthis?”Arturosnorted.“C’mon.”

“Youdon’tbelieveme?”Isaid.“ThenwhatabouttheUnabomber?”

“Who?”

“TedKaczynski.Fortwentyyears,thisguywentonanationwidebombingcampaignfromacabininMontanathatdidn’thaveelectricityorrunningwater.Whathehadinsteadwasanextremelykeenintelligencethatheusedtomakeincrediblyintricateletterbombs.Andthatwasintheseventiesandeighties.Imaginewhathecoulddotodayifhewasfree.

“WhatIthinkwehavehereisaKaczynski-levelintelligencerunningamok.”

“I can’t believe you just said that,” Emily said, suddenly frantically thumbing herphone.

“What?”Isaid.

“TedKaczynski.Twodaysago,Igotane-mailfromtheWashingtonoffice,”shesaid,tappinghercellscreen.“Hereitis.TheBureauofPrisonssentarequestfromKaczynskito the FBI.He said he saw the news of the bombing and put in a request through hislawyertohelpus.

“WhichIandeverybodyat theBureaudismissedascrazy.Untilnow.I thinkyou’reright,Mike.Abouttheintelligenceinvolvedhere.It’sverysimilartoKaczynski’s.Maybeweshouldinterviewhim.”

“InterviewtheUnabomber?”

“Yes,”Emilysaid.“Whynot?He’scompletelybrilliantandcrazy.Justlikethepersonwe’retryingtocatch.Maybehecangiveussomeinsight.”

“HowistheUnabomberstillalive?”saidBrooklyn.“Didn’tthefedsexecutehim?”

“You’rethinkingofTimothyMcVeigh,theOklahomaCitybomber,”saidDoyle.

“Doyle’sright.Kaczynskiisalive,”Emilysaid.“He’sinhisseventiesnowandhousedatthefedsupermaxinFlorence,Colorado.Sowhatdoyousay,Mike?Mybossescouldn’tbemorereadytodosomething.ThisistheworstlossoflifeintheBureau’shistory.Let’sgotalktohim.”

“When?”Isaid.

“Ain’tno time like thepresent,” shesaid.“There’saBureauplaneatTeterboro thatflewinthedirectorforallthefunerals.I’llgetusonit.Whatdoyousay?”

Irolledthestrangelyheavylittlebotacrosstheblotterofmycluttereddeskandpeeredatit.

“Isaylet’sgotoColorado.”

CHAPTER65

ITWASEVENINGwhentheFBIGulfstreamVbounceddownhardontothetarmacoftheFremontCountyAirportinColorado.

Two young male agents were standing beside a black Ford Explorer outside theaircraft’s dropped door. They speedily helpedmove us and our files and bags into thebackseatbeforespinningtherooflightsastheyflooreditoutoftheruralairportandontotheserviceroad.

Aswegotontoahighway,outsidemywindowinthedistance,Icouldseetheblood-orangeglowofthesunthatmusthavejustsettledbehindthedark,serratedpeaksoftheRockyMountains.

“Well,whatdoyouknow?”IsaidtoEmilythroughayawnaswelookedoverthepilesofUnabomber case files. “Thosemountains actually do look like the ones on the beercans,huh?Speakingofwhich,whereistheCoorsbrewery?Closeby?Dotheygivetours?Withtastings?”

“Unfortunately, that’llhave tobe thenext trip,Mike.Thewarden iswaitingonus,”Emilysaidassheopenedalaptop.“Butbelieveme,whenthisisover,thefirstsix-packofSilverBulletswillbeonme.”

Known sometimes as the Alcatraz of the Rockies, ADX Florence is a 490-bedconcrete-and-steel hotel that the feds reserve for its system’s most notorious and mostextremely violent prisoners. In addition to Kaczynski, it houses convicted foreign anddomesticterrorists,spiesliketheex–FBIagentscumRobertHanssen,andleadersoftheAryanBrotherhoodandtheGangsterDisciples.

“So,Mike,whatdoyouthink?You’vereadthefiles.YoureadytotalktoTed?”saidEmilyasourSUVwentupthelongdrivewayandwasbuzzedinatthegate,flankedbytowersmannedwitharmedguards.

“Idon’tknow,”Isaidaswerolledinpast thetwelve-foot-highfencing, toppedwithrazorwire.“Theguyisn’tyourregularperp,ishe?IneverinterviewedakillerwhowenttoHarvardatsixteenorwasaBerkeleymathprofessorattwenty-five.Whydoyouthinkhewantstotalktousnow?He’sneverofferedhishelpbefore.”

Emilyshrugged.

“Iguesswe’reabouttofindout.”

Theassistantwardenwasatough,matronlyNativeAmericanwomannamedMarjorieGreene.Shemetusat theadministrationbuilding’ssallyportandhelpedusget throughprocessing,wherewehandedoverourserviceweapons.

TheinsideoftheprisonwaslikenofacilityI’deverbeento.Everythingwasmadeofsmooth poured concrete—the floors, the walls, the ceiling. There wasn’t a window insight.Prisonsareusually loud,with slamminggatesandpeopleyelling,buthere itwasquietandalmostbizarrelyserene.

“Likewalkingintoaspaceshiporsomething,isn’tit?”MarjorieGreenesaidassheleduswithfourguardsdownameanderingcorridortotheinterviewroom.“Theydesigneditthatwayonpurpose,sotheprisonersdon’tknowwheretheyareinrelationtotheoutside.Idon’tevenknowmyselfhalfthetime,andI’vebeenheresevenyears.”

“Seemslikeoverkill,no?”saidEmily.“Aren’ttheylockeddownintheircellstwenty-threehoursadayatasupermax?”

“Well, it’s not somuch that the inmateswill escape from in here per se,”Marjorieexplained as we walked. “It’s that some of these guys are heads of the kinds oforganizationsthatactuallymighttrytobreakthemoutfromtheoutside.”

“What’sKaczynskilikeasaprisoner?”Isaid.

“Tidy cell.Nice rapportwith staff.Reads a lot. Figures, his being a genius and all.Nevercausedanykindoftrouble.Quietasachurchmouse,really.He’s…different.You’llsee.”

Wecamedownsomesteps intoanotherconcretecorridorwitha lowerceilingandafrosted,probablybulletproof,Plexiglasdooratthefarend.Oneofthefourguardsslippeda long tubelikekey intoametalboxbeside thedoorasMarjorieGreenespoke intoherradio.Amomentlater,therewasanelectricbuzzandthecrackofalocksnappingopen.

Itookadeepbreathastheguardopenedthedoor.

AndthenIwasstandingtherelookingattheUnabomberintheflesh.

Hedidn’tlooklikethefamouscrazy-mountain-manpictureofhimtakenwhenhewasarrested. He was clean-shaven and just looked sort of oldish, with age spots on hisforeheadandskindroopingoff thesharpbonesofhis face.Youwouldn’tknowwhohewas—justsomesickly-lookingmaninabaggyorangejumpsuit.

Itwasactuallyborderingon ridiculous that this scarecrowofaman,who lookedasthreateningasakitten,wascuffedtoaconcretedeskbehindasetofthicksteelbarsthatdividedtheroom.

“Thankyouforcoming,”hesaid,smilingweakly,asoneof theguardsslammedthedoorclosedandlockedusin.“Ididn’tthinkyou’dtakemeuponmyoffer.I’msurprised,nottomentionhopeful.”

CHAPTER66

“I’MAGENTPARKER.ThisisDetectiveBennett.Wedon’thavealotoftime here, so why don’t we get to it?” Emily said, clicking her phone to record theconversationaswesatinthetwofoldingchairsinfrontofthebars.“Whydidyouwanttotalktoustoday,Mr.Kaczynski?”

Helookedatuswithhislipspursedforasecond,likehewasmullingsomethingover.

“They’re going to destroy NewYork City—you know that, right?” he finally said.“That’sgoingtobenext.Thenextstep.Theentirecitywillbedestroyed.”

EmilyandIexchangedaglance.

“Um,howdoyouknowthat?”Isaid.“Doyouknowthepeoplewhoaredoingthis?”

“It isn’tpeople,”Kaczynski said.“There isonepersonbehind this.Onegenius,andhe’sgood.Andhe’stoyingwithyou.Punishingyou.Unlessyougetabeadonthispersoninthenextfewdays,IwouldrecommendevacuatingNewYorkCity.Becausethelossoflifewillbelikenothingeverseen.”

Westaredathim.Whatwasdisturbingwasthedeadcertaintyinhistone.Heseemedincrediblysureofwhathewassaying.

“Youdidn’tanswerourquestion.Doyouknowthesepeople?”Emilyrepeated.

“No. I don’t know them personally, of course,” Kaczynski said, “but I know whatthey’relike.Iusedtobethisperson.Technicallygifted,highlyintelligent,dedicated,andvery, very angry. You should be looking for someone like me. Someone who knowsadvancedmathandcomputerscience,maybeachessmasterorathink-tankguy.Whoeverit is, he is highly analytical and lives alone, most likely in a messy place. Look for ahoarder,probablysomeoneon theautisticspectrum,amanwho livesexclusively insidetheexpansiveconfinesofhisownhead.”

“Whatdoyouthinkwillhappentothecity?”

“Something huge and unexpected—something biological, perhaps. Or who knows?Evensomethingtodowithnanotechnology.Schopenhauersaidthatasmartmancanhitatargetthatotherscan’treach,butageniuscanhitatargetthatotherscan’tsee.

“Ithinkyou’reupagainstageniushere,unfortunately.Godhelpallofusifthisguyknows nanotech. He could come up with an artificial virus that destroys the world’svegetationoroxygenorwatersupply.Youreallyhavetocatchthisguy!”

CHAPTER67

“WHYDOYOUthinktotaldestructionwillbenext?”Iasked.

“Becauseit’sthenextlogicalstep,”Kaczynskicontinued.“Thelastandfinaluppingoftheante.Theperpetratorhasn’taskedformoney,hashe?Hehasn’tclaimedcreditforsomecause.That’sbecausethemanbehindthisdoesn’thaveanyulteriormotive.HejustwantstodestroyNewYorkCity—orwhoknows?Allofhumanity,maybe.”

“Whydoyoucareaboutallthis,Mr.Kaczynski?”Isaid.“Imean,threepeoplewerekilledandmanyothersmaimed,andtheentirecountrywasterrorizedbyyourcampaign.You even tried to blow up an airliner. I’d think if anything you’d be rooting for thedestructionofNewYorkCity.”

Hetookadeepbreathandlookeddownatthefloor.Hisbonyfingersbegantodrumloudlyontheconcretedesk.

“HowmanytimesdoIhavetoexplainthis?Inthebeginning,allIwantedtodowastolivefreelybymyselfinMontana.Ididn’twantadamnthingfromanyone.Justtobeleftalone.ButonedayIwentforahike,andIsawthatindustrialsocietywouldneverleavemealone.I’lladmitIwasangryandmotivatedbyrevengeagainstthesystem.Butquitequickly, I began to see my bombing campaign as a way to wake people up to theexistentialthreatposedbytechnology,whichIdetailedinmyTimesarticle.

“ThefactthatsomeoneisnowblowingupNewYorkwithadvancedtechnologyistheveryoutcomeIwas trying towarneveryoneabout.Yourbomberwants todestroyNewYorkCity andmaybe theworld. I neverwanted that!Don’t you see? Iwanted to stophumanityfromkillingitself.Iwantedtostopthingssoaguyliketheoneyou’redealingwithherewouldneverhavethepowertodowhathe’sdoing.Mycampaignwastoseetheworldsaved.”

He was referring to his antitechnology manifesto, which the New York Times andWashingtonPost had agreed topublish in1995 inorder to stophim fromsendingmailbombs.I’dreaditontheplane,andthoughitwasdefinitelybonkers inparts,Ifounditsurprisinglywellwritten.

“Soyoustillthinktechnologyisgoingtodestroytheworld?”Emilysaid.

“Goingto?”hesaid,wide-eyed.“It’shappeningrightbeforeourveryeyes!Howmuchtimedoyou spendwithyour smartphone?A lot, I bet.More thanyou spendwithyourspouse.Thanwithyourchildren.Eventheguardshere.Iseethem.They’regoodmensettokeepwatchandprotecttheworldfromsomeoftheworstcriminalsonearth,andherethey are sneaking little peeks at the screen. It’s here.We’re already dependent on themachines.”

Hewincedasherubbedahandthroughhishairnervously.

“It’ssimple,really.Themoreweasktechnologytodoforus,themorepowerwehavetogiveit.Rightnow,theworld’smostbrilliantmindsaredesigningartificialintelligenceand robots that they thinkwill solve all our problems butwill only spell doom for theentirehumanrace!Humanbeingscan’thandlethiskindofpower.Whocould?OnceAIandrobotsareinplace,theywilleitherdestroyhumanityoutrightorgiveoneperson—thehead of Google, say—a measure of godlike power that Caligula never dreamed waspossible.

“Rightnow,whoisreallymorepowerful?GoogleortheNSA?Howabouttomorrow?Itriedtostopallthisfromhappening.Isawwhatwascoming.Now,ifyouactuallysolvethiscaseandpreventthisnutfromwipingeveryoneout,Ithinkyouhaveanotherchancetofinallymakethethreatvisibletotheworld.Youhavetoopenpeople’seyes!”

“But Idon’tunderstand.Howdoeswhatyou’vesaid relate to thebombings inNewYork?”Emilysaid.

“Can’tyouseewhatyou’vegothere?”Kaczynskisaid,startingtorockbackandforthin his chair. “This case is an opportunity for you guys in the political system and lawenforcementtodoyourjobsandprotectthepublic.Youneedtohighlightthediredangerthatcomputertechnologyisposing.

“Youneedtousethisasalevertourgepoliticianstopasscautionarylawstoputastoptodronesandespeciallyroboticsandartificialintelligence.Peopleurgeguncontrolafteraschoolshooting,right?Well,wewon’thavetoworryaboutaschoolshooter inthenearfuturebecausehe’ll be cookingup agenetically engineered supervirus inhisbasement,andeveryoneonearthwillbedead.Youneedtoensurethatthesetechnologiesaretreatedlikeradioactivenuclearmaterial,becausethat’showdangerousthisis,and—”

“Thanksfortheadvice,Mr.Kaczynski,butunfortunately,wedidn’tcomeoutheretositandtalkthepoliticsoftechnology.Doyouhaveanymorespecificinformationonourcase?”

“Well,no,”hesaid,gapingatEmily.

“Okay, this interview is over, then. Thanks for your help, Mr. Kaczynski,” I said,standingwithasigh.

Tearssprangintohiseyesasweknockedonthedoortosummontheguard.Kaczynskirapidlytappedattheconcretedeskwithagauntfinger.

“We’reat theprecipice,don’tyousee?”hesaid.“Theprecipice!Onlyyouguyscanslamonthebrakeshere!Youhaveto!ThisisbiggerthanNewYorkCity!Itmaybeourlastchance.”

CHAPTER68

“SORRY,MIKE. THAT was pretty fruitless,” Emily said as we weredrivingback intoManhattanfromTeterboroAirportafterourreturnflight thefollowingevening.

“Whatdoyoumean?”IsaidasItappedimpatientlyonthesteeringwheel.WesatatadeadstopaftergoingthroughtheGeorgeWashingtonBridgetolls.Upaheadonthespan,blueandredemergencylightsflashedaroundabroken-downcharterbustheyweretryingtotowaway.

“I should have anticipated thatKaczynskiwould only use this as an opportunity tospewhiswarpedideology.Weprobablywouldhavedonebetterifwe’dhittheCoorstour,likeyousaid.”

“Chinup,Parker,” Isaid.“Wetookastab.Besides, I thinkhegaveussome insightinto our perpetrator or at least confirmed what we were already thinking. And oddlyenough,someofthestuffhesaidabouttechnologyIthinkisactuallytrue.Thesemilitaryrobotsthey’restartingtobuildreallyarescary.

“Andthisself-drivingsmartcaridea?Maybeit’llmakesomethingscheaper,butwon’titalsoputeverytruckdriverandcabbieandFedExandUPSworkerintheworldoutofwork?Forwhat?Socollegekidscandrinkanddrivesafely?Thatyoucandosomethingamazingisamazing,butwhenisittoomuch?”

“Yougotme,” she said. “Come to thinkof it, his comments about theperpetrator’sangerand introversionareactuallypretty interesting.Kaczynski left theworld to live inhis cabin until theworld intruded upon him in away that truly pissed him off.Maybethat’swhathappenedwithourguy.He’ssittingtherehoardingandcountingbusesorwhathaveyou,andsuddenlytheworld—or,morespecifically,NewYorkCity—hurtshiminadeep,fundamentalway.Namesomewaysthecitycanhurtyou.”

“Gee,that’llbehard,”Isaid,gesturingattheunbelievabletraffic.“Letmecounttheways.Taxes,tickets,traffic,redtape,fines,towedcars,brokenbuses,brokentrains,stuckelevators,juryduty,gettingmugged,noplacetopark,homelesspeopleurinatingonyourdoorstep.HowamIdoingsofar?”

“You’reona roll,” she said. “Maybe thisguy is anex–cityemployeewhogot firedwithout justification. Or he lost a lawsuit. Got screwed on a business deal by a citycouncilman.Maybehewashurtonthesubway,consideringthefirstblast.”

Mycellrang.Iglancedatthescreen.

“Openthewindow.MaybeI’llstartmyLudditeconversionafterallbychuckingmy

phoneintotheHudson.It’smyangryboss,Fabretti.”

Instead,sheliftedmyphoneandhittheAcceptCallbuttonandhandedittome.

“Hey,Chief.Justgotofftheplane,”Isaid.

“Good.GetovertoCityHallasfastasyoucan.Theyjustcalled.”

“Whojustcalled?”Isaid.

“Thebombers.Theyjustcalledtheactingmayor.Wehavefirstcontact.Getoverherenow.”

CHAPTER69

ITOOKTHEWestSideHighwayanddroveallthewaysouth,untilitturnedintoWestStreet.

Halfablockeastofourexit,wehadtostopabruptlyatacheckpointwhereamassiveBradleyFightingVehiclewasparkedsideways in the intersection.AfterweshowedourID, a young bespectacled National Guardsman in khaki camo mirror-checked theundersideofmycopcarforabomb.

We’d heard that there were similar National Guard units at Times Square and inRockefeller Center. The whole borough of Manhattan was suddenly in lockdown,apparently.

Coming up ontoBroadway,we saw heavy dump trucks and front-end loaderswerestillsweepingupwhatwasleftof26FederalPlaza.TherewasevenmoresecurityaroundCityHall’slittlefenced-inparkoffBroadway.IcountedatleasttwentycopsandNationalGuardguysasweslowedalongsidethebomb-shieldconcreteplantersbythegate.

AswewereID’dagainandfinallyletinthroughthewroughtiron,IrememberedthelasttimeIwashere.Itwasin2009,andIwaswiththekidsattheticker-tapeparadealongtheCanyonofHeroes,wheretheYankeeswerebeinghonoredbythemayor.Ithadbeenagreat day: Chrissy was up on my shoulders, laughing and swatting at the shreddedbusiness-paperconfettiastheYankeeswentbyonaflatbedtruck.

Way back in the days when ticker tape wasn’t paper raining down from blown-upbuildings.

FBItechnicalanalystAshleyBrookClarkandDr.MichaelAynard,theNYUphysicsprofessor,who’dbothhelpedusontheEMPportionofthiscase,werealreadyinsideCityHall’sgrandfoyer.

“Youcancoolyourheels,guys,”theever-acerbicAynardsaidwithanepiceyerollashelookedupfromhisiPadmini.“Theysaidwe’dbegrantedanaudiencewithHerHonorintenminutes—oh,I’dsayalmosthalfanhourago.I’msogladI’mvolunteeringmytimehere.It’snotlikeIhavealifeoranything.”

Insteadofresponding,Idecidedtotakeapeekaround.Throughathreshold,Icouldseeamassivelife-sizeoilportraitofGeorgeWashingtononthewallofadarkenedroom.Abrassplaqueonthewallsaidthatthemuseumlikebuildingwastheoldestcityhallinthecountrythat’sstillbeingusedasacityhall.

“Hey,Mike,youwanttocheckouttheupstairs?”Emilysaid,readinganotherplaque.“ItsaysLincolnlayinstateupthereafterhisassassination.”

“Nah, I’m good,” I said, glancing at the unlit landing beneath the rotunda. “I findhistorymuchlessinterestingwhenitstartstorepeatitselfbeforemyveryeyes.”

Chief Fabretti appeared about tenminutes later and led us through awood-paneledspacethatoncemighthavebeenachapel.Thepewshadbeenreplacedwithawarrenofcubicles and desks, and at them, half a dozenwiped-out-lookingmayor’s deputies andstaffweremumblingamongthemselves,tryingtostayawake.

Threemorestafferswereconferringquietlybyacornerdeskwhenwefinallymadeitto the mayor’s office. Acting mayor Priscilla Atkinson, in yoga clothes and with hersneakersoff, sat inaclubchairbesideahugestone fireplace talkingonhercellphone.Thoughshewasdressedcasually,theheavyconcernonhertiredfacewasanythingbut.

“Wouldyou likeanything?Wedon’thavecoffee,but there’sgreen tea,”saidoneofherslimmajordomosashecameover.

Themayorgotoffhercellandstoodbeforewecouldanswer.

“Thankyouforcoming,everyone,”shesaid,paddingovertoherdeskinherNo-See-Umsocks.

“Thiscameinaboutahalfanhourago,”shesaid,openinganaudiofileonalaptop.

“We are the ones who bombed the subway and killed the mayor,” said anelectronically disguised voice. “We are the ones who set off the EMPs and blew upTwenty-SixFederalPlaza.Dowehaveyourattention?OnthenorthwestcornerofThirty-First Street andDyer Avenue is amailbox. Inside themailbox, youwill find a FedExenvelopethatwillprovewearewhowesay.Wewillcallbacktomorrowwithwhatyouaretodonext.”

“We grabbed the package half an hour ago,” said Fabretti as he handed out a shortstackofpapers.“Therewerenoprintsonthepackageorthepapers.Thisisacopyofwhatwasinit.”

“What’sthedropsitelookinglike?”Isaid.

“We’recanvassing,butit’sjustoldofficebuildingsandwarehousesaroundthedrop.”

Ishuffledthroughthestackofpapers.Therewereblueprints,technicalschematicsonthecuberobots,somecomputerprogrammingstuff,andadiagramthatlookedlikeoneoftheEMPsnexttoaseriesofmathematicalequations.

Icouldn’tmakeheadsortailsofit,really.Neither,apparently,couldanyoneelse,asalleyeswere onDr.Aynard.He licked his thumb and flipped quickly through the papers,mumbling from time to time.We all stood and stared andwaited as he rattled throughpageafterpage.

“Thisisfascinating,”hewhisperedtohimself.

“Screwfascinating,”saidFabrettisharply.“Isitreal?Arethesethepeople?”

TheNYUprofessorlookedupandnoddedvigorouslyatFabretti,hiseyesverywide.

“Withoutashadowofadoubt,”Aynardsaid.

CHAPTER70

ASWELEFTthemayor’soffice,Ididn’tknowwhattothinkaboutthecontacttheattackershadmade.Bythatpoint,Iwastootiredtoeventry.Luckily,RobertsonandArturo were pulling the night shift at the intel division, so I sent an e-mail of theschematicsovertothemtoseewhattheycouldmakeofit.

I dropped off Emily at her hotel and headed home. I gauged that I was about 10percent awakewhen I stumbled in through the front door of theBennettEstate half anhourlater.Makethat5percent,IthoughtasIalmosttrippedassoverteakettleonaFrozenprincesseslunchboxinthehall.

Iwasn’ttheonlysleepyone,apparently.IfoundMartinonastoolinthekitchenwithall thelightson.Hewasfacedown,snoringlightlybetweensomeengineeringtextbooksopenonthecounter.HewokeupasIcroucheddownandliftedawornpaperbackofthesciencefictionclassicEnder’sGamethathadfallenonthefloorbesidehisstool.

“Mr.Bennett!”he said, sittingup suddenly, stiflingayawn. “Thereyouare.You’rebackfromyourtravels,Isee.Whattimeisit?”

“Eleventhirty.”

“Eleventhirtysosoon?”Martinsaid,checkinghisphone.“Well,let’ssee.Thekidsareall fed, teethbrushed, and sackedout, et cetera. Igot theboys’ laundrydone.Thegirlsdidn’thaveany.Theyneverdo.Funny.Ihadtheboysrunningsprintsdowninthepark.WhileIhadTrentdoingcalisthenics,Eddielostthesoccerball.Welookedandlookedbutcouldn’tforthelifeofusfigureoutwhereithadgoneto.TheHudsonRiver?ButItoldEddienottoworry.IhaveplentyofpracticeonesIcanbringfrommydormtomorrow.

“Iwantedtodovegetarianforthecrew,butSeamuscamebyandinsistedonmakingturkey clubs. He’s quite a heavy on the mayo and bacon, if you want my opinion.Especiallyforamanofthecloth.That’saboutit.Soifthereisn’tanythingmore,I’llbeonmeway.”

“Nicetry,Martin,”Isaid,myheadstillspinningfromhisdispatch.“Onlyplaceyou’regoing,kid,isthecouch,”Isaid,pointingtowardthelivingroom.“There’sblanketsandapillowonthetopshelfofthehallcloset.”

“I couldn’t impose,” saidMartin, yawning again. “Besides, I have an eight o’clockexam.”

“Don’tworry.I’llwakeyouupanddriveyoutocampus.”

“Inyourcopcar?”saidMartin,excited.“Getout!Neverbeeninafuzzmobile.That’llbeagas,soitwill.Willyouhitthesirenandlights?”

“Ifyou’regood,Martin.Now,goodnight.”

I smiled as he left. Therewas at least a little silver lining in all the current chaos.SeamushadhitoneoutoftheparkbyfindingMartin.

He really was a great kid. It was especially funny how he was running the couchpotatooutoftheboys.Theygriped,butifRicky’srequestforaFIFASoccerPlayStationgameforhisbirthdaywasanyindication,Martinwasstartingtogrowonthemaswell.

Imadethemistakethenofglancingatthemailtable.

There was a letter on top addressed to me, and I stood there staring at MaryCatherine’sfamiliarperfecthandwriting.

Onepartofmewantedtotearitopenimmediatelyanddevourit,butsomethingelsetoldme,“Notsofast.”Maybeitwasjustmyexhaustion,butIsuddenlyfeltliketherewassomethingominousaboutit,asifthenewsinitactuallymightnotbesogood.

MaryCatherineandIhadbecomesocloserecently.Closerthanever.Andyetherewewere, still with an ocean between us. Her last call especially spooked me, howcomfortablesheseemedrunninghermom’shotel.Icouldn’tstopthinkingthatsomehowweweredriftingfartherandfartherapart.

BottomlinewasIcouldn’tdealwithbadnews.Definitelynotnow.

I leftMaryCatherine’s letteron themail tableuntouchedandquietly turnedoff thelightinthehallasIheadedtobed.

CHAPTER71

ASITTURNEDout,IactuallyendedupusingmylightsandsirentodepositMartinbackatManhattanCollegeafterall.

Wedidn’thavetimetostopforcoffeeasIslalomedtheChevyatspeedthroughtheWestSideHighwaytraffic,butIcouldseebythesizeofthewhitesofMartin’seyeswhenIscreechedtoastopundertheelevatedsubwaytracksonBroadwayand240thStreet,neartheLeoEngineeringBuilding,thathewasprettywideawake.

There was actually a method to my mad dash to Riverdale. There’d been abreakthroughonthecase.Robertsonhaddoneit.Hehadfoundaplateonasurveillancecameranearthedrop.

Thirty-FirstStreetandDyerAvenuewasaboxed-inintersection;31stStreet,likemostoftheodd-numberedcrossstreetsintheManhattangrid,runsone-waytothewest.Ifacarhadcometodropoffthepackage,ithadthreeoptionswhenleaving:west,north,orsouth.

Asitturnedout,twooftheexitroutes—theonestothewestandtothenorth—actuallyhadsurveillancecameraspointedatthestreet.Thecameraaimedatthewesternroutewashighly visible on the corner. The camera to the north was much less visible, so that’swhereRobertsonhadconcentratedhissearch.

Thelastpickupontheboxhadbeenat5:00p.m.,soRobertsonhadrecordedtheplateofeverycarthathadstoppedattheintersectionsincethen.Morethantwohundredplates.From the DMV database, he got a list of names, then cross-referenced them witheverythingwehadonallthreeoutstandingcases,everyleadandtip.Finally,atsixfifteenthismorning,somethingpopped.Aname.

ARussianname.

DmitriYevdokimovwasaRussianimmigrantwithnopriors.Hisnamehadbeenonthe list of the more than nine hundred anonymous tips that had come in after thepublicationofthesubwaybomberstills.

The anonymous caller had said thatYevdokimov resembled the younger of the twosubway bombers from the paper and that hewas a chess geniuswith such a negative,unpleasant,antisocialpersonalitythattheRussian-accentedcallersaidhe“wouldn’tputitpastthebastardtoblowupthecity.”

Thenoteonthefollow-upreportbytheFBIagentwho’dworkedtheleadstatedthatYevdokimovhadbeeninterviewedandhadprovidedasolidalibiforthemorningofthesubwaybombing.

But now that his car had been found a block from the drop site, it was time for a

follow-upinterview,IthoughtasIatealightonBaileyAvenueandroaredeast.

Arturo and Robertson were already on scene with an ESU breach team atYevdokimov’s last knownaddress, in theEastBronx.The entireblock andmostof theneighborhood were slowly and meticulously being surrounded by half the department.Since thebloody fiasco inQueens,wewere expecting theunexpected, andnoonewastakinganychances.

I’dgottenasfarasEastTremontAvenuewhenmycellrangwithArturo’snumber.

“What?!”Iyelled.

“Webagged him,Mike!Wewere just setting upwhen a car turned the corner, andDoyleverifiedtheplates.Weswoopedinashewasgettingoutofhiscar.Notashotfired.ESUhashimontheground,andMike,listen.Therewasanotherguywithhim.ItcouldbeTweedledumandTweedledee.Wemayhavejustendedthis!”

“Great job,Arturo. I hope you’re right. I’m about fiveminutes out.Where are youtakinghim?TheFour-Five?”

“Yep.TheFour-Five.We’llmeetyouthere,”saidArturo.

Coulditbethatweactuallycaughtthisguy?IwonderedasItossedmyphoneintothepassengerseat.Iscreechedaroundadouble-parkedfishtruckandturnedonthejets, thesirenscreaming.

“Letitbe.Letitbe.Thismustbetheanswer.Letitbe,”IsanghopefullyasIpinneditupEastTremont.

CHAPTER72

THE FORTY-FIFTH Precinct station house, near City Island, was onBarkleyandRevereAvenues.IparkedandflewupthestairstotheDTdepartmentontwoand found Arturo and Robertson outside the detective CO’s crowded office. I happilygreetedthemaswellasBrooklynandDoyle,whowerejustinsidewithanESUsergeantandtheprecinctcaptain.

“Itlookslikethem,Mike,”wasthefirstthingoutofArturo’smouth.“Nofacialhair,buttheylooklikethesuspectsfromthesubwaybombing.”

“Anything on the other guy yet?” I said. “Tellme there’s a Facebook selfie of himholdingabunchofplasticexplosives.”

“His name is Anatoly Gavrilov,” said Brooklyn. “Like Dmitri, he’s claiming hedoesn’tknowwhat thehell isgoingon—that they’re justcousinswhowork togetherascomputer programmers and were coming back from a night on the town. They claimthey’veworkedforplentyofWallStreetfirms,which,fromourpreliminarylookintoit,mightactuallybetrue.Odd,though,sinceIwouldn’texactlypegthesetwoonfirstglanceasGoldmanSachsconsultants.”

“You had to see the guy’s house,Mike,” saidArturo. “Hoarders, except organized.Stacks upon stacks of labeled plastic containers of comic books, chess magazines,newspapers—mostlyDailyNewsdatingbacktothefifties.”

“Exactly,”saidDoyle.“Realstrangeshit.”

IrememberedwhatKaczynskihadsaidaboutthebomberbeingahoarder.Andthathemightplaychess.Hadweactuallycaughttheseguys?

Ilookedatthetwomenontheinterview-roommonitoronthelieutenant’sdesk.Theresemblance was there. They easily could have shaved their goatees because of themanhunt.

“It’sthem.Hastobe,right?”saidArturo.

“Nothinghastobe,Lopez,”Isaid.“Butsofar,notbad.”

CHAPTER73

ISPOKETOYevdokimovfirst.

“Whatthefuckisthis?Russia?”werethefirstwordsoutoftheRussian’smouthasIopenedthedoor.

He was not a handsome man, but his casual clothes were expensive—a fastidioussandwashedsilkT-shirt;tailoredjeans.

“Why’dyoudoit?”Isaid.

“Blowupthesubway?”hesaid,staringatmewithbulgingeyes.“Oh,Idon’tknow.Iwasbored.No,wait.IthoughtI’dstarttheFourthofJulyoffearlythisyear,that’sit.Plusofcoursemymotherdidn’treallyloveme.”

Hischaircreakedasheattemptedtoshifthisweightwithhishandscuffedbehindhim.

“HowmanytimesdoIhavetosayit?!”hecriedashebeganrockingbackandforth.“Itwasn’tme.Ihavea lotofenemies,okay?Thathappenswhenyou’reagenius.Mostpeoplearestupid,andwhentheycomeintocontactwithatoweringintellect,theybecomefearfulandjealous.Iwasatworkwhenthatbombwentoff.Ihavetwentywitnesseswhowilltestifytoit.”

“Wherewereyoulastnightaroundsixfifteen?”

Hestaredatmeasherocked.

“IwasatOrchardBeachintheBronx.Iwalkmydogthere.Why?”

“Bullshit. You were at the corner of Thirty-First and Dyer Avenue in Manhattan,Dmitri.Your geniusmust be slipping a bit, because you didn’t think about that secondcameraonthecornerpastthebox.”

Helaughedasherocked,shakinghishead.

“Thebox?Whatbox?Thejack-in-the-box?You’reunbelievablywrong,”hesaidashestarted squeaking around again in his cheap hard plastic chair like the world’s largesthyperactivefour-year-old.

“That’s the spirit,Dmitri,” I said. “Rock that boat, but remember, just don’t tip theboatover.Getrealcomfy,becausewe’regoingtobehereforalong,longtime.”

Hewhimpered.

“Thisisunreal,”hesaid.“Letmeguess.Youguysareoutofideas,andsinceyouhavenocluewho’sdoingthisandneverwill,theplannowistofindascapegoat.”

“Yourcarwas there,Dmitri,” Isaid.“AgrayCivic.Yourcar,yourplates.Youwerethere.”

“No, Iwasn’t,”he said sadlyashe finally stopped squigglingaround.He shookhisheadandlookeddownatthefloor.

“Someoneisframingme.”

“Oh, a frame job,” I said. “I haven’t heardofoneof those since television came inblack-and-white.Tellmemore.”

Heliftedhishead.

“Doyouplaychess?”hesaid.

“No.Iputmurderersondeathrow.”

“Ah, very funny,” he said with a pained grin. “NewYork City is one of the mostcompetitive chess arenas in the world, especially for big-money underground games. Ihaven’tlostagameinsixyears—sixyears—andIplayeveryday.Theysetthemup,andIknockthemdown.Somepeoplearegraciouswinners.I’mnotoneofthosepeople.

“I crow. Sometimes I laugh. It’s emasculating to get owned.At least I suppose so,becauseIwouldn’tknow.AndnowIguessoneofthoseverybrightpeopleIbeathashadenough. This is their moment to make their mark or whatever.Why not get me back,right?Schoolthemaster.Revenge!Now,pleasetakeoffthesecuffs.Iwantmylawyer.Letmeoutofhere.Ihavetofeedmydog.”

CHAPTER74

ITHOUGHTABOUTwhatDmitrihadsaidasIcameoutoftheinterviewroomintothebullpen.Someofitactuallymadesense.Anyonewhoblewup26Fedwithrobotsandalltherestofitcouldeasilyhaveframedthisguy.Athoughtthatwaspissingmeoff.Werewebeingplayedagain?Wasthisloseractuallybeingframed?

IturnedtoseeEmilyParkercominguptheprecinct-housestairs.

“Ijustheard,Mike.Youhavetheseguysincustody?Doyouthinkit’sthem?”

“Maybe,Emily,” I said asBrooklyn andDoyle came out fromquestioningAnatolyGavrilov.

“He’s not talking,Mike,” Brooklyn said. “At least not in English, except when hedemandsalawyer.”

“Whataboutyourguy,Mike?”Doylesaid.

“Same,”Isaid.

“Whatnow?”Doylesaid.

“There’s no way we’re letting them go anywhere until we can confirm theirwhereabouts in the last few weeks. And months and years,” I said. “We need a fullbackground on these guys. Immigration records, educational background, politicalaffiliations,finances,anyrecentupheavalsintheirlifethatmighthavesetthemoff.”

That’swhenmycellphonerang.

“Mike,what thehell isgoingon?I thoughtyour teamgrabbed theseguys,”FabrettisaidwhenIpickedup.

“SodidI.What’sup?”

“Thebastardsjustmadecontactagainfiveminutesago.”

Iclosedmyeyes.Shit.Notagain.

SotheRussianswehadweren’tinvolved?Whatthehellwasthis?

“They’velistedtheirdemands,Bennett.Ican’ttalkaboutitoverthephone.YouneedtogetbacktoCityHallnow.”

CHAPTER75

WE WERE COMING over the Macombs Dam Bridge near YankeeStadiumwhenalotoffrenziedchatterstartedupontheNYPD-bandradio.

I turned it up. They were shifting roadblocks, apparently, and rerouting traffic inmidtown.Trafficcrewswerebeingmobilizedinvariousprecinctsand,forsomeunknownreason,theyseemedtobeshiftingalltrafficflowtothenorth.

“Ijustgotatextfrommybrother-in-law,whoworksatMidtownSouth,”saidDoylefrom thebackseat. “Yougottabekiddingme!They’recalling ineveryone.And Imeaneveryone.EveryTom,Dick, andSally in theNYPD is being told to get their ass in towork!”

I looked atEmily anxiously.Theonly time I’d ever heardof that happeningbeforewason9/11.

ThefirstthingtheUnabomberhadsaidtousranginmyhead.

They’regoingtodestroyNewYorkCity—youknowthat,right?

“Somethingmustbeup,”saidArturo,shakinghisheadintheseatnexttoDoyle.

“Yathink,Lopez?”Doylesaid,rollinghiseyes.

WewerethrownanothercurveaswewerecominguponCityHallonlowerBroadwaytwentyminuteslater.Fabretticalledandtoldusthat they’dmovedthemayorsixblocksnorthwest,totheOfficeofEmergencyManagement’snewcrisiscenter,atthewesternendofChambersStreet.

Itwasacrisis,allright.Bythetimewegottothenewtwelve-storyglassbuildingontheshoreof theHudson, they’dcordonedoff theentireblock.Past the roadblock, therewaspandemoniumonthestreetoutsidethebuilding,wherecopsandNationalGuardsmenandtechsweremovingboxesandequipmentinandoutoftrucks.

Whenitwasfinallyourturnat thecheckpoint, thetall,middle-agedfemalesergeanttoldmeinnouncertaintermstoturnaround,asnoonewasbeingallowedin.IactuallyhadtocallFabrettithreetimesbeforeheradioedthegateandtoldthehard-assladycopitwasokay.

Therewas a cityparkbeside the facility filledwithdozensof copand fedcars andSUVsparkedhaphazardlyuponthegrass.WeleftthecarinfrontofanidlingOfficeofEmergencyManagementbus,andaswegotoutwelookedupandwatchedasanNYPDBellhelicopterlandedonahelipadbesidethebuilding.

The chopper dumped out a half dozen people who looked like feds and civilian

professortypes.Besidethehelipad,atadock,anNYPDHarborUnitboatwasunloadingmoresmart-lookingfolks.OneofthemhadonablueWindbreakerwithyellowlettersontheback.

“NHC?”IsaidtoEmily.“WhattheheckistheNHC?”

“NationalHurricaneCenter?”shesaid,staringatmewide-eyed.

“What?We’regoingtohaveahurricanenow?Theseguyscanmakeitrain,too?Thatcan’tbe!”Doylesaid.

“Allhandsondeckandbattendownthefriggin’hatches,”ArturosaidastheHarborUnitboatspedpastinthewaterwitharoar.

CHAPTER76

INSIDETHESLEEK, low-ceilinged lobby of the building, it was evenworse.

Every political staffer and cop we saw rushing to and fro was looking completelyfreaked.Isteppedasidewhenatallbaldingguygrunted,“Outoftheway!”ashehustledpastwith a stackofprintouts. I even tried towavedownLieutenantBryceMiller,whoappearedattheendofthelobby,butheblewrightpastmewithhisphonegluedtohisearandabewilderedlookonhisface.

“Well,atleasteverybodyiskeepingittogether,”Doylecracked.

AsBryceMillerleft,Fabrettipoppedoutofastairwelldoorandrushedovertous.

“Bennett, tell me you got something—anything—on these Russians that you justpickedup.”

“Not exactly,” I said. “They’re claiming that they were framed. I’m not sure if Ibelievethem,buttheiralibislookprettysolidsofar.Buteveniftheywereframed,we’redefinitelygettingclosernow,Chief.Becausetherealbombers—whoevertheyare—hadtoknowtheRussiansinordertoframethem.Wejusthavetofindthelink.Whattheheckisgoingonhere?Whyisallhellbreakingloose?”

“Because it is. C’mon,” he said, leading us down the crowded hallway. “ThesebastardsFedExedavideothistime.They’reshowingitinthepressroom.”

“Avideo?”saidArturo.

“Don’tgetyourhopesup,buddy.Idoubtit’sfromNetflix,”Doylesaid.

Thevideowas rollingona screensetupon the stageaswecame into thecrowdedpressroom.

Itshowedwhatlookedlikestocknewsfootage—peoplerunningonabeachaswavescrashedattheirbacks.

Astheterrifiedpeopleranfor their lives, thesamestrangeelectronicvoicefromthefirstphonecallstarteduplikeadocumentaryvoice-over.

“During the 2004 tsunami in the IndianOcean, two hundred thirty thousand peopledied within minutes as a thirty-foot-high wave struck coastal areas of Indonesia, SriLanka,India,Thailand,Somalia,andtheMaldives.Itwascausedbyamassiveunderseamegathrustearthquake.Butthatisn’ttheonlywaytsunamisarecreated.

“Welcome to an undisclosed location,” said the voice as the image on the screenshifted.

Up-to-date digital film was showing what looked like some type of cave or minecorridor. A beam of light moved along a rough, brownish-grayish rock wall in adescending, low-ceilingedshaft.When the lightandcamerapanned left, a thinbraided-steel cable hanging from rock bolts embedded in the wall came into view. Runningalongsideitwasaredplastic-coatedcableofsomekind—electrical,maybe.

The camera stopped as the red cable suddenly led into a large rectangle of strangewhiteblocks.Itlookedlikeexplosives—achargethesizeofakitchencabinetstucktotherockwall.Thecamerashiftedtothecenteroftheshaft,wherethelengthofcablesrunningdowntheseeminglyendlesscorridorrevealedchargeafterchargeafterchargestucktothewall.

“This is Semtex,” the voice said as a hand clad in a black work glove patted theexplosives. “The red cable is detcord, and the steel cable beside it is for spreading theforce of the blast nice and even, tomaximize shear. It’s not themost elaborate bomb Ihaveevermade,butitiscertainlythebiggest.Afterall,thereisaneleganceinsimplicitysometimes.

“As I have possibly convinced youwith the subway bombing and the razing of 26FederalPlaza,Iamactuallyprettygoodatblowingshitup,no?IliketothinkthatnoonehaseverbeenasgoodatitasIam,butthatisforhistorytodecide,Iguess.”

As thecameraman turnedall thewaybackaround, in thedistance,up the shaft,wecouldseeabrightopeninginthetunnel,thincloudsinapale-bluesky.

The camera guy startedwalking up toward the opening, and then as he reached it,everybodyintheroomgasped.

Throughthecavemouthormineshaftorwhateveritwas,thecamerashowedabunchofdark,jaggedvolcanicpeaksandasheerdrop-offdownanimmensecliffintoacrashingocean.Thecavemouthwasinsanelyhighup—ahundredstories,maybetwohundred.Farbelow,down thedizzyingly immense slopeof themountain, thereweredozensof littlemovingdots—seabirdsflyingabovethesprayingsurf.

“Here’swhatyouneedtoknownow,”saidthevoice.“Ifmycalculationsareright,andIbelievetheyare,whenIcarefullydetonatemynetworkofexplosives,Iwillpeeloffthisentire peak and send a landmass roughly the size ofManhattan Island into theAtlanticOceanatmorethanahundredmilesanhour.

“Accordingtomycomputermodels,thisslidewillcreateatsunamialittlemorethantwiceaspowerfulasthe2004IndianOceantsunamiandsenditdirectlyintotheEasternSeaboardoftheUnitedStates.SixhoursfromthetimeIdetonate,ManhattanIslandwillbeinundatedwithanunstoppableseventy-five-footwave.”

“No,”saidArturo,besideme,inawhispertothescreen.“Justno.”

“NewYorkCitywillbedestroyed.AswillMiamiandBaltimoreandBoston.”

Therewasapauseinthenarration.

“Ihaveonesimpledemand.Withintwenty-fourhours,IwantthreebillionUSdollarsdepositedintoalistofnumberedaccountsthatIhavealreadysenttothemayor’sofficebye-mail.Thatthisamountisroughlytheequivalentofthemayor’spersonalfortuneisnot

accidental.Shecandiverthermoneyeasilyinthetimeallotted.Thequestionis,willshe?Yourcity’sfateliessolelyinherhands.

“Therewillbenonegotiation.Themoneywilleitherappearintheaccountsinthetimeallotted,andtomorrowwillbejustanotherday.Oritwillnotappear,andIwillwipeNewYorkCity,alongwiththerestoftheeasternUnitedStates,offthemap.”

Therewasasecondpause.

“Pleaseknow that, of course, any attempt to find and approach theplacewhere thebombsarenowlocatedwillresultinimmediatedetonation.Iwillnotcontactyouagain.Thatisall.”

CHAPTER77

HALFANHOUR later, wewere in the insanely crowdedOEM’s seventh-floorwar room. The packed, open room hadmonitors everywhere.Monitors on desks,monitorsbuilt intoa longcherrywoodconference table in thecenterof the room,andamoviescreen–likemonitorthattookupanentirewall.

The wall screen was actually composed of a grid of smaller screens that showeddifferentpartsofthecity—TimesSquare,GrandCentralTerminal,thestreetoutinfrontoftheUN.AsIwatched,thescreenchangedintoastillofthecaveorminehousingtheexplosives.

AttheheadoftheU-shapedconferencetablepackedwithscientistsandgovernmentofficials,theactingmayorlookedpale.Itwasimpossibletoknowwhatshewasfeeling,but it couldn’t have been good. It was incredible that all this—the bombings andassassination—wasaboutcleaningheroutfinancially.

Oratleastthatwaswhatwasbeingsaidnow.Iwasn’tentirelyconvincedthatthiswasthecase.

“Please,someone,anyone,tellmewhatthehellisgoingonhere,”themayorsaid.

Thescientistsatthetablestaredateachotheruntilatan,lean,white-hairedmanwhoremindedmealotofthefamouscollegebasketballcoachBobbyKnightstoodup,alongwithaprettywomanwithchin-lengthchestnuthair.

“Everyone, my name is Larry Duke, and this is Dr. Suzan Bower, and we’re thecoheadsoftheAmericanGeophysicalUnion,”hesaid.

“Tellmethisisajoke,Mr.Duke,”saidthemayor.“It’sabluff,right?Dr.Evil,JamesBond bullshit? It’s too implausible. There are no islands near New York City in theAtlantic.Howisthisevenathreat?”

“Actually, ma’am,” Larry said, “off the west coast of Africa, there are dozens anddozensofvolcanicislands.”

“Africa!That’swhat?Threeorfourthousandmilesaway!”shescreamed.

Dr.Bowersmiledcalmlyassheraisedherpalm.

“Allowme to explain,” she said politely. “The potential destructive force of a trulymassive landslide into a seabed is almost impossible to comprehend. In Lituya Bay inAlaskainthefifties,afteranearthquake,aone-mile-by-half-milechunkofrockslidoffacoastalmountain into thewater, causingawave the sizeofaone-hundred-and-seventy-storybuilding.

“Thinkaboutthat.IfasimilarincidenthappenedintheAtlanticbasin,evenfromasfarawayasAfrica,atidalwavethesizeoftheIndianOceantsunamiwouldhit theEasternSeaboardsixhourslater,justasthemanonthetapesaid.”

“Andnothingcouldstopit?”saidtheOEMhead.

Larryshookhisheadsadly.

“Nothing,” he said. “For years, Suzan and I have been advising the government ofexactly the problem here—that some of theWestAfrican islands are potential tsunamidangersfromeruption-causedlandslides.”

“But you said the landslide in Alaska was caused by an earthquake, an incrediblegeologicevent,”saidthemayor.“Youcan’tcauseanearthquakeoreruptavolcanowithexplosives,canyou?”

“No,youcan’t.Butyoucancausealandslidewithexplosives,especiallyifanareaisalreadyunstable,likemanyoftheareasonsomeoftheseislands,”saidDr.Bower.

“Bullshit,”somebodysaid.

“Iwish itwas,”Larry said. “In1903, therewas adisaster called theFrankSlide inCanada.AsegmentofmountainaboutthesamesizeastheoneintheLituyaBayincidentfell and flattened amining town.Howdid it happen?Byminers blasting in one of themines.”

“Exactly,” saidDr.Bower. “Today, demolition experts are so goodwith explosives,theycanblow thingsupsobuildings fallwherever theywant.Forexample,demoguystookdown a half-mile-long section of nine bridges inOhiowith only one hundred andthirty-eightpoundsofplasticexplosives.Yougetageologisttogetherwithademoexpertandplacethepowintherightplace,andyoujustmightbeabletodoit.Yousimplyneedtogiveitapush,andmillionsandmillionsofpoundsofrockandgravitydotherest.”

“Shit,” I said to Emily. “Just like Twenty-Six Fed.A little bit of explosives placedperfectlytookthatbuildingdownprettyasyouplease.Theyknowhowtodoit.”

“So you think it’s possible for these terrorists to actually use explosives to cause alandslidetocreateatsunami?”saidthemayor.

“I’msorry,ma’am,”Larrysaidwithasadsmile.“Buttheanswerisyes.”

PARTFOUR

PLEASESTANDBY

CHAPTER78

TWOHOURSLATER, we were sprawled out in a corner of the OEMbuilding’s third-floor cafeteria.We sat at a new folding table—which still had a stickerwith theWalmart bar codeon it—washingdownvending-machine candywith coffee. IhadmyfeetonachairbythewindowandwassharingglumlookswithDoyleandArturoandEmily.

“Gosh,it’stiringtobeatyourheadagainstthewall,”saidArturo.

Hewas right.We’d just gottenoff thephonewithRobertson andBrooklyn.They’dcalledtoletusknowthatDmitriYevdokimovandAnatolyGavrilovhadlawyeredup.

Not just with any lawyers, either. Two seven-hundred-dollar-an-hour mouthpiecesfromawhite-shoeWallStreet firmhad actually shownup at theprecinct house raisinghelluntil theprecinct captain relented.The factwaswedidn’thaveenoughon them tochargethemwithanything.Notyet,anyway.Likeitornot,they’dbeenreleased,andourbestleadsjustwalkedoutthedoor.

Toaddinsulttoinjury,we’dputsurveillanceonthem,buttheyseemedtohaveshakenit.We’dalso just receiveda forensics report from theFBIon theRussians’creditcardsandcellphonesandInternetsearches.Therewasnothing.Theyhadnoelectronictrailofanykind.ThetwocomputerexpertswereLuddites,apparently.

IgroanedasIlookedoutthewindowattheHudsonandJerseyontheotherside.ThenIlookedsouthattheStatueofLibertyintheharborandimaginedawavecomingoverher.

Inthesilence,Arturogotupandmadehimselfanothercoffee.

“Lookonthebrightside,guys.They’vegotfreeK-Cupsuphere.Yummy.IloveK-Cups,”hesaidsarcastically.

“Yeah.Nothinglikeasmooth,soothingK-Cuptowhileawaytheafternoonbeforethedestructionofyourcity,”saidDoyle,flickingacoffeestirrerathim.

Istaredoutthewindowdowntothecourtyard,wheresoldiersweresettingupcots.

Werethecotsforthesoldiers?Weretheyexpectingrefugees?Whatthehellwerecotsgoingtodowhenthewatercame?Becomeflotationdevices?

Ionlyknewthatwehadtokeepourheadsaboutusinthiswhirlingdervishofamess.Isatup.

“Okay,let’sdothisagain.Theories,”IsaidtoEmily.

“Ialmostcan’tbelieveit’saransom,”shesaidassheswirledhercoffee.“IwasreallyleaningtowardaUnabomber-stylesuspect.Onemanonamadmission,likeyousaid.This

now?Threebillion?Thisisarealcurveball.”

“It’s theRusskies.Hastobe,”saidDoyleasherolledoutofhischairontothefloorandstarteddoingpush-ups.“Thinkaboutit.Thefedforensicreportshowstheyhavenocreditcardsorcomputerrecords,yetthey’recomputerexperts?Theyhavestuff.Theyjustknowhowtohideit.They’reinonthis.”

Thentherealchaosbegan.

ChiefFabretticameintothecafeteriatalkingonhisphone.

“You’rekidding.Jeez.Wow,justlikethat.Okay,thanks.”

“What’sup,Chief?”saidDoyleashehoppedtohisfeet.

“Turnon theTV,”Fabrettisaid,pointing to theset in thecafeteria’scorner.“This isunbelievable.”

Doyle ranoverandclickedon the set. I stoodupas I sawsomething there Ihadn’tseensinceIwasakid.

Therewasabluescreenwithtwowordsinyellow.STANDBY.

Doylechangedthechannel.Itwasoneveryone.Alongandbrightbeepsoundedout,followedbyasquawkofradiofeedback.Thenitdiditagain.

“This is not a test,” said a calm, feminine voice. “I repeat, this is not a test of theEmergencyAlertSystem.Pleasestandby.Pleasestandby.”

“Whatisthis?”

“Themayorjustcameoutofanothermeetingwiththescientists.She’sdoingit.She’spullingthetrigger.”

Ilistenedtothebeeprepeat.

“Thisisnotatest,”saidthevoice.“Irepeat,thisisnotatestoftheEmergencyAlertSystem.”

“Pullingwhattrigger?”saidLopez.“Youmeanshe’sgoingtogivethemthemoney?”

“No.She’sgoingtoevacuate,right?”IsaidasIstaredatthestandbyonthescreen.

Fabrettinodded.

“That’s right. God help us all,” said Fabretti. “The mayor is going to call for thecompleteevacuationofNewYorkCity.”

CHAPTER79

CHIEFFABRETTIRECEIVEDatextfromthedeputymayor,andwefollowedhimupthefourflightsoftoo-warmstairsandthenthroughacorridorcrowdedwithcopsandsuitsintothemainwarroomagain.

In a fishbowloffice in the corner, beyonda rowofprinters, stood themayor, alongwith the glaring lights of the small camera crew that was filming her live for theemergencybroadcast.

Iwatchedasthebluescreenonthewallwasreplacedbyanimageofthemayor.

“FellowNewYorkers,hello.Iamsorrytotellyouthis,butwehavereceivedwordthatanunderseaearthquakeintheAtlanticmaybeimminentwithinthenextsixtoeighthours.It is believed by experts that this quake may cause an Atlantic Ocean tsunami largeenough to be a serious threat to people throughout the city. We are not one hundredpercentsurethatthisisthecase,butforthesakeofcautionandthepreservationoflife,Ihavesignedanordertoevacuatetheentirecity.”

“Whyisshelyingandtalkingaboutanearthquake?”saidArturo.“Likepeoplehavebeensleepingthroughthebombingsandassassination?”

“Whoknows?”Doylesaid.“Maybeshe—”

“Shutthefuckup,bothofyou!”saidFabretti,standingbehindthem.

“Thisevacuationisalegalordernotarecommendation.Allthepeopleofthecity—inManhattanandBrooklynandQueensandStatenIslandandtheBronx—mustleavetheirhomesassoonaspossibleandheadinland.IfyouhaveacarparkedinManhattan,weareasking you to leave it where it is, as roads will soon become impassable with traffic.Pleaseusepublictransport.

“TheMTAandPortAuthorityhavealreadybeenorderedtomobilizethemasstransitsystem.Allbuses,trains,subways,andferrieswillbeopentothepublicatnochargeinorder to move people inland. Shelters in New Jersey and northern Westchester havealreadybeensetup,andweareworkingonopeningmoresheltersfarthernorthandinlandasthenumberofpeopleincreases.

“Weurgeanyandallofyoutostaywithfamily,butremembertostayawayfromallcoastal areaswithin thirtymiles of the shore. Please do not panic.We need to have asorderly an evacuation as possible. You have time to pack, and everyone will be giventransportation and shelter. Stay tuned to localmedia. If you have not done so already,prepareagobag.”

The mayor was saying that the fire department had been mobilized to help the

hospitalswhenIsteppedoverintoacornerandcalledMartin.

“Mike,howgoesit?”

“Iguessyou’renotwatchingTV.”

“No.Whatisit?”

“Listen to me carefully, Martin. This isn’t a joke. They think an Atlantic Oceantsunamiiscoming,sothey’reevacuatingthecity.Doyouhaveadriver’slicense?”

“NotaNewYorkone,”hesaid.“Icandrive,though.”

Youhadtohandittothekid.Ithoughthesoundedalertyetcalm.Ijusttoldhimtheworldwasending,andhewasimmediatelyreadytodeal.

“Good,”Isaid.“Inthefronthallcloset isourseventy-two-hourkit—abigknapsackcontainingfoodandwater,firstaid,maps,flashlights,glowsticks,acrankradio,andfivehundredbucksincash.There’salsoanextrasetofvankeysinit.Thevan’sinthelotatNinety-Eighth,justoffWestEnd.IwantyoutogogetitandpickupthekidsandSeamusatHolyName.

“Whenyougeteverybody,don’tgetonthehighway.GonorthupBroadwayandovertheBroadwayBridgeintotheBronx.KeepgoingnorthuntilBroadwaybecomesRoute9AupinWestchester.Justkeepgoingthen,okay?Callmewhenyouhavethekids.”

“Howfardoyouwantmetogo?”saidMartin.

Ithoughtaboutwhatthegeophysicalexpertshadsaidaboutthe170-storywave.

“IhaveacousinintheCatskills.Youshouldheadthere.”

“TheCatskills!That’s, like,ahundredmiles.Whatthehell iscoming?Ameteor?IsIrelandgoingtobehit,too?”

“Don’tpanic,Martin.Itmaybenothing,honestly,butbettersafethansorry.Nowhoptoit.Grabthekidsandcallmeback.”

CHAPTER80

HALFANHOURlater,IsatatadeskintheOEMwarroomquietlywatchingthe big screen. It was divided up into a grid of nine screens, just like it was at thebeginning of The Brady Bunch, but instead of seeing Carol and Mike and the gangsmiling,variouspartsofthecitywerevisible.Thecenterwaslosinghold,andthingswerefallingapart.

Whatlookedlikewarfootagewasbeingbeamedinfromthetraffic-lightcameras.InSoHo,TimesSquare,CentralPark,Harlem,andeverywhereelse,thestreetswerepackedwith cars and the sidewalkswere filledwith people carrying things.Knapsacks, rollingsuitcases, paintings, dogs. On the screen that showed Broadway and 72nd Street, IwatchedasashortblackguyinagraybusinesssuitpushedashoppingcartupthemiddleofBroadwaywithanoldblackwoman,probablyhismother,lyinginit.

I’dneverseensomanypeopleinGrandCentralTerminal.Theywerepackedinlikesardines,alotofthempushingandshoving.AsIwatched,atall,curly-hairedoldladybythe informationboothwent to thefloorashercanewaskickedoutfromunderherbyagroupofstupidkidspushingpasther.ShewastrampledbythreeorfourotherthoughtlessjerksbeforesomeniceAsianteenboysteppedin.Iwasalmostheartenedashedraggedherbacktoherfeet,butthenasIwatched,bloodbegangushingfromhernose.

Then therewas the eighteen-wheeler on fire in themiddle of theVerrazanoBridge.Thewholething—thecabandthetrailer—justblazingalong.Itwouldcontinuetodoso,Iknew,untilitburnedout,becauseafiretruckhadasmuchchanceofgettingthroughthestalledtrafficasIhadofbecomingthestartingpowerforwardfortheKnicksthisseason.

Noonewaslisteningaboutnotpanicking,andwhocouldblamethem?Itwaseverymanforhimselfnow,ashardasthatwastobelieve.

Fromtimetotime,IlookedawayfromthesickeningscreenstojuststareattheitemsonthedeskIwassittingat.Iblinkedatabottleofhandsanitizer,aLEGOMoviemousepad,atubeofChapStick.Allofitwasgoingtobeunderwaterinafewhours?

BesidethecomputerwasaframedpictureIcouldn’tstopstaringat.Twocoltishgirlsandatallblondmomsmilingastheywadedamongtherocksofariver.

ItlookedlikeitwastakeninNewEnglandsomewhere,withautumn-yellowleavesonthetrees.Thegirlswereadorable,withbraces,andthesmileonthemom’sfacewasroom-brightening.ItlookedlikeanoldCoca-Colaadorsomething.Americansbeinghappy.Itwastimetosaysayonaratothatnow?

Squintingangrilyatthephoto,Isuddenlydidn’twanttojustcatchthesonsofbitchesresponsibleanymore.Iwantedtohuntthemdownandkillthemwithmybarehands.

WhenIcalledMartinforthetwentiethtimeinthelasttwentyminutes,itkickedintovoicemail.Martinwasontheroadnow.EveryonewaswithhimexceptBrian.Theywerein northernManhattan, trying to get across theHarlemRiver tomeet upwithBrian atFordhamPrep.TheproblemwasthatBrianwasn’tpickinguphisphone,whichmeanthehadforgottentochargeit.ButMartinhadcalledtheschoolandleftwordtohaveBrianstaythereforpickup,somaybeallwasstillgood.

Iballedmyhandsintofistsastheystartedtoshake.

WhowasIkidding?Ifeltcompletelyhelpless.

IlookedupasEmilycamein.

“Didyougetyourkidsout?”shesaid.

“Almost.Howaboutyou?AreyounearthecoastinVirginia?”

“No,thankGod.MybrothergotOliviaoutofschool,andthey’reatCostcostockingup,”shesaidglumly.

Emily’sfacelitupsuddenlyasshegotatext.

“Mike,getup!C’mon!”shesaid,grabbingmyhand.

“What?”

“Arturo and Doyle are at the scientist meeting on six. They say they might havesomething.”

CHAPTER81

“THEY KNOWWHERE the bombs are!” said a wide-eyed Arturo,grabbingmyshouldersasIsteppedintothedoorwayofthesixth-floorconferenceroom.

“Where?”Isaid.

“ÁrvorePreta,”saidDoyle, lookingeverybitaspumpedasArturo.“It’sPortuguesefor‘blacktree.’It’savolcanicislandjustsouthoftheCapeVerdearchipelican.”

“Archipelago,youmean,moron,”saidArturo.

Weallbackedoutintothehallway.

“Slowdown,fellas,”saidEmily.“Whereisthisisland?”

“TheCapeVerdeislandchainisoff thecoastofAfrica,”saidDoyle.“Theysaidit’sroughlythreehundredandfiftymilestothewest.”

“Whydotheythinkthisparticularislandiswherethebombsare?”Isaid.“Didn’ttheysaythere’sabunchofdifferentislandchainsinthearea?”

“Well, these tworockscientistswere in therearguingendlessly,”saidArturo.“Theykeptlookingatthevideo,andthisguyfromUCBerkeley—”

“Cuttothechase,Arturo,”Isaid,tryingtobepatient.

“Allofasudden,thislittleguy,aBrit,inthecorneroftheroomstandsupandpointsatthescreenandsays,‘Excuseme,butarethosepetrels?’”

“Petrels?”Isaid.

“They’refreakingbirds!”saidDoyle.“Thoselittlebirdsyouseeinthevideowhentheguypansthecameradownthecliff.They’reanendangeredseabirdthatnestsonthisCapeVerdeisland,ÁrvorePreta.”

“That’swhenLarryDukeandDr.Bowerwentbonkers,” saidArturo.“ÁrvorePretahasanactivevolcano that lasterupted in1963.Theyactuallyknewallabout it.They’dlisted Árvore Preta in a paper they did in the late eighties about potentially unstablevolcanoes.”

“Bottomlineis theythinkthis is it,Mike,”saidDoyle.“Weknowwherethebombsare.”

CHAPTER82

FOURHOURSLATER,atalittleafter11:00p.m.,EmilyandIcameouttheOEMbuilding’ssideentrancealongsidethedarkHudsonRiverwithLarryDukeandDr.Bower.Amomentlater,aloudroaringsounddrewoureyesupward,andwewatchedasahugehelicopterappearedoverthelipofthebuilding.

“Oh,my! It’s like from thatmovie.What’s it called?BlackHawkDown?” saidDr.Bowerasweduckedbackfromthewhiningturbo-rotorwash.

“Yeah,well, let’shope thisonestaysup,” I saidas it toucheddownon theconcretepadtwentyfeetinfrontofus.

Theimposingmilitarychopper,bearinganemblemofarearingwingedwhitecentaur,was from the army’s elite 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment, known as theNightStalkers.The160thworkedhandinglovewiththeNavySEALsandhadactuallybeenonthemissionthathadkilledOsamabinLaden.

Allstopswerenowofficiallypulledout.Afteratenseclosed-doorteleconferencewiththeUSpresidenthimself,themayorhadpulledthetrigger.Wehadonlyoneoptionleftonthetable,andthemayorwastakingit.

TheNightStalkerswereheretogiveusaridetotheairport.WewereheadingtoCapeVerde,offthewestcoastofAfrica,withthemilitarytofindtheexplosives.

Thoughitwasprobablyabuzzer-beatinglongshotthatwewouldfindthembeforetheterrorists’deadline,itwasdefinitelytherightmove,Ifelt.

Because what if the three billion dollars were paid?What was to stop them fromblowingupthecliffanyway?Orcharginganotherthreebillionnextweek?

Thoughitwasn’tannounced,themayorhadalsodecidedthat,deadlineornodeadline,shewasn’tgoing togive themasinglepennyofheror thecity’smoney.Which,again,was exactly right, in my humble opinion. Terrorists needed to be dealt with head-on.Whoeverwasdoingthistousneededtobefoundandstopped,notnegotiatedwith.

Afteraquickstrap-inbytheBlackHawk’screwchief,thechoppertookoffandstayedlowasweheadednorthuptheHudson.Throughcoldairblastinginmyfacefromahalf-openwindow,IstaredoutattheglitteringstringsofManhattan’slightsonmyright.

Theglittering,unmovingstringsofManhattan’slights.

Despite the mayor’s directive not to drive, it was obvious that the streets werecompletelyimpassablebecauseoftraffic.

Staringattheseaofdead-stoppedcars,IthoughtaboutMartinandthekids.Thelast

messageIhadreceivedfromthem,aboutanhourandahalfago,wasthat theywerealltogetherandcrossingintoWestchester.

Weretheyfarenoughaway?Iwondered,lookingnorthupthelightlessriver.Theyhadtobe,right?Oratleasttheywouldbefarenoughawaybythedeadlinetomorrow.

At least that’swhat Iwasgoing tokeep tellingmyself, I decided, as I tookoutmyphoneagain.

“Mike?Hello?Areyouthere?”saidSeamusasmycall,surprisingly,wentthrough.

“Yes, Seamus. It’sme,” I said straining to hear over the enginewhine. “Where areyou?Didyougetout?Whereareyou?”

“We’re—”

Thenthesignalwentscrewy.

Irippedthephoneoffmyearandstaredatthescreen.Itwasstillconnected.

“Seamus?”Isaid.“Seamus?”

ThenIlookedatthescreenagainandcursed.

Thelinewasdead.

CHAPTER83

“MIKE?AREYOUthere,Mike?”saidSeamusasheliftedthephoneoffhisearandstaredatitsscreen.

“Itcutoff,”hesaid.

“Ah, the cell sites are just melting, Father. Must be millions trying to get throughnow,”Martinsaidasheletoutanextra-largebreath.

Martin’sglancewentfromthestandstilltraffictotheneedleofthegasgauge,whichwas at the halfway point now, then back to the traffic again. He wiped his sweatingforehead. He’d give it another minute, then turn off the engine to conserve gas, hedecided.

TheywereonBroadwayinYonkers.Itwasasketchypartoftown—run-downhousesandbuildingsandstores.They’dbeenstoppedforalmostfiveminutes,whichmeantGodonlyknowswhatwashappeningupahead.Inthelasthour,theyhadprobablytraveledlessthanamile.

AsMartinwatched,twostockyyoungHispanickidszoomedpastonaKawasakidirtbike.Theoneonthebackwasseatedbackwards,andhegaveMartinandthegoodFatherthefingerashisbuddythreadedbetweenthecars.

“Didyaseethat,Father?”Martinsaid.“Thatwasn’tveryneighborly,now,wasit?”

“We’re not on the old sod anymore,Martin,” Seamus said, shaking his head. “It’sprobablybesttopretendyou’reblind.”

MartinturnedtohisleftandlookedbeyondanemptyparkinglotastheMetro-NorthHudson Line train went slowly by. It was incredibly packed with people in and evenstandingbetweenthecars.Onthelastcar,therewereseveralpeoplesittingontheroof!

It was like something out of news footage from the Great Depression or a sciencefictionfilm,Martinthought.Thiscrazycountry.He’djustwantedtomakealittlepocketmoneywiththenannyjob,andnowlookwherehewas.WanderingthesetofTheWaroftheWorlds2.

When the train finally passed, he could see the Hudson River. Great, he thought,drumminghisfingersonthewheel.Theywererightnexttowater,theoneplaceMikehadspecificallytoldthemnottobe.

Shouldtheyleavethevanandtrytogetonatrain?Martinthought,staringatthegasgaugeagain.Heletoutanotherlongbreathashebitathislowerlip.Itwasimpossibletoknowwhattodo.

“Martin?”Janecalledfromtheback,distressinhervoice.

“Whatisit?”Martinsaid,tryingtokeephistonelightforthechildren.

“Badnews,Martin,”shesaid.

“Howisthatevenpossible?”Martinsaidunderhisbreath.

“It’sJasper.Ithink…well,Ithinkhehastotinkle.”

“Youwanttowalkthedogoutthereinthe’hood?”Seamussaid,turningaroundinthepassengerseatwithaflabbergastedlook.

“It’seitheroutthere,Gramps,”saidJane,shrugging,“orrighthereinthevan.”

“Okay,okay.BrianandEddieandRickyand—whattheheck—you,too,Trent.Looklivelyandget the leash. Ihavean importantmissionforyouboys.You’reallonJaspertinklepatrol,”Seamussaid.

“Yes!”saidBrian,puttingthenow-moaningJasperontheleash.“Finallysomethingtodo!”

“Buddysystem,okay,boys?”Martinsaid.“Leavenomanbehind.”

“Ordog!”saidChrissyfrantically.“Ordog!”

“Exactly.Nomanordog,okay?Nowhitit!”

Theyburstoutof thevanand ranwith Jasper through the traffic to a concretewallbesidearun-downtenement.

“I see them,” said Bridget, cupping her hands over her eyes and looking out thewindow.“He’stinkling!Jasperistinkling!”

“Yay!”saidFiona.

“That’sthebestnewsI’veheardallday,isn’tit,Father?”saidMartin.

Seamusrolledhiseyes.

Thevan burst into applause as the boys arrived back, breathless,with the pup.Thehappy,exciteddogstartedbarkinglikemadasChrissygrabbedhimtoherchestinabearhugwhileSocky,thecat,remainedaloof,snuggledinoneofShawna’ssweatshirtsonthefloorofthevan.

“We’reclear,”saidBrian,slammingthedoor.“Quick!Martin!Hitthegas!”

Ifonly,Martinthoughtashestaredoutattheseaofbrakelights.

CHAPTER84

THEREHADTO bewell over a hundredmilitary people scurrying aroundthreelargecargoplanesonthetarmacofTeterboroAirportinnorthernNewJerseywhenwelandedinthehelicoptertenminuteslater.

Anditwasn’tjustmenbeingmovedinandoutoftheC-130s.Aswelanded,IwatchedaJeepdriveuparampintotheplane’sbelly,followedquicklybyasmalltractortowinginaBlackHawkhelicopterwithitsrotorsfoldedback.

“TheUSmilitary is truly incredible, isn’t it?” I said to Emily. “Imean, themayormade the call—what?Fourhours ago?Now lookat this! It’sunbelievablehowquicklythisthingisbeingmobilized.”

“Let’sjusthopeit’sfastenough,”Emilysaid.

Weaskedaround,thenmetupwithLieutenantCommanderNateGardner,theleaderof theSEALs team that hadbeen assigned to headup themission.Natewas a tall, fit,clean-cutguyaroundthirty,withlight-blueeyesandblackhair.Hewassittingonafour-wheelerunderthewingofoneoftheplaneseatingpizzawithhisteamofcommandos.

HeandhisthirtyorsoSEALsweresittingbesidetheirweaponsandkitbagstalkingquietlywithoneanotherornapping.Theyseemedtobetheonlystillandcalmpeopleinthewholeairport.

Makethatthetristatearea,Ithoughtaswewalkedup.

“NYPD!”Natesaid,smilingandwipingpizzagreaseon the thighsofhisolive-drabdesert-camouniformbeforestandingup toshakeourhands.“Nowwe’re talking. I loveyouguys.I’mfromRochester,butIlivedinashitholeinAlphabetCitywithmyfriendsaftercollegeandsawupclosehowyouguysoperate.Iwasactuallyonthecoplistbeforedecidingtojointhenavy.”

“Pleased tomeetyou,LieutenantCommander,”Emily jumped in.“Butwhatarewesupposedtodonow?”

“Please, it’s Nate,” the soldier said, grinning. “Or Commander Nate, if you must.Basically,ma’am,we’llboardafterthetoysarepacked.Yougotmytwoteamsaswellasfiveofthearmy’sexplosiveordnancedisposalteamsenroute.”

“Right,buthowarewegoingtoplaythis?”shesaid.“What’sthestrategy?JustheadtoÁrvorePretaandstartlooking?”

“TheUSambassador toCapeVerdewillmeet us at the airport on theother side tosmooth thingsoutwith the locals,”Natesaid.“Theywillprovideuswith islandguides,andwe’ll locate thesebombs.Oncewe find them,we let theEODteamsdo their thing

disarmingthem.Myteamwillprovidesecurityforeverybody.Irecommendyouguystrytogetsomesleepontheflight.”

“That’sit?”saidDr.Bower.

“That’sallshewrote,ma’am,”Natesaid,winkingoneofhisbabyblues.

“Howtosave theworld in threeeasysteps,”Emilysaidas the tall,energeticSEALrejoinedhismen.“Iadmirehisconfidence.IfonlyIsharedit.”

“Youandmeboth,”IsaidasItookoutmyphonetocheckonmyguysfortheelevenbillionthtime.

CHAPTER85

COMINGONSIXhourslater,Iwokeupsweatingassomeonetwoorthreeseats down along the vibrating metal wall of the loudly buzzing cargo plane startedcoughinguncontrollably.

More than seventy people were strapped into the benches along both walls of themilitary plane. Therewere SEALs, army explosives techs, a fully staffedmedical unit,severalplanerefuelingtechs,andpilotsandcrewfromthe160th.

Ididn’tknowwhattheweightlimitfortheC-130was,butithadtobemassive,sincebetween the rows of soldiers, tied downwith heavy canvas straps in themiddle of theplane,wasaBlackHawkhelicopterbookendedbyacoupleofJeeps.

Itwasthesamedealinthetwootherplanesflyingalongsideus.Morethanahundredhighly trainedmen and women along with who knows howmanymillions of dollars’worthofequipment.

WhentheUSmilitarywentforit,theyapparentlywentalltheway.

Iglancedoveratawired-lookingEmilybesideme.ShewasreadingtheCapeVerdeinfopackettheCIAhadprovidedforthehundredthtime.Shelookedlikeshehadn’tsleptatall.Sheglancedatherwatch,thenbackatmeuneasily.Icheckedthetimeonmyphoneandjoinedherinwincing.

Wehadjusteighthoursleftbeforethe1:00p.m.deadline,andwehadn’tevenlandedyet.

I checkedmyphone for anymessages fromRobertsonorBrooklyn.About anhourintotheflight, theyhadcontactedmewiththegreatideatocross-referenceoursuspectswith themanifests fromanyandall flights fromtheNewYorkCityarea toCapeVerdeovertheprevioussixmonths.

Itonlymadesense.IfthebombswereonCapeVerde,thatis.

Inthefrontoftheplane,pastthenoseoftheBlackHawk,daylightwasspillingintothecabin through theopendoorof thecockpit. Iunclippedmybeltanddecided to joinSEALcommanderNate,whowasstandingbythecockpitdoor.

As I got to the doorway, the plane swung left, then down below, through thewindshield,islandssuddenlyappeared—smalloblongislandswithrimsofbeachstandingverywhiteagainstthedarktealoftheAtlantic.

“Fifteenminutes!”thefemalepilotcalledback.

Istareddownatthebright,sandyflatstripsofland.I’dalreadyreadtheinfopacket.It

said that, like a lot of the islands in the eastern Atlantic near Africa, Cape Verde hadoriginally been settled in the 1500s by the Portuguese. Once an important hub of theAfrican slave trade and a notorious haunt of pirates, it had gained its nationalindependence in the early 1970s, when a Marxist revolutionary—a Fidel Castro–likefigurenamedAmilcarCabral—hadfoughtforitsindependence.

Now,withallthatinitsrearview,thepacketsaidCapeVerdewasactuallythriving.Itwas an up-and-coming, laid-back, beachy island vacation destinationwithmicroclimatevineyardsandecotours.

ToobadIdidn’tfeelthatlaid-backastheplanebeganitsdescent.Thevideoshowingallthosebombsinthecavewouldn’tstopreplayinginmyhead.

Maybethepirateshadcomeback,Ithought.

Wereceivedpermission to landatAmilcarCabral InternationalAirportonan islandcalledSaltenminuteslater.Itcertainlylookedlikeavacationdestination,Ithoughtaswecameinlowoverwhitewashedstuccohousesandcolorfulfishingboatsinanultramarinebay.Aswetoucheddown,Ispottedasmallpassengerplaneonadistantrunway—brightgreen,yellow,andred,likeaparrot.

Toobadthecheerywelcome-to-the-BahamasfeelinglastedaboutaNewYorkminute.Whenwewerewalkingdowntheplane’srampintothebrightglare,severalvehiclesshotoutfromaroundtheterminalbuilding.

Therewerethreepickuptruckswithadozenormorearmeduniformedmenstandinginthebeds.ThelongstretchMercedeslimothatfollowedthetruckshadCapeVerdeflagsflyingfromeachcorner.

“Isittheambassador?”oneoftheSEALssaidtoNateGardner.

Natesuddenlyfrownedasthecarscamerightatus.

“Olender, getColorado on the horn,” he said. “I don’t like the looks of this. Theseguyslookpissed.Somethingmusthavegottenscrewedup.Findoutwhat.”

“IamVicePresidentBasilioRivera!”yelledashortandsleeklyhandsomebrownmanwithalittlemustacheasheleapedfromtheBenz.“Whatthehellisgoingonhere?Whyare thosemen armed?You areUSmilitary, yes?Who gave you permission to land? Idemandtoknowwhatyouaredoinghere!”

“Mr.VicePresident,”Nate said, smilingwarmly at the little tin-pot dictator andhissoldiers.“MynameisLieutenantCommanderNateGardneroftheUSNavy.Theremusthave been amix-up, sir. Everything is okay.Wehave permission to be here fromyourgovernment.Itwasverylast-minute,though,soperhapsnoteveryonewasinformed.I’mcallingmypeoplerightnowtogetconfirmation.Iencourageyoutodothesame,sir.”

The tense, silent soldiershoppeddown,palming theirautomatic rifles.TheyflankedthelimoasNateandVicePresidentRiverawalkedbacktowarditsopendoor.EmilyandIstood next to each other in the sweltering wind, sweating as the small man spoke inPortugueseintohisphone.

“Thisisallweneed,”Isaid,checkingmyphonetoseeexactlyzeromessagesfrommy

kids.“Iwasn’texpectingmaitaiswithlittleumbrellasinthem,butthisisridiculous.”

TheVP hung up, and he andNate spoke tensely for aminute. Then suddenly theywerelaughing.

“Whatareyouwaiting for?”Nateyelled tohisguysashe joggedback. “Don’t juststandthere.Let’sgettheseplanesunpacked.”

CHAPTER86

OUTSIDETHETILTED-OPEN door of the Black Hawk, the sunglitteredofftheflatsapphiresurfaceoftheAtlantic,blurringbylessthanfiftyfeetbelow.

Ithadbeenalittlemorethananhoursincewehadlanded,andweweretwentymilessouthofSal,headingintwoBlackHawksforÁrvorePreta.Thechopperswerepacked.TheSEALssatclippedbysafetyharnesses to theaircraft’sdeck, theirfeetdanglingouttheopendoor,whileeveryoneelsehadtositononeanother’slaps.Itwasdeadsilentbutforthewhirringwhineoftherotor.IsawaSEALcheckhiswatch,soIdecidedtocheckmyown.Wehadsevenhourstothedeadline,Isaw.

Sevenhourstofindtheneedle,IthoughtasIslowlyletoutabreath,andwehaven’tevenarrivedatthehaystackyet.

VicePresidentRiveraactuallyturnedouttobeextremelyagreeableandhelpfuloncehewasbroughtuptospeedonthethreat.HehadhismenraceoffinoneofthetrucksandbringusbackamannamedArmenioRezende.

Rezende,oneofonlytwogovernment-licensednatureguidesonÁrvorePreta,readilyagreed to show us around the island. The happy-seemingmiddle-aged blackmanwithdyed blond dreads told us he hadn’t seen any suspicious activity on Árvore Preta butconfirmed that there were several vent caves very high up on the ocean side of theunstablenorthernrimofthevolcano’scaldera.

IlookedoveratRezende,sweatingacrossfrommeintheBlackHawk’sjam-packedcabin,thenoutatthewaterasahopeless,horriblethoughtoccurredtome.

Whatifwe’rewrong?Whatifthisisjustanotherheadfakeandthethreatiscomingfromsomewhereelsealtogether?

Burstsofwhitewater explodedoff jaggedblack rocksaswe finallydrewalongsideÁrvorePreta’sdesolateshore.Itgotalittlecooleraswebegantoflyhigheruptheslopeof the volcano toward the summit. Our two Black Hawks seemed tiny against theimmensity of the volcanic black-rock mountain, like flies attempting the ascent of acathedralroof.

Rezende directed the pilot over one of the jagged peaks near the summit, and welandedinaclearingofdull,light-browndustatthebottomofashadedgorge.

Iclosedmyeyesagainstthepebblesandgritthatstungmyfaceaswepiledout,andwhenIopenedthem,Ijuststoodtheregaping.

Therehadbeensomepinesatthesouthernendoftheislandnearthewater,butupheretherewasnothing.Ineverydirectionwasaduskylunarlandscapeofblackrockandblack

ashonwhichnothingmoved.

“These are the four caves that I know about,” Rezende said as he knelt and begandrawingacrudeoutlineoftheirlocationsinthedirtwithhisfinger.

Wedecided tosplitup intofour teams.EmilyandIandMr.DukewentwithNate’steamwest,upaslopeofloose,black,sandlikevolcanicdust.Whenwearrivedatthetopofaridge,weclimbedupanoutcroppingandlookeddownintothecalderaofthevolcanoitself.

Mr.DukehadjustpointedoutwhatlookedlikeacaveopeninginthedriedlavabedacoupleofhundredfeetbelowwhenNate’sradiostartedpopping,chatteringfrantically.

“CommanderNate!Nate!”cameovertheradio.

“Whatisit?”

“The island guide, Rezende. He just went nuts or something! He tried to shoveOlenderoffacliff,andnowhe’srunningupthehill!He’salmostnearthetop.WhatdoIdo?”

“Drophisass!”saidNatewithouthesitation.“Inthelegsifyoucan,butdrophim.Hecouldbegoingfortheexplosives!”

Weheardthecrackleofgunfireaswequicklyheadedfortheeasternslope.Whenwegot to its top,wesawaclusterofSEALsabouta football fieldaway,standingnear theedgeofacliff,lookingdown.WhenIgottotheedgeofthecliff,Iwashitwithvertigo.Itwasinsanelyhighup,asheerhundredstoriesorsostraightdowntothesea.

“Mike!Look!Thisisit!Thislookslikethestillfromthevideo!”Emilysaid.

“Whatthefhappened?”Natesaidtohisguys.

“Ididlikeyousaid,Commander,”oneofthemsaid.“Iputtwoinhim,oneinthebackofeachknee,butthenhecrawledtotheedgeandjustrolledoff.”

“Hecommittedsuicide,sir,”saidanotherSEAL.“IswearonastackofBibles.Itwascompletelydeliberate.”

“Butwhy?”saidMr.Duke.

“Hemusthavebeeninonitiswhy,”Isaid,lookingaround.“Hewasoneofonlytwolicensed guides, right?Hehad the run of the island basically to himself.Hemust havebeenpaidtohelpthebombers.Damnit,Ididn’teventhinkofit.”

ThenIsawit.Offtotheleft,downtheledgeofthecliff,aboutahundredfeetawaywasafissureintherockwall.Afamiliarone.

Istaredatthealmostcircularopeninginthewrinkledblackrock,thenwaydownthecliff,wherepetrelswereflyingthiswayandthatlikeconfetti.Emilywasright.Thiswastheplacefromthevideo.We’dactuallyfoundit.

Theneedleinthehaystack.

CHAPTER87

THESWIRLINGLINES in the rock at themouth of the volcanic caveremindedmeofthemouthoftheweird-lookingguyinthatfamouspaintingTheScream.Ifeltlikedoingsomescreamingmyselfaswesatonourhandswaitingandwaiting.

We’dfoundthebombs.

Oneofthearmybombtechshaddonearecon,andtheretheywere,justasthevideohadshown.Fifteenindividualtwenty-poundchargesofSemtexhadbeenfounddowntheslopingthree-hundred-yardchannelofthecave.Athree-football-field-longdaisychainofdeathanddestructionconnectedwithdetcordandashitloadofwiresandcablesandwhoknewwhatelse.Tripwires?Motiondetectors?

Ormaybe somethingnew.With thesebombers, ifwe’d learnedone thing, itwas toexpecttheunexpected.Anythingcouldhappennow.

Istareddownthecliffandimaginedanexplosion,thegroundslidingaswerodehalfthemountainintothesea.

“You know, you really shouldn’t be here,” said Commander Nate, crouching downnexttome.

“Iknow,”IsaidasIstaredatthesilentradioinmyhand.“Ishouldbehomemakingpancakes.”

“No—Imeanrighthere.Weshouldgetback.”

“Nate,ifthosebombsintheregooff,thiswholemountainiscomingdown.Hereisasgoodaplaceasanywheretobeblownintothebottomofthesea.”

Istaredatthemouthofthecaveagain.Itwasuptothearmybombsquadguysnow.Intothatmouththirtyminutesbeforehadgonefivethree-manarmyEODteamswiththeirspacemanbombsuitsandremote-controlledrobotsknownaswheelbarrows.

Thewheelbarrowswerearmedwithcameras,sensors,andmicrophonesalongwitha“pigstick”devicethatcouldshootanexplosivejetofwatertodisableabomb’sfiring-traincircuitry. They’d even set up a cell-phone-jamming device connected to one of theirToughbooklaptopstothwartanycell-phonetriggers.

Butevenwithalltheirhigh-techgear,theyhadtheirworkcutoutforthemandthensome.

Istaredatmyradio,whichhadbeencompletelysilentforthelasttenminutes,thenIcouldn’ttakeitanymore.Istoodandwalkedovertothecaveandstuckmyheadin.Insidetheentrance,itbegantoslopesharplydown.Itwasoddlyuniform.Itlookedalmostman-

made,likeasubwaytunneltohell.Mr.Dukehadexplainedthatthecave,knownasalavatube,was a channel in the rock formed during a previous eruption.Therewas a raisedstringypatterninthefloorandbenchlikeledgesalongbothwallswheretheexplosiveshadbeenplaced.

TheradioI’dleftbehindmefinallycrackledforthefirsttime,andIranovertoit.

“Rendersafeone.Irepeat,rendersafeone.Wegotthefirstone,”cameovertheradio.

“Two.Rendersafechargetwo.”

IlookedupatasmilingNateashearrived.

“Wegotthree.Threeisdown,”saidavoiceasNategavemeanamped-uphighfive.

“Mattie, this isAlpo,”cameanurgentvoiceover theradioamoment later.“Weseesomethingsmokingupthecavetoourleft.Irepeat.Weseesomethingsmokingoverbyyoualongthewall.”

Therewasapausethenaone-wordreply.

“Down!” screamed a voice as the rumble of an explosionwent off deep inside thecave.

In super slowmotion, I turned toward themouth of the cave as I felt the shudderthroughtherockaroundme.ItwasthesameshudderIfeltwhen26Fedhadcomedown,andIstaredupattheblueoftheskywaitingfortheworldtoend.

CHAPTER88

GREAT.JUSTGREAT,Martinthought,lookingoutthevan’swindshieldashewokeup.

Itwas6:00a.m.,and,nobonesaboutit,hisEscapefromNewYorkbidwiththekidshadfailedspectacularly.

HewasonI-95,butnotoutsidethecity,aspertheplan.No,hewasheadingthewrongway—back into the city—in the East Bronx, parked off the side of the road, pointingsouth.

Howithadhappenedhecouldn’tsay.Hehadtriedvaliantlytogetupstate,likeMikehadtoldhim,buteverywheretheyhadgonetheroadshadbeenblockedbyaccidentsorpolice.Allnight longhekeptgettingshunted thiswayand that.Bottomline,he’dbeenforcedbackinexactlythewrongdirection.

Itgotworse.Theywerenowonaconcretebridgeaboveabodyofwater,aninletofsomesort.ThelastsigntheyhadpassedbeforehehadgonetosleepsaidCITYISLAND.

Hedidn’tknowtoomuchabouttheBronx,butevenanIrishmanknewthatCityIslandwas a place where there were seafood restaurants and fishing boats you could charter.Thingsreallycouldn’tbemoredire.TheywerenowstuckintheBronxrightbythenot-so-beautifulsea.

Helookedintherearviewmirroratthesleepingkids.Atleasttheyhadfinallyzonkedout.Theywerefedandwateredafterastopatagasstationaroundthree.Therewasnogasat the station, of course, as all the tankswere empty, but he’d let them go to town onsweetsinthestore.

They’d come outwithPringles,Combos, sodas, every variety ofM&M’s known toman.Anythingtokeepthemblissfullyunawareof—what?Comingdisaster?Apocalypse?

“Unbe-shighting-lievable,”hemumbledashestaredoutatthegrayingsky,thenattheEonthegasgauge.

“Whatwasthat?”saidSeamus,sittingup.

“Nothing,Father,”saidMartin.“Gobacktosleep.We’regood.”

“Actually,Father…,”headdedasheglancedoutthewindowtohisright.

“Whatisit,son?”saidSeamus,yawning.

“Father,Iwasjustthinking.Weweren’tabletomakeitupstate,right?”

“I’ll say,”Seamus said, looking around. “Wedidn’t evenmake it out of theBoogie

Down.”

“Well,lookoverthere,”saidMartin,pointingoutthewindowatastandofhigh-risesacoupleofmileswestonthehorizon.

“That’sCo-opCity,”saidSeamus.“Whataboutit?”

“Well, you know how in the tsunami videos from Indonesia a lot of people on thebeachdidn’tdosohot?Butyoucanseeplentyoffolksontheroofsofthehotelsandwhathaveyoudoingseeminglyokay.Whatdoyousayweheadovertheretothosebuildingsandseeifwecan’tgainsomehigherground?”

“ButIthoughtyousaidthatwestillhadsomegas,”Seamussaid.

“Blessme,Father,forIhavesinned.Thetankisdry,I’msorrytoreport.Weneedtogetoffthisbridge,atanyrate.Forallweknowthewavecouldbeheadingtowardusrightnow.”

Seamusturnedtotherearofthevan.

“Kids,kids!Wakeup!Wakeupnow!”

“Whatnow?”saidEddiewithhiseyesstillclosed.“Isthevanonfire?”

“No,”saidSeamus.“Grabyourthings.We’reallgoingforawalk.”

“Awalkonthehighway?”saidBrian.

“IntheBronx?”Julianajoinedin.

“Riseandshine,Bennetts.Oneandall,”saidSeamus.“It’stimetoabandonship!”

CHAPTER89

BUTTHEWORLDdidn’tend.

Theworld and themountain held.We didn’t know how.Allwe knewwas that theechoes of the blast finally dissipated and the shudder slowly subsided in the rock.Miraculously, themountain and themoleculesof our bodies all decided to stayhappilytogether.

“Wegotit!”cameovertheradio.“Comingout!”

Twentyminutes after theyhadgone in, theEODguyscameoutof thegodforsakencaveintheirgreenastronautbombsuits.Thelastguyoutwasatight-lippedbombtech,ashort andwiry Italian-looking fortysomething guywith dark, hooded eyes.His buddieshelpedhimtakeoffthetoolsmockhangingdownthecenterofhischestandpulloffhisspaceman helmet. His sweat-soaked hair was plastered to his forehead as if he’d justgottenoutoftheshower.

Heputdownthered-and-blackportableX-raymachinetheyusedtocheckforboobytraps,thenrolledontohisbackinhiseighty-poundsuitlikeadustyupendedturtle.Oneofhis buddies handed him something, and he began expertly rolling a cigarette with hisoversize,muscularmechanic’shands.

His name was First Sergeant Matthew Battista of the 789th Explosive OrdnanceDisposalCompany.He taught at theEODschool atEglinAirForceBase, nearDestin,Florida,andwassaidtobethebestandmosttechnicallyproficientandexperiencedbombtechinthearmyandperhapstheworld.

“Okay,Mattie,what’s thestory?Ifweallweren’tcurrentlyhavingheartattacks, thesuspensewouldbekillingus,”CommanderNatesaid,handinghimababywipe.

Mattiewipedathissweatyfaceashelayagainsttherock,staringupatthecloudlesssky.Hesmokedhiscigaretteinthecornerofhismouthwithouttouchingit.

“Theblastwasfromadisposalfailure,”hefinallysaid.“Wewerepullingoutpiecesofdetcord through the ring bolts next to cables in the walls, and something must havescrewedup—probably a badpiece of deteriorated cable. It’s the same really oldSovietshitwesawinIraq.Badcablecoupledwithsomefrictionburnismyguess.Onlyasmallpiecewentoff,though.Aboutfourfeet.ThankGodwecutitupbeforehand.”

“So you were able to defuse everything else?” said Emily. “Did you find thedetonator?Wasitonacell-phonetrigger?Amechanicaltimer?”

“That’swhatIcan’tfigureout,”hesaid,shakinghishead.“It’sallwiredup,readytogo.Wefoundthis.”

Hereachedoverandtooktwoitemsoutofhissmock.Heheldupasmallblackboxwithsomewiresstickingoutofitandabrownplasticdevicewiththreebuttonsonit.

“Isthatagaragedooropener?”Isaid,lookingatit.

Henodded.

“Andtheblackboxisagaragedoorreceiver,”hesaid.“Seenthembefore.Youpresstheopener,anditsendsasignaltothereceiver,justlikeacell-phonetrigger.Thewholedaisy chain in there was wired up to this receiver except for one crucial detail. Thereceiveralsohastobewireduptoabatteryinorderforittosetoffthedetcord.Therewasnobattery.Also,therewasnobatteryfortheopener,either.”

“Sotherewasnowaytosetitoff,”Emilysaid.

Battistashookhishead.

“They left out the final piece.Makes sense in terms of safety. Iwouldn’twant anyjuicewithin twenty squaremiles of thismuch explosive.Much safer to bring the finalpiecestogetherrightwhenyouwanttoblowit.”

“So what do you think, Mike? Rezende had the batteries on him?” Emily said.“Rememberhowheinsistedonhittinghishouseandthrowingonhishikingbootsbeforegettingon thebird?The first thingweneed todo is retrieveRezende’sbodyandbeginscouringhisrecords.Hedidn’tdothisbyhimself.”

“No, that’s the second thingwedo,” I said, takingout the satellitephone.“FirstwecallNewYorkCityandcanceltheevacuation.”

CHAPTER90

THIRTY-EIGHTNAUTICALMILES due north of Árvore Preta,backatAmilcarCabralInternationalAirportonSal,thefirst-classpassengersonaflightfromMunichhadclearedcustomsandwereenteringthemainterminal.

Theterminalwasverymodern—cleanandbright,withwhitewallsandpolishedglassand floors. The in-flight magazine had said its recent remodel was evidence of CapeVerde’s growing appeal to vacationing Europeans looking for an exotic tropicalexperience.

Ashewalked,Mr.Beckettrememberedwhattheplacelookedlikeintheearly’70s,whenhearrivedonhisfirstfieldassignmentduringtherebellion.ThePortuguesemilitaryhelicoptersbehindsandbagsoutonthetarmac;thebulletholesinthebarredwindows;thenervous-lookingtroopsandpress.Ithadbeenanexoticexperiencethenaswell.

“Gorgeous day. Truly breathtaking,” Mr. Joyce commented, staring at the shiningsqueaky-cleannessoftheglassterminal.

They were both dressed casually now, Eurosporty, with tailored sport coats overAdidastops,expensivejeans,andChanelaviatorsunglasses.

“Indeed,”saidMr.BeckettashepulledhisrollingGuccisuitcasearoundagroupofAfricansandWesterntravelerssleepingandreadingmagazinesinarowofpleatherairportseats.Hegazedup at thebeamsof light spillingdown fromoneof themanyoverheadskylights.

“Onemightevencallitamomentousday,”hesaid.

Theylaughedtogetherastheywalked.ThenMr.Beckettyawned.Hehadn’tbeenabletosleepontheflight.Thenhesmiledagainashetookadeepbreath.

Thatwasokay.Hefeltasecondwindcoming.Onelastsprintleftforthefinalmile.

“WhereisKatarina?”Mr.Joycesaidastheyapproachedtheairportexit.“Ispecificallytoldhertobewaitingforusupahead,atthecar-for-hire.Idon’tlikethis.”

“Don’tbeparanoid,Mr.Joyce,”saidMr.Beckett,grinningathiscompanion.“We’rehere. It’s done. You need to enjoy it. In an hour, we call Armenio, who will rig thedetonator.Allweneed todonow isgo to thehotel andorderChampagne.Wedial thenumberandsitbackontheseasidebalconyandwatch.”

“Watchthefun?”saidMr.Joyce.

Mr.Beckettnoddedvigorously.

“Yes.There’llbesomuchfuntheentireworldwon’tknowwhattodo.”

“ForMikhail?”saidMr.Joyce,lookingathispartner.

Mr.Beckettagreedwithasolemnnod.“AllforpoorMikhail.”

Theywere near the exit, andMr.Beckettwas turning his phone off airplanemode,whenaplain,petite,dark-hairedwomaninchicbusinesswearandheelsburstthroughtheterminal’sentranceandmadeabeelineforthem.

“Katarina!Whatisit?What’swrong?”saidMr.Joyce.

“Everything!”Katarinasaid,swallowing.“Everythingiswrong!”

CHAPTER91

“SLOWDOWN,KATARINA,beforeyourunusofftheroad,”saidMr.Beckettastheyspedoutoftheairportinhertinypale-greenFiat.

“I’vebeencallingyousincethismorning,”shecried.“It’sadisaster!”

“Slowly,Katarina.Whathappened?”

“What happened? I should be asking you that,” she said. “You said this would bediscreetandthatnoonewouldeverknow.Whydidyoucontacttheauthorities?Youneversaidanythingaboutaransom.”

“Awhat?”

“A ransom! Don’t giveme that. Like you don’t know! It’s all over the news! TheBBC!Wherehaveyoubeen?”

“We’ve been out of contact on an airplane,” saidMr.Beckett. “What’s all over thenews?”

“Youreallydon’tknow?They’reevacuatingNewYork!”sheshrieked.

Mr.BeckettandMr.Joycelookedateachotherinhorror.

“No,”Mr.Joycegroaned.“Notnow.We’resoclose.”

“Yousaidaransom.Whatransom?”saidMr.Beckett.

“TheBBCsaid theAmericanssaid theywereevacuatingNewYorkand theEasternSeaboardbecauseofatsunamiwarning,”Katarinasaidasshescreechedaroundatrafficcircle,nearlyontwowheels.“ButtheBBCsaidthatwasanunlikelystoryandthattherewererumorsaboutanimpendingterroristattackandaransomdemand.”

“Wedidn’taskforaransom,”Mr.Joycesaid.“Whowoulddothatifwedidn’t?”

“Twowords.DmitriYevdokimov,”saidMr.Beckettafteralongthirtyseconds.

“Thatsonofabitchwebought thealuminumdustand thepumptrucksfrom?”saidMr.Joyce.

“He’stheonlyonecleverenough,”Mr.Beckettsaid,lookingoutatthepassingislandcountryside. “Besides, he’s a computer expert. I knew I shouldn’t have given himmyfuckinge-mail.Hemusthavehackedus—sawourplansandthevideoweweregoingtoshow after. He put two and two together, copied the video, and tried to pull a ransomdeal.”

“I’mgoingtohandcuffhimtoaradiatorandsnipouthisliverwithapairofkitchen

scissors!”Mr.Joycesaid,screaming,ashepunchedatthedoorofthecar.“Heruinedourentireplan!”

“Itgetsworse!”Katarinayelled.“ThefuckingAmericansarehere!Armeniotextedmetwohoursagowiththis,”shesaid,handingMr.Beckettherphone.

Americansoldiersjustarrivedinthevillage.IwilldomybesttokeepthemawaybutIwillsetitoffmanuallyifIcan’t.Whateverhappensthedealisstillon.

“Ikeep trying tocallhimback,buthedoesn’t respond.Hemustbeunderarrestbynow.Ordead.It’sover.Whatarewegoingtodonow?I’malloverArmenio’sphone.WeneedtogetoutofCapeVerdenow.”

“Itdoesn’tmatter.Nothingmatters,”saidMr.Joyce,startingtocryinthebackseat.

“Katarina, stop the car!” said Mr. Beckett, suddenly clutching his chest. “I’m notkidding.Mychest.I’mhavingchestpains!Ineedmymedication!Inmybaginthetrunk.Pullover!Please!Oh,ithurts!”

Katarina pulled over on the side of the deserted two-lane country road beside astubbledfieldwithbabysheepandgoatsroamingoverit.Mr.Beckettstumbledoutontotheshoulderandwenttothetrunk.

“Katarina!Helpme—overhere!”saidMr.Beckettasecondlater.

Whenshearrivedatthetrunk,Mr.BeckettwithoutpreamblesmashedKatarinainthefacewitha tire iron.Bloodpouredoutbetweenher fingers,clutched toher face,asshebeganimmediatelytobackpedal.

Hehitheragaininthebackoftheheadassheturned,thenshefellbackwardsintoanirrigationditchfilledwithmuddyrainwaterthatranparalleltotheroad.

ShewasbeginningtocrawlbackupontoherkneeswhenMr.Beckettarrivedtofinishup.Rightthereinbroaddaylight,withthreemoreblowstothehead,hebeathertodeathwiththetireironasthebabysheeplookedon.

Aminutelater,hewasbackontheroadnexttothecar.Hewipedthetireironwithathinpinksweaterthathadbeendrapedonthebackofthedriver’sseatbeforehechuckedit back in the trunk, tossed the sweater in after it, and closed the lid.Crushing her cellphoneunderhisheel,hefoundandpocketed itsSIMcardbeforehecheckedhiswatch.Thenhegotintothedriver’sseatandmadeaU-turnbacktowardtheairport.

Hewriggledhiswet toes inhismuddy shoes ashedrove.He’dhave tohit thegiftshopforsomesocks.

Hehadn’t killedKatarinabecause shehaddisappointedhim.On the contrary, she’dbeenloyalandcompetenttoafaultinhelpingtoseteverythingup.He’devenbeengoodfriendswithherfatherbackduringtheCapeVerdeanrevolutionhe’dhelpedbringabout.

Hekilledhersimplybecausehealwayscoveredhistracks.That’swhyhehadbeeninbusinessforsolong.Itwasthesecretofhissuccess.

Inthebackseat,Mr.Joycewasstillsobbing.

“Iknowit’sdisappointingafterallourhardwork,”saidMr.Beckett.“Allthemoney,

alltheplanning.Wegotrooked—theywereaheadofusbyafewmeaslyhours.Itwastheambitiousnessoftheplan.Themorepeople,themoremovingparts,theeasierforonetomalfunction.”

“But thatcity!Thatcitydeserves tobedestroyed!WhataboutMikhail?WhataboutMikhail?!”sobbedMr.Joyce.

“This isn’t over. Not by a long shot,” Mr. Beckett said reassuringly. “We need toregroup and go to the backup plan. We’re still ahead of them. We’ll use the DutchpassportsandbebackinNewYorkbytomorrow.”

Mr.Beckettlookedupatthenarrow-bodiedDC-9airlinerontakeoffthatroaredlowovertheircarastheyturnedintotheairportaccessroad.

“Thereismorethanonewaytoskinacat,myson,”hesaid.

CHAPTER92

“IHAVETOadmit,Mike,thehomeboundlegofthistripisstartingtogrowonmealittle,”Emilysaid,yawning,assheplacedherseatintheway-backpositionontheothersideofthemaple-paneledcabin.

“I’llsay,”Isaid,swirlingtheglassofPinotNoir inmyhand.“YouthinkYelphasacorporatejetsection?Idon’tknowaboutyou,butI’mgivingthispuppyfivestarsalltheway.”

Thingswere lookingup, forawelcomechange.ThemayorwassopleasedwithourfindingtheexplosivesthatsheinsistedonsendingherpersonalaircrafttogiveEmilyandmeandthetwogeophysicalexpertsalifthome.

Andwhataplane.Itwasasleek,brand-neweighty-million-dollarBombardierGlobal7000,withacustominteriorthatlookedlikeaParkAvenueapartment.Therewerebuilt-inflatscreenseverywhere,anIrishlinen–covereddiningtable,Orientalrugs.

Icouldn’t tellwhichwassofterormoresoothing, theclassicalmusicplayingon theoverhead speaker, the heated leather seat, or the dimmed lights. I yawned, too, andwriggledmyachingshoelessfeetagainsttheexpensivecarpetasIdrainedmyglass.

I’dactuallybuzzedbackmyownseattocatchalittlesleepwhenmyaggravatingbrainstartedbringingstuffup.Stufflikehowthoughwe’dfinallyputsomepointsontheboard,thiswasn’t over.How itwouldn’t be over until the bomberswere deador behindbars.MostlyIcouldn’tstopthinkinghowmykids,alongwitheveryoneelseinNewYork,werestill extremelyvulnerable, and soonmy finger found the seat switchand Iwasheadingbackintotheuprightpositionagain.

Iaskedtheflightattendantforsomecoffeeandtookoutmylaptop.Amomentlater,Ihadmye-mailopenandforthetenthtimestartedreadingthroughthedetailedbriefthattheexcellentCapeVerdeJudicialPolicehadputtogetherabouttheislandguideArmenioRezende.

PolicedivershadfoundRezendedeadinthesurfonthesouthwestsideofthevolcanicisland about threemiles away from the cliff he’d jumped off, andwhat they recoveredfromhispocketchilledmeeverytimeIthoughtaboutit.

Fourtwelve-voltgaragedooropenerbatteries.

Soour theorywas actually true:Rezendehad tried to set off thebombs.He’dbeendeadsetonkillinghimselfandallofusthere.

Andonly theLordknewhowmanyother innocentpeoplewouldhavediedhad theentiremountainshakenlooseandcrasheddownintothesea.

I thoughtabout the2004IndianOcean tsunami thathadkilled230,000people.FiveYankee Stadiums of human beings, old and young, innocent after terrified innocent,suddenlycaught in the flood.Schoolchildrenwashedoutof theirdesksanddrowned intheir classrooms. Commuters on trains looking up from their papers to see the oceancominginthewindow.Mothersmadetowatchastheirbabieswerewhiskedawayinthefloodorcrushedbydebris.

Andsomeonewantedthat?Rezendewantedthat?IthoughtasIglancedoutthedarkcircleoftheplane’swindow.Hewantedcountlesshomesandfactoriesandchurchesandcitiesandtownsdestroyed?Hewanted230,000lastgulpsofbreathfrompeoplehedidn’tevenknow?How?WasRezendeaspacealien?Azombiefromacrypt?Becauseitdidn’tcompute,thatmuchhate.Notinhumanterms.Howcouldahumanbeokaywithaquartermillionmurdersonhissoul?

Yet it was true. Rezende did want it. Had in fact died trying to make it happen.Rezendehadwantedit,alongwithwhoeverelsewasinvolved.

BecauseitwasobviousthatRezendewasn’tthemastermind.We’dsatdownwiththeCapeVerdecopsbeforeweleft,andtheytoldusRezendedidn’tevenhaveapassportandthathehadneverbeenanywhere—letaloneNewYorkCity.

No,Rezendewas low-level, I thought,goingover the report.Hehadseveralassaultarrests as a youngman, some domestic violence incidents, a 2010 burglary charge thatdidn’t stick. He definitely didn’t have any industrial or military experience withexplosives.

Whathedidhave,though,wasarecentradicalconversiontoIslam.Onhiscomputer,theyfoundrecordsoftimespentonjihadistwebsites.TimespentinchatroomsknowntobefrequentedbypeoplefromalQaedaandISIS.

I thought about the low-level American criminal turned to Islam who recentlybeheadedawoman inOklahoma.Maybe thatwaswhereall thehatewascoming from.Islamicjihadwascertainlynostrangertoinhumanactsofbarbaricviolencethesedays.

Thatwasn’tall.WhatwasevenmorecuriouswasthefactthatRezendehadanuncleonhisfather’ssidewhowasoneofthemostviolentoftherevolutionariesduringtheCapeVerdeindependencemovement.

Inthelate’60sandearly’70s,CapeVerde,alongwiththeAfricancontinentalnationofPortugueseGuinea,foughtforindependencefromPortugalinabloodyjungleguerrillawar that many people called Portugal’s Vietnam. The Marxist rebels, led by AmilcarCabral,hadaboutathirdofthetroopstrengththatthePortuguesehad,buttherebelswereheavilysupportedbytheSovietUnionwithsuppliesandweaponry,includingjetaircraft.

We’d learned from the Cape Verde cops that Rezende’s late uncle, Paulo Rezende,whoraisedhim,wasacolonelinthatrebelarmyandwasactuallytrainedtoflyMiGsinRussia.

TheRussiansagain,Imumbledatthescreen.ItkeepscomingbacktotheRussians.

“WhoamIkidding?”Emilysaid,suddenlysittingupacrossfromme.“Ican’tsleep,either,withthesemaniacsstillrunninglooseoutthere.Isthereanycoffeeleft,Mike?”

CHAPTER93

“LET’SRUNTHROUGHitagainfromtheverybeginning,”Isaidaftertheflightattendant,Patricia,hadpouredacoffeeforEmily.

“Okay,” Emily said, tucking her stockinged feet underneath her. “We land atRezende’svillage.”

“WelandatRezende’svillage,”Irepeatedwithanod.“WhatIdon’tunderstandis,ifhewasplanning todetonate thebombsby thedeadline,whywasn’theonÁrvorePretaalready?”

“That’sanexcellentpoint,Mike,”Emilysaid.“Accordingtothedeadlinedescribedinthe video threat, he should have had all the batteries in place already—had everythingreadytogo.”

“Buthedidn’t,” I said, drummingmy fingers along the edgeofmyToshiba laptop.“We definitely seem to have surprised him.His attempt tomanually set off everythingwith the batteries proved that. All the meticulous planning and money and expertiserequiredtowireupthemountaincamedowntosomesloppyanddesperatelast-ditchploytoinsertthebatteries?Noway.Thatdoesn’tmakeanysense.”

“So what happened? Rezende was definitely involved in the planting of theexplosives,” Emily said, biting her lip. “Did he wake up late? There was somecommunication screwup?Why the hell was he surprised if the deadline was only twohoursaway?”

“Maybe…,”Isaid,tappingmyforeheadasIstareddownatmysocks.

“Maybewhat?”Emilysaidafteramoment.

IsnappedmyfingersasIlookedup.

“Maybethepeoplewhosetthebombsupweren’ttheoneswhocalledfortheransom.Maybewe’relookingattwodifferentgroups.”

“Whatdoyoumean?How?Theguysonthephoneactuallysentavideoofthebombsbeingsetup.”

“True,theysentavideo,butdidtheymakethevideo?”Isaid.

“You’relosingme.”

“Ikeep thinkingaboutour initial read that thebombingcampaign is the ideaofoneperson—one very angry, verymotivated, verymeticulous person—who is solely out toterrifyandtodestroythecity.Thatstillmakesthemostsensetome.”

“Me, too,” Emily said with a nod. “The first thing the Unabomber told us out inColoradowasspot-on:‘They’regoingtodestroyNewYorkCity—youknowthat,right?’”

“Precisely,” I said. “The ransom-money play never corresponded to that. What ifsomeone foundout about theplot, found thevideoof the real people setting it up, anddecidedtotrytomakemoneyoffofit?”

“Apiggyback!”Emilysaid.“That’sentirelypossible.Someoneco-optingit.”

“SomebodyRussianorwhorunsaroundinRussiancircles,”Isaid.

“You’reright,”Emilysaid,puttinghercoffeedown.“Themayor’ssniperhadRussianties,therewereRussianexplosivesontheisland,andnowthedirectRussianconnectiontoRezendethroughhisuncle.”

I glancedout at the cloudynight rushingpast the largeportholewindowbesidemeagainas I rackedmybrain.Then ithitme.Rightbetween theeyes, forty thousand feetabovethedarkAtlantic.

“DmitriYevdokimov!”Iyelled,suddenlysittingup.“TheRussianwehadincustody.NotonlycanweplaceYevdokimovatthedropwherethevideowaspickedup,he’salsoacomputerexpert.”

“That’s it,” said Emily excitedly. “Yevdokimovmust have hacked the real Russianbomber,copiedthevideo,andcookeduptheransomdeal!”

“Yevdokimov’sthelink.Weneededtofindhimyesterday,”IsaidasIalmostknockedovermychinacoffeecupwhilefumblingoutmyphonetocallNewYork.“He’stheonlyonewhoknowswhotherealbombersare.”

CHAPTER94

THELINEOFmassivesteelpylonsformingthetruck-bombbarrierwerebuiltdirectly into the asphalt across the width of Broad Street. They glinted dully in themorningsunaswepulledupinfrontofthemeighthourslater.

Beyondthemtothenorth,uptheman-madeslotcanyonofBroadStreet,youcouldseethe reason for all the security—the iconic columned edifice of the New York StockExchange.

WeweredownhereinlowerManhattan’sCanyonofHeroesterritorynotforaticker-tape parade or to engage in insider trading but to head into the new FBI headquartersacrossthestreetfromtheexchange,at23Broad.

Thewholeblockaroundtheexchangealreadyhadincrediblesecurity,soitwasano-brainerafterthefallof26FederalPlazafortheFBItorentoutspaceatwhathadtobeoneofthesafestblocksintheentirecity,ifnottheplanet.Still,aswewaitedforourturnatthecheckpoint,Ifrownedattheoak-trunk-thicksteelrodsthatformedalineacrossthestreet.Therewassomethingdepressingandbarbaricaboutthem,somethingmedieval.

“Youknowyou’re living insomeinteresting times,”Isaid toEmily, ridingshotgun,“whenthey’veactuallybroughtbackthedrawbridge.”

Thepylonsretractedintothestreetafterweshowedourcredstofederalcopsmanningthecheckpoint, andwedroveupandparked in23Broad’sunderground lot.We’dbeenable to catch some sleep and actually shower on the mayor’s incredible plane, so weweren’tlookingtoobadaswerodethefancyfinancialbuilding’smirroredelevatoruptothethirty-firstfloor.

I lookeddownatmysuddenlyvibratingphonetoseethatFabrettiwastryingtocallme.He’dtextedmeearliertotrytocoordinateamediastrategy,ofallthings.Theraidontheislandhadbeenleakedtothepress,apparently,andtheywanteddetails.

Leakedbywhom?Iwondered.Ihadn’ttextedhimback,nordidIanswerhiscall.Hedidn’t seem to understand thatwewere still verymuch in themiddle of this. Itwasn’tmission-accomplishedtime.

EmilysmiledatmeintheelevatormirrorasIlookedup.Weheldeyesforamoment.Thentwomoments.Hereyeswerenicetolookat.

“What?”Ifinallysaid.

“Yourkids,”shesaid.

“Oh,them,”Isaid,smilingback.

Afterwe’dgottenoff theplane,we’dbeenbymyapartment tosqueeze inahappy-reunion-slash-power-breakfast with my kids. Seamus had done God’s work by havingpilesofscrambledeggsandtoastandIrishsausageshotandreadyforus.Aswedevouredthem,theganghadregaledusabouttheirincrediblefailedEscapefromNewYorkodysseyinthevan.IlaughedthehardestwhentheysaidtheyhadtopracticallycarrypoorMartin,completelyexhausted,intohisdormroombackatManhattanCollege.

Hewasprobablystillsleeping,Ithought.Orlookingforanewjob.

“Whataboutmylittletykes?”IsaidtoEmilyasweascended.“Whatdidtheydothistime?WasitEddie?”

Sheshookherheadandsmiled.“They’rejustterrific.Allofthem.Soaliveandfunnyandhappyandgood.Theyactuallycareabouteachother.Nooneevenhaskidsanymore,andyouhaveten.Ten!That’salotoflove.They’resolucky.”

“I’mtheluckyone,”Isaid.“Theypracticallytakecareofmenow.”

Offtheelevatorinthehallonthirty-one,therewasanincrediblystunningairplane-likeview of the city. Outside the floor-to-ceiling glass on the east side, you could see thearchesof theBrooklynBridge, anddown thecorridorwasa clear shotof thegleamingFreedomTowerandLadyLibertyoutintheharbor.

“Thiscitydoesn’tquit,doesit?”Emilysaid,walkingoverandpressingherforeheadtotheglasslikealittlekid.

“Allthepeopleandmotionandmoneyandworkandartandhistory.Dizzying,jaw-droppingskyscraperafterdizzying,jaw-droppingskyscrapereverywhereyouturn.Imean,lookatit.It’s…awonder.”

“Itsureis,”Isaid,lookingdownwithherattheslantsoflightonthebuildingsandtheant-size people on Broadway. Out in the wide, sparkling bay, a bath-toy tugboat wasdrawingalongsideLibertyIsland,chuggingearnestlytowardBayonne.

“Butyouknowwhatthebiggerwonderis?”Isaidafterabeat.

“What’sthat?”

“Whyalltheseloserskeeplininguptodestroyit.”

CHAPTER95

IFOLLOWEDEMILYaroundacorner,whereshepressedsomebuttonsonanelectronickeypadbesideanunmarkeddoor.OntheothersideofitwasahugebusybullpenofdesksandcubicleswithphonesringingandFBIagentstappingatcomputersandrunningaround.

Without saying anything to anyone, Emily guidedme through the office maze andaround another corner to another unmarked door beside another keypad. She typed inanothercombo,andthenwewereinacramped,too-brightwindowlessroomwheretherewere rows of servers on shelves andwires on racks and eight or nine people typing atcomputerterminals.

Emily introduced me around to the agents of the FBI New York office cyberinvestigativesquad.CISsupervisoryagentChuckJordanwasayoung,intense,clean-cutguywho,inhissharpTiffany-bluebutton-downdressshirtandgrayslacks,lookedmorelikeayoungfinanceguythanacop.

JordanhadcalledEmilyaswewerefinishingbreakfast.HesaidhemighthavefoundapossibleleadonYevdokimov’swhereabouts.

“Soyouthinkyouhavesomethingforus,Chuck?”saidEmily.

Insteadofsayinganything,Chuckhandedusaphotograph.Itwasashotofaclutteredtablewithpapersandbookspiledonit.Therewasapairofglasses,amagentaSharpie,andacrumplednapkinonanegg-crustedpaperplate.Beyondthemessytablewasaroomwithbare,paint-chippedplasterwallsanddirtyhardwoodfloors.Thespacestruckmeasvaguelyindustrial.

In the top left-hand corner of the photo, you could see a shadelesswindow. In thewindowwasthestoneedificeofanoldofficebuildingontheothersideofanarrowstreet.

“ThisisthePCwheretheransomdemandoriginatedfrom,”Chucksaid.“ThisshotisfromthePC’swebcam.”

“Whereisit?”Isaid.

“That’s therub,”Chucksaid.“Wedon’tknow.Theysent thesignal throughTor, theunderground computer network. It bounces things around soyoudon’t know the actualphysical location or owner of a particular computer.Basically,we can find the originalcomputer.Unfortunately,we just don’t knowwhose it is orwhere it is. That’swhyweturnedonthePC’scameratogetacluefromtheroom.”

“Youturnedonthecameraonthebadguy’scomputer?How?”

“Afterthejudgegaveusawarrant,wesentinourTrojanhorse,”Chucksaid.

“Trojanhorsesaretheinvestigativemalwareweuse,”Emilyexplained.“Itlookslikearegularprogramonthesurface,butbehindthescenes,it’ssecretlyabletocontactthePC’sinternalcontrollertoallowbackdooraccesstothetargetPC.”

“Likeavirusorsomething?”Isaid.

“Technically,no,”saidChuck.“Technically,avirusattemptstoinjectitselfintootherfiles.ATrojanisitsownfile.”

“Buthowdoyougetin?”Isaid.“Whataboutfirewallsandstuff?”

“Most people have one or two popular antivirus programs, so we usually send theTrojanthroughapretendupdatetooneofthem,”Chucksaid.“Butinthiscase,thetargetdidn’t seem to have an antivirus program on the list, so we used an exploit in theirbrowser’sPDFparser.”

“Awhatinthewhat?”Isaid.

Emilyrolledhereyes.

“Doesitmatter,Mike?Theywentarounditwithsomecomputerstuff.Bottomline,wecan lookat abadguy’s files, even turnonhiswebcamandmicrophone,which iswhattheydidhere.”

“Andyousearchedtheirfiles?”IsaidtoChuck.“Didyoufindtheransomvideo?”

“No,it’snotthere.Theymusthaveremovedit,”hesaid,squinting.

“What about encryption? This guy is a hacker himself,” I said. “He has to useencryption,right?”

“Hehadlayersuponlayersof it,butwelookedat thePC’srecordedkeystrokesandgotthepasswordstotheencryptionsoftwareheused.”

“Gotit,”Isaid,gazingatthepictureagain.

I concentrated on the building beyond thewindow. It had setbacks and some fairlyelaborateornamentation in thestonework.Somestonewreathsanda lotof fleurs-de-lis.Wherewasthisbuilding?Itdefinitelyseemedfamiliar.

“Hey,wait.Didyougetanyaudio?”Emilysaid.

“I thought you’d never ask,” Chuck saidwith amischievous smile as he clicked aterminal’sbutton.

“We picked this up just three minutes ago,” he said. “This is a live feed. Listencarefully.”

Wedid.Thereweresirensandtraffic,andthenweheardit.Asoft,rhythmicbuzzingsound.

“No,”Isaid.“That’snotwhatitsoundslike,isit?”

“Oh, yes, it is,” said Chuck, rubbing his hands together. “Someone is close to thatcomputer, and they’re snoring.We heard a door open tenminutes ago, then somebodycreakingdownontowhathastobeabedorsomething.”

“Yevdokimov!Hastobe!”Emilysaid.“He’sthererightnow!”

“Whereverthehell‘there’is,”IsaidasIgazedatthephotoagain.“Thisbuildinginthewindowhere.IfeellikeIknowit.Ijustcan’tplaceit.”

“It’sdefinitelyinManhattan,definitelysomewherebelowNinety-SixthStreet,”Chuckoffered.

“Old,dirty,once-grandofficebuildings.Whereinthecitydoyouhavetheseold,dirtybuildings?Basicallyalloverthedamnplace,”Isaid,thinkingoutloud.

“Tribeca,maybe?”Chucksaid.“OrSoHo?”

“Yes,kindof,”Isaid.“ButinSoHo,thebuildingsareusuallyolderandhaveelaboratefireescapesandallthatpaintedcastironcladding.Withallthesesetbacks,thisbuildingisprewar—classic-Supermanera.”

“Itlookshuge,”saidEmily.

“Italsolookshighup,”Chucksaid.“Tenortwelvestories,maybe.”

“Wait.Igotit!”Isaid,violentlyshakingthephotograph.“Thefleurs-de-lis!”

“Thewhat?”saidChuck.

“The fleurs-de-lis.The intricate stoneworkdesignhere under thewindows.And thesetbacks.IusedtoworkinMidtownSouth.Iknowwherethisis!”

“Youknowthebuilding?”Emilysaid.

“No, but I know the neighborhood. It’s the garment district. TheWest Side belowTimesSquare,”Isaid,usheringEmilytothedoor.“Tellyourbuddiesdownstairstolowerthe drawbridge, becausewe need to get uptown and pop this Russian clown before hewakesupandwelosehimagain.”

CHAPTER96

SIRENCRANKING,WEraceduptheWestSideHighwayallthewaytomidtown. I got off at 34th and gunned it five blocks toMacy’s. The light was red onEighth Avenue, but there were no cars coming from the east or south, so I hooked ashrieking, fishtailing leftaroundashocked-lookingDOTparking-ticket ladystanding intheintersection.

I’dturnedoffthesirenbythetimewearrivedtoaskiddingstopsixblocksnorth,at40thStreetandSeventhAvenue.IfYevdokimovwasintheareaandstillsleeping,theonethingIdidn’twanttodowaswakehimup.

Weparkedbythesoutheastcorneroftheintersection,wherethestatueswere.Onewasabronzeeight-footstructurecalledTheGarmentWorkerthatdepictedasad,old-looking,wrinklyguyinayarmulkebentoverasewingmachine,workingonsomefabric.Nexttohimwas a gigantic button with a needle stuck through it. Between the two sculpturesstoodadozenNYPDuniformsfromtheMidtownSouthtaskforce,whomI’dcalledforhelpinfindingYevdokimov’shideout.

Werushedovertothem,andIquicklytookaradiofromthetaskforcesergeant,Rowe,beforehandingoutphotographsofbothYevdokimovandthebuildinginhiswindow.

“Remember,guys.Youneedtolookup,”Isaid.“Thisfleur-de-lisarchitecturaldesignonthebuildingwe’relookingforisgoingtobeonthetenthfloororso.”

Wesectoredout thedistrictandsplituponfoot into two-person teams.EmilyandIwalked southdown the east sideofSeventhAvenue.Wepassed a gimcrack tourist giftplaceandaseedy-lookingbarbershopwithasign thatsaid itboughtgold.FifthAvenuethiswasnot.

Aswewalked,welookedeastandwest,upanddownthesidestreets.Everyoneofthemwasextremelycongested.Double-parkeddeliverytrucksinthestreets,loadingandunloading.Guysonsidewalkspushingracksofplastic-wrappedclothes.Itwascomingonthe lunch rush now, and clusters ofworkerswere spilling out of the old buildings andjammingupthealreadycrowdeddirtysidewalks.

“Thesebuildingsaretremendous,”Emilysaidaswewalkedwithourneckscranedandeyesup,likeIowatouristsfreshoffthefarm.“Theyalmostlooklikeacrossbetweenartdecoskyscrapersandfactories.”

“That’sexactlywhat theyusedtobe,”Isaid.“All thesebuildingsaremostlyofficesnow, but back in the old days, they were vertical clothing factories. The art deco–likesetbackswererequiredsoworkersontheupperstorieswouldhavelightandair.

“It’shard tobelieve,butbeforemanufacturingwent toAsia,NewYorkCitywasanindustrialpowerhouse.Inthethirtiesandforties,seventy-fivepercentofwomen’sclothesinthecountryweremaderightherebetweenSixthandNinthAvenues,fromForty-SeconddowntoThirtieth.TheywerestitchedupandputonracksandthenrolledovertoMacy’sonThirty-Fourthforsale.EverythingwascenteredaroundPennStation,sopeoplefromoutoftowncouldcomeinandshop.ThegarmentdistricthereiswhyNewYork’sfashionindustrystillleadstheworldandSeventhAvenuemeansfashion.”

“But if thesewere just factories, why so elaborate?Why all the architectural stuff,especiallyontheupperfloors?Youcan’tevenreallyseeitfromdownhere,”Emilysaid.

“ThepeoplewhobuiltthemwerepoorLowerEastSideJewswhocameupoutofthesweatshops andmadegood,” I said, remembering something I’d read. “Theywanted tomaketheirmarkbybuildingfactoriesthathadover-the-topclass.Also,theyhadaheartandwanted themostly femaleworkers stuck in thebuildingsallday tohavesomethingpretty to look at out thewindow, hence the stringcourses and volutes and egg-and-dartmoldingontheupperfloors.”

“Howdoyouknowsomuchaboutallthis?”Emilysaid,givingmeabaffledlook.

“I’mnotallbrawn.Iactuallyhavealibrarycard,”Isaidwithashrug.“Ialsousedtowalk an eveningbeat herewhen Iwas freshout of the academy, and I used towonderabout thebuildings, so I did somehomework.Youquickly runout of things to look atafteralltheprettysecretariesgohome.”

We were at 36th Street, staring up at the setbacks of an old telephone-companybuilding,whenChuckJordancalled.

“Mike,we’ve beenmonitoring the room, and it sounds like the person snoring justwokeupandleft.”

“Isthelaptopstillthere?”

“Yes,”Chucksaid.“Nochangewiththat.Maybeit’snothing.Maybehejustwentouttogetsomethingtoeat.”

I’djusthungupwithChuckwhenoneoftheuniformshailedmeontheradio.

“Hey,Detective.ThisisSergeantRowe,”hesaid.“Ithinkyoushouldheadoverhereto Thirty-Seventh Street near Eighth. I’m not positive, but I think I found that doodadyou’relookingforonabuildingaboutaquarterofthewaytowardSeventh.”

“Goodjob,Rowe,”IsaidasIgrabbedEmily’sarmandimmediatelystartedhustlingherwest towardEighthAvenue.“We’reaboutablockaway.Don’t leaveyet,and try tostay out of sight. Keep your eyes peeled for Yevdokimov coming out of the buildingacrossthestreet.Itlookslikehe’sonthemove.”

WeheardtheyellingrightaswemadeittothecornerofEighth.

Ablocktothenorth,attheintersectionof37th,therewassomekindofcommotioninthestreetbetweenaguyinacarandsomeguysonamotorcycle.

ThecarwasasilverMercedesdouble-parkedbesideasidewalkconstructionshed,itsbalddriverhalfoutof itswindowasheyelled.The twoguyson themotorcyclebeside

himwere dressed in black andwearing black full-face helmets. The big glossy orangeJapanesemotorcycletheysatonwassoclosetotheBenzitseemedtobeleaningonitsleftrearquarterpanel.

HadthebiketappedtheBenz?Ithought,staring,asIstartedcrossing36th.Afenderbender?

AsIreachedtheothercornerof36th,themotorcycle’senginesuddenlyscreamedasitroaredawayfromtheBenzlikearocketeastup37th.

Eastupwestbound37th!Ithoughtasthedriverthrewopenhisdoor.

“Down!”IyelledasIdovetotheground.

IwasjustabletopullEmilydownontopofmeonthesidewalkwhentheMercedesexplodedwithablastoflightandadeafeningboom.

CHAPTER97

IGOTUPoffmykneesadisorientedmomentlater.Istoodtherewithmyhandsover my ears, waiting for them to stop ringing, before I realized the ringing was thepiercingblareofastuckcarhorn.

I looked north and saw that the sound was coming from the half-blown-apartMercedes.Throughwhatlookedlikebillowingwhitesmoke,Icouldseethecaruponthesidewalk,itsfrontendwedgedunderthewreckageofthenow-collapsedsidewalkshed.

I called in the description of the motorcycle over the radio as I ran toward thewreckage, pushing through an already clustering crowd on the sidewalk and street. Isquinted against the nasty tang of burnedmetal as I began pulling away the aluminumpolesandwoodensheetsofthedestroyedconstructionshed,tryingtogetaccesstothecar.

AsIpeeledawaythelastcoupleofsplinteredplywoodsheets,Isawthatsometypeoftarp from the shedhad fallenperfectlyover the sideof thecar, likea showroomcover.ThenIpulledthecoveraway,andIgotmyfirstgoodlookatthedamage.

The car’s hood was folded in, and its front and rear windshields were completelyshattered.Alltheinteriorairbagshadgoneoff,andallthetireswereblownflat.

Ihadtomoveonelastsheetofwoodtogetalookatthedriver.Hegaspedashesatinthedriver’s seatof the ruinedcar, clutching thewheelwithhis righthand.Thedriver’sdoorwasmissing.Sowasthedriver’sleftarmbelowtheelbow.Hisstripedpoloshirtwasscorchedandslicedtotattersfrombombshrapnel,andwhenheturned,Icouldseeastill-smokingpieceofmetalthesizeandshapeofaDoritoembeddedinhisrightcheekbone.

“You’regoingtobeokay,”Iliedtohim.“Justsittight.Whathappened?Didyouseewhodidit?”

He didn’t say anything. I watched his jaw suddenly clench and his lips begin totremble.Hiswhole face started shivering, likehewas suddenly freezing. Iwas lookingintohisblueeyeswhentheyglazedoverandhestoppedmoving.Isteppedbackinstartledhorror,lookingaway.IknewI’djustwatchedhimdie.

I recognizedhis facewhenIpeeredbackathimasplit second later. ItwasAnatolyGavrilov,theotherRussianwe’dbroughtinduringtheBronxarrestofYevdokimov.

Yevdokimov!IthoughtasIquicklylookedpastGavrilov’sbodytothepassengerdoorontheothersideofthecar.Shit!Itwasopen,andtherewasbloodonthepassengerseatandinthefootwell.

“Yevdokimov!”IyelledtoEmilyasIscrambledoutofthewreckageandheadedintothestreetaroundthedestroyedvehicle’strunk.“Hewasinthecar.He’shurtandonfoot.

Therealbombersmusthavetriedtohithim.C’mon,hecan’thavegottenfar.”

Aroundtheothersideofthecar,therewasanactualbloodtrailonthesidewalk.Alotofblood.Yevdokimovwasobviouslyhurtverybadly.Itwaslikeweweretrackingagut-shotdeerupEighthAvenue.

“Backoutofthedamnway!”Isaidtoallthelooky-loos,tryingtopreservethecrimescene.

Weturnedthecorner,andthetrailransmack-dabintoatallWestAfricanstreetvendorwhowascroucheddown,pickingupiPhonecoversoutofthegutter.

“Hey!Anyonecomepastherebleeding?”Isaid.

“Yes!Awhiteman.Acrazywhiteman,”saidthevendorinamusicalvoice.“Hehadbloodonhisarmandpouringoffhischin.Itriedtogethimtosit,buthepushedpastmeandknockedoverallmystuff.Hegotintoataxinotaminuteago.”

Icouldn’tseeanytaxion37thwhenIsteppedintothestreet,soIradioeditin.

OfficerRoweandhisbuddieshadarrivedandweresurrounding thescenewhenwewentbackaround thecorner to thewreckage.Therehad tobeabouta thousandpeoplestanding around now. Cars stopped in the street. Everybody had their phones out,immortalizing our bombing scene for the folks at YouTube to instantly globallydisseminate.

“Fuckthepolice!”someoneinthecrowdthrewoutoverthestill-wailinghorntogetalaugh.Hegotseveral,unfortunately.

“Isn’tthisgreat?We’regoingviral,”Emilysaidaswestoodtheregapingatthestill-steaming,torn-apartcar.

“Ofcourseweare,”Isaid.“WhowantstowatchTimesSquareElmobeatthecrapoutofTimesSquareSpideywhenyougotarealliveblown-upguyinacar?”

“So I’m going to take a wild guess and say we’re not the only ones looking forYevdokimov,”shesaid,raisinganeyebrow.

“Guessnot,”IsaidasImovedbackthroughthecrowdintothestreet.IwalkedaroundRoweandcrawledbacktowardthefrontofthecarandreachedinoverthedeadRussianandfoundthekeysstillintheignition.

PeopleinthecrowdactuallybooedasIfinallycutthecar’sengineandthehorn.

“That’sall,folks,”Isaid.

CHAPTER98

“SO…ANYTHINGYET?” I said for the twentieth time over ChuckJordan’sshoulderashesatatthedesk,tappingatYevdokimov’slaptop.

“Oh, plenty,Mike, but I’m keeping it tomyself,” the young agent said, rolling hiseyes.

“Whydon’twegiveChuckalittlespacetowork,Mike?”Emilysaid,yankingmeoutintothehallway.

WewereinYevdokimov’sflopnow.We’dfounditsoonafterthebombing.SergeantRowehadbeenspot-on.Thebuildingwasjustwherehesaiditwas,downtheblockfromthebombingoffEighthAvenueonthenorthsideof37th.Yevdokimov’scrashpadwasonthetenthfloor,anditwasfilledwithmeandEmilyandabouttwentyFBIagentswhowerescouringeverynookandcrannyforsomesignofwhotherealbomberscouldbe.

WestillwereunsureofYevdokimov’swhereabouts.We’dtoldallthehospitalstobeon the lookout for him,but so far, nothingwas shaking.Thegoodnewswas thatwe’dactually found three computers, which Chuck Jordan and his guys were now pokingthrough.

“Thisisn’texactlywhatpeoplehaveinmindwhentheythink‘NewYorkloft,’isit?”Emily said, looking at the moldering plaster and probably asbestos-covered overheadpipes.“Whatdid thebuildingmanager say?Thisused tobea sewingmachine factory?Wasn’t there a famous fire in a sewing machine factory in New York in the eighteenhundredsorsomething?Becausethisplacedefinitelylookshaunted.”

“You’re thinking of the Triangle Shirtwaist Fire,” I said. “That was down in theVillage.After the fire started,more than a hundred garmentworkers died. Peoplewerejumpingoutwindows.Becausethekindlyownershadgatedandlockedtheexitstairwellstokeeptheworkersontask.

“Somegoodactuallycameoutofit,though,becausethepublicwentnuts,anditledtofiresafetylawsandsprinklersystemsandfireescapesandtheforty-hourworkweek.”

“You’rejustawalkingKenBurnsdocumentary,aren’tyou?”shesaid.

“Yes,andmyfeeforthisextendedwalkingtouristhecaptureofaRussianhomicidalbomberinhandcuffswithabigshinybowonhishead.”

“Getinhere!IthinkIfoundsomething,”ChuckJordanbellowed.

Wewentbackin.Onthescreenwasapictureofthreefatkidsinanabovegroundpool.IttookmeacoupleofsecondstoseePapaYevdokimovsittingbehindthemonthepoolladderholdingaSuperSoakerwatergun.

“TheseareYevdokimov’spersonalphotographs.Thereareaboutahundredthatshowhimatthesameseasidecottage,”Chucksaid.

“It’shisdacha,”Emilysaid.

“Hiswhat?”

“IworkedaRussianorganizedcrimecaseacoupleofyearsago.DachasareRussianvacationhouses.Allthemobstershavethembackintheoldcountry,”shesaid.

“Soarewegoingtotrytopegthelocationfromthebackgroundagain?”Isaid.

“No.TheseshotsareJPEGswithExiffileformats,whichmeansthattheyweretakenwith a smartphone.Smartphone cameras recordGPS locations ofwhere each picture istaken inaprocessknownasgeotagging.Givemeasecond,”Chucksaid,clickingopensomenewscreens.

“Hereitis.Thelatitudeandlongitude,”hesaidasecondlater.“It’sElevenRoseleahDrive,Mystic,Connecticut.”

“That’swherehe’sheaded—hastobe,”saidEmily.

“Whatarewewaitingfor,then?Let’sroll,”Isaid.

CHAPTER99

WEWEREBACKinthedingybuilding’shallway,gettingamoveonsowecouldheaduptoConnecticut,whentheelevatoropenedandChiefFabrettiappeared.

“Thereyouare,Bennett.I’vebeentryingtocallyou,”hesaidwithanagitatedlookonhisface.

“Sorry,Chief,” I said, fishingmyphoneoutofmypocket.“Oh,here’s theproblem.Leftitonairplanemode.”

“Stop screwingwithme,Bennett,” Fabretti said, pullingme over to a corner. “I’vebeengettingcallsfrommybosses.TheircounterpartsoverattheBureausawyoutraipsingaroundtheirnewdigsthismorning.Theysaidthanksbutnothanksforyourhelp.There’snomoretaskforce.Thefedsaretakingovertheinvestigationfromhere.”

“Whatdoyoumean?”Isaid,agitatedmyselfnow.“We’rerightinthemiddleofthis.We’reabouttograbtheonlyguywhoknowswhotherealbombersare.”

“No,Bennett.They’reabouttograbhim.Notyou.Thefedswanttonailthebastardswhoblewuptheirbuildingallbythemselves.”

“Whataboutthecollegekidswhodiedonthetrainandthemayorandthepeoplewhodied in theEMPattack?TheywereNewYorkers, right?Thepeoplewe’re supposed toprotect.”

“It’salreadybeensettled.TheFBIisgoingtogetthecreditforthis.”

“Theycanhavethedamncredit,andifthere’sanyleftover,youcanhaveit.I’llleavebeforethereportersshow,Iswear.C’mon,Chief.We’vegotabeelineonthisguy.Wejustneedtofindthisbastardnowbeforetherealbomberstakehimout.”

“It’sover,Bennett.Sostoparguing,”Fabrettisaid,glaringcoldlyatme.“You’reoffthecase,andthat’sanorder.Therewereaboutahundredrobberiesduringtheevacuation.Wehaveplentyofworkforyoutodo.NowdrivemebacktoOnePolicePlaza.”

“Mike?”calledEmilyfromdownthehall,wherealltheFBIagentswerepackedintotheelevator.

“Go,”Isaid.“Getthisguy.It’suptoyounow.Don’tlosehim!”

“That’sthespirit,Bennett,”saidFabrettiastheelevatordoorrumbledclosed.

CHAPTER100

FABRETTI INSISTED ON buying me a coffee at a Times SquareStarbucksbeforeweheadedwaybackdowntowntoOnePolicePlaza.

“See, Mike? I’m not such a bad guy,” he said, tipping his nonfat latte at me as IchauffeuredhimdownBroadway.“Listen,Iknowyou’vebeenneck-deepinthisfromthebeginning, but this is coming from up high. The mayor—hell, the senior senator—isinvolved.We’rejustsmallpotatoes.”

“You’reright,”Isaid.

“Exactly.I’mdoingyouafavor.Iheardthemayorsentherplaneforyou.Thathadtobesweet.Arealrideonthegravytrain.OrshouldIsay‘thegravyplane’?Honestly,youplay your cards right, Mike, you keep playing ball, retirement is going to be smoothsailingforyou.”

“Sure,definitely,”Isaid,checkingmyphonetoseeiftherewasanythingfromEmily.

AfteranotherexcruciatingtwentyminutesofFabretti’speptalk,IdroppedhimoffatthedoorofOnePolicePlaza.ItoldhimIwasgoingtoparkandmeethimupathisoffice,butinsteadIactuallysquealedoutofthelotandgotimmediatelyonthenorthboundFDRDrive.

IcalledEmilyasIpunchedit.

“Whereareyou?”Iyelled.

“WejustcrossedtheConnecticutborder,butwe’restillabouttwohoursaway.MysticispracticallyinRhodeIsland.WehaveateamofagentsoutofNewHavenalmostatthehouse.What’syourstatus?”

“I’monthehighwayabouthalfanhourbehindyou.”

“WhataboutFabretti?”Emilysaid.“Aren’tyouoffthecase?”

“Ineverheardhimsaythat,”Isaid.“Myearsarestillringingfromthatcarbomb.”

“Mine,too,Mike,”Emilysaidwithalaugh.“Seeyouthere.”

IhungupandaskedSirifordirectionsandproceededtoputthepedaltothemetal.ItooktheRobertF.KennedyBridgeintotheBronx,thentooktheBrucknertoI-95.

Itwas coming on rush hourwhen I crossed intoConnecticut and hit traffic. Itwasstop-and-gopastStamfordwhenIsawtheChevy’stankwasalmostempty,soIgotoffatthenextexitandpulledintoaBPgasstationandfilledup.

AsIstoodsqueezingthenozzle, I lookedatmyphoneandlaughedwhenIsawthat

Fabrettihadlefttwentyangrytexts.Wherethefareyou?camehislatest.

Takingarideonthegravyplane,Itextedback.

Myphonerangamomentlater.

“Hey,Robertson,”Isaid.

“Mike,bignews!”heyelled.“WejustgotabeadontwoRussiansthatmightbeourguys.Brooklynand Ihavebeengoingbonkerswith these flightmanifests,butwehavetwoRussianimmigrantswhohavebeenbackandforthtoCapeVerdefromtheStatessixtimesoverthelastyear.

“TheirnamesareVladislavandOlegFilipov.They’refatherandson.TurnsouttheyflewtoCapeVerdeoutofMiami,notNewYork.”

“Miami?”

“Yes.The father,Vladislav, ran a brutalRussian prostitution and drug-dealing crewthereformostoftheeightiesandnineties—allegedly,at least,sincehenevergotcaughtforadamnthing.Nofixedaddress.”

“Whatabouttheson?”

“Wedon’thaveanythingonhimintermsofarecord.HehadahouseinQueensupuntil sixmonths ago, but since then, nothing.No address.No job.Novisiblemeansofsupport. I’m e-mailing you their photographs from their driver’s licenses as we speak.Theycoulddefinitelybetheguysonthevideo.Oneolder,oneyounger.They’relookinggoodonthis!”

“Soundsgreat,”Isaid.“YevdokimovwillbeabletoIDtheseguysoncewecatchuptohim.Reallygoodjob,Robertson.”

IhungupandlookedatthepicturesofthetwoRussians.Theydidn’thavegoateesinthepictures,but theybothhad lean,pale faceswith sharp features and the same strongnose.

IleftthepumpstillgoingandwentinsidetograbaGatoradeandsomePringleswhenIsawtheclerkatthebackofthestorebytherestrooms,standingwithamopbyapoolofsomething that had spilled. I stopped inmy tracks by a rack ofmagazineswhen I sawwhathewasmopping.

Itlookedlikeblood.

“Hey,what’sup,kid?”Isaid,rushingover.“Isthatblood?”

“Itain’ttomatosoup!”theblondcollege-ageclerksaidwithadisgustedface.“Someguywasjustinhere,andwhenheleaves,thenextcustomercomesoutwhiteasaghost,screaming,‘Ebola!Ebola!’It lookslikesomebodyhemorrhagedinhere.I toldmyboss,andhesaidIshouldstartmopping,butIdon’tknow.YouthinkIshouldcallthecops?”

“Thisbleedingguy,whenwashehere?”

“Abouttenminutesago.”

IgrabbedthemopoutofhishandasItookoutmyshield.

“Iamthecops.Showmethecameranow!”

CHAPTER101

“EMILY,LISTEN!” I screamed as I roared along the shoulder on I-95,scanningthestop-and-gotraffic.“Ijustsawhim!IjustsawYevdokimovonagas-stationvideo.I’maboutfiveminutesbehindhim.He’sinawhiteNissanAltimaonNinety-Fiveoutside Stamford, heading north past exit ten.He’s probably heading toward you.NewYorkplatestwoseveneightFRG.He’sbleedingheavily,and—”

IdroppedthephoneasIsuddenlysawawhiteAltimaaheadin the left lane.Idrewalongsideitacrosstwolanesoftraffic.Icheckedtheplates.Itwashim.

“Iseehim!”IsaidtoEmilyasIsnatchedupthephone.“I’monhim.We’rebetweenexitstenandeleven.”

“Stayonhim,butwaitforbackup,Mike,beforeyoutryatrafficstop.Chuck’sonthehornwiththeConnecticuttroopers.Hangback.We’recomingtoyou.”

AhornhonkedasIcutbackintotraffic,thenYevdokimovturnedandsawme.Hehadsomekindofbandageonhischin.

Heimmediatelygunnedit.HegotoutoftheleftlaneaheadoftheSUVinfrontofme.Asecondlater,Isawhimflashintotherightlaneandontotheshoulder,goingfortheexitrampwewerealreadypassing.

At first it looked like he was going to make it, but then at the last second, hesideswiped the yellow water-barrel divider that cordoned off the exit ramp from thehighway. Iwatchedashespunandhit theconcretedivideron theothersideof theexitwithahorriblecrunchofmetal.

Igotovertotherightandbrakedandskiddedtoastopontheshoulderandranbacktowardtheturned-aroundAltima,nowalmostcompletelyblockingtheexit.

I thought Yevdokimovwasmost certainly dead after this second incredibly violentincidentoftheday,soIwassurprisedwhenthepassengerdooropenedandhestaggeredout.

“Down!”IyelledoverthehonkinghornsasIpointedmyGlockathishead.

Becausehewasbleeding, I probably shouldn’t havecuffed andmovedhim,butwewereindangerfromthetraffic,soIhadnootherchoice.

IhadhiminmyChevy,downonhisstomachinthebackseat,whileIwasinthefrontpassengerseatriflingthroughtheglovecompartmentforthefirstaidkit,whenthetruckrear-endedus.

Thepassengerdoorwasopen,andIwasthrownfromthevehicle.Itwastheweirdest

sensationofmylife.OnesecondIwassittingtherereachingintotheglovecompartment,andthenextIwasoutintheairbangingthecrapoutofthebackofmyheadasIskiddedacrossasphalt.

Ieventuallyendeduponabermofnewlymowedgrassbesidetheshoulder.Myheadwasringing.Imusthavehadaconcussion.IfeltnumbasIlayonthegrassfacedown,notmoving.Iwasdefinitelyinshock.

EventuallyIturnedtolookatmycar.

We’dbeenhit byabigpickup, aFordSuper-something truckwith anextendedcabandapushbarinfrontandsixwheels.Everythingonitwasblack.Thebigtiresandrims;thebody;thetintedwindows.

Thetwoguyswhoclimbedoutofitwereinblackaswell.Theyhadskimaskson,andtheyrushedoverandpulledYevdokimovnonetoogentlyoutofmysmashedChevyandputhimintothecabofthetruck.

Behindthem,carswerejustdrivingpastnormally.Somehornshonked,butthatwasit.Icouldn’tbelievethiswashappeninginbroaddaylight.

WhenIlookedagain,theguysintheskimaskswereheadinginmydirection.That’swhen I saw the guns theywere carrying strapped over their shoulders—the nasty littleblackHeckler&Koch submachineguns thatESUguyshave. I reached formy serviceweaponanddrewair.Thatwasnot agreat feeling.MyGlockmusthave skidded loosewhenIwasthrown.

Istartedbackingup,scrabblingweaklyonmyunsteadyfeeton thegrass. Icouldn’tgetmybearings.Ifeltoffbalanceandfloaty,likeIwasstandingatthebottomofthedeependofaswimmingpool.

Ithoughtthatwasit.They’djustshootme.Butinsteadtheygrabbedmeandthrewmebackdownontothegrass.Ialmostlaughed.Itwaslikewewereallkidsagain,andtheywantedtowrestleorplayfootballrightthereonthesideofI-95.

Ididn’tfeel like laughinganymorewhenoneof themhitmehardacross thesideofmyheadwiththemetaltopofthegun.

Oneof themwasholdingmedown inaheadlockand theotheronewas fishing forsomething in the pocket of his leather coat when the Connecticut state trooper vehicleskiddedtoastopbehindthetruck.

“No!”Iyelledasthetwoguysletgoofmeandwithoutdelayopeneduponthegraypolicecar.

Isatfrozen,eyesclosed,palmingmyearsasthetwodeafeningHeckler&Kochswentoffafootfrommyface.Whenthegunfireceased,Ilookedandsawthatthepatrolcar’swindshield was now a smoking sheet of holes from the fifty rounds that had rippedthroughitinthespaceoffiveseconds.

AsItriedtogetup,theygotmeinaheadlockagainandslappedawetclothontomyface.Itwasreallywetandclingy,likeanantibacterialwipe.Theysmotheredmewithit.Stuckitinmynostrils.ItfeltlikeIwasdrowning.Thesmellofitwasheavilyastringent,

medicinal,thescentofrubbingalcoholandsomethingvaguelybitter.

Thedrug,whateveritwas,waspowerful.Almostimmediately,Ifeltlight-headed.Theskyandtrafficstartedfadinginandout,likemyeyeswereonadimmerswitchsomekidwasplayingwith.

It tookmeasecondtorealize thatIwasbeingliftedagain. Ihardlyfelt itwhenmyfaceslammedagainstthedirtycarpetofthepickupasecondortwolater.IlookedupatYevdokimovsittinginthebackseatabovemewithhiseyesclosed.ThenIturnedand,inmyswimmingvision,sawthatmyphonehadfallenoutofmyjacketandbouncedlooseundertheseat.

It felt like itwas tenpoundsas Ipulled itoutand lookedaround.Therewasa littlealcovewithadrinkholderandmapsinitbesideYevdokimov’sfeetontheseataboveme.

The front doors were popping open when, with my last bit of strength andconsciousness,Ireachedupanddroppedthephoneinthereandpassedout.

CHAPTER102

IWOKESOMETIMElater.Iwasonmybackonacold,hardfloor.Ifelthungover, nauseated—that bitter alcohol scent still coating the insides of my nostrils.WhenIopenedmyeyes,thelightwasagonizinglypainful,andwhenItriedtomove,Igotthe spins.So I closedmyeyesand lay still.Afterabout tenminutes, Iopenedmyeyesagaininlittleslits,givingthemtimetogetusedtotheidea.

Afteraminuteortwo,ImadeoutthatIwasinacrampedroomwithroughstonewallsandaraw-drywallceiling.Itwaslitbyashoplightonthefloorwhosecordsnakedalongtheground andout under a cheapwoodendoor.Across fromme alongonewallwas ahuge,cheap-lookingleathercouch,abovewhichhungabigplasticrollofwhatlookedlikeindustrialHeftybagsonacylindricalmetalholderattachedtothewall.

Whatthehellisthisplace?Ithoughtgroggily.Acrashhangoutforajanitor?

There was a strong musty smell in the air, which could only mean a basement. ItcomfortedmesomehowasIlaythere.Itwasahappysmell.Suburbanfamilies,popcornandvideosonsleepovers,boardgamesonarainyday.

ThosevisionsimplodedasIheardthehorrendousscreamsstartinthedistance.Therewerethreeinarow.Threeimpassionedshrieksofsomeoneinhysterical,unholypain.

Getoutnow!Itoldmyself.ButasIjumpedup,itwaslikemyfeethadbeenpulledoutfromunderneathme.Ismackedtheleftsideofmyfaceprettygoodontheconcrete.Whatthe hell? I thought. Then I looked down and felt like letting out some unholy screamsmyselfasmymindkickedstraightintoadrenaline-pumpinganimalpanic.

Myleftlegwashandcuffedtoanoldgalvanizedsteelheatingpipethatwasembeddedintheconcretefloor.

Thedoorshotopen.Oneoftheski-maskedguyswalkedin.Hehadhisjacketoffandwas wearing a black long-sleeved T-shirt. Behind him came a second ski-masked guywearinganarmy-greenlong-sleevedT-shirt,draggingsomethingheavy.

HewasdraggingYevdokimov,Irealizedamomentlater.TheRussianwasnakedandvery dead. I don’t think I’d ever seen anyonemore dead.His face and arms and chestlooked like they’d beenworked on by a verymotivated demolition crew. There didn’tseemtobeapartofhimthatwasn’tblackorblueorcoveredinblood.

Thesecondguywalkedoverand,withasqueak,wheeledoffahugesheetofplasticover the couch.He slit theplasticoff the rollwith aboxcutter thathepulled fromhispocket, then the two of them lifted Yevdokimov up and tossed him onto the plastic-coveredcouch,wrappinghimuplikethelargest,sorriestfishinthehistoryoftheworld.

They taped theendswitha rollofduct tape theyproduced frombeneath thecouch,andwhentheyweredonetheyliftedhimuplikearuganddroppedhimonthefloor.Theblack-shirtedguysatdownonthecouchandputhisfeetonYevdokimovlikehewasanottoman.Thenhisbuddyjoinedhim.

Robertsonwas right, I sawas theypeeledoff their skimasks. ItwasVladislav andOlegFilipov.

I’llhavetocongratulateRobertson,Ithought.IfIeverseehimagain.

Father and son Filipov sat there staring at mewith their pale, sharp, nasty-lookingfacesandtheirfeetuponYevdokimov,notsayinganything.Staringback,I’dneverbeensoafraidinmylife.Myheartbeatagainstmychestlikethatofarattrappedinacorner,andwhenIswallowed,IrealizedthatIdidn’thaveanysalivainmymouth.

CHAPTER103

THEOLDERGUYstartedlaughing.

“And how are you?” he said in a deep Russian accent as he laboriously stood up.“Here.Ihavesomethingforyou.”

Theoldman took somethingout of his black cargo-pants pocket. Itwas a two-footpieceofflexpipewithasharp-lookingfist-sizechunkofmetalontheendofit.Themetalpartwasaheavybrasshosebibb,Irealizedashecameforwardandwhippedmeoverthetopoftheheadwiththemetalflail.

AsIsatup,Ifeltatrickleofblooddripdownfrommyscalp,awarmrivuletthatfellovermyforehead,alongthesideofmynose,overmyclosedlips,andoffmychin.“Doyoulikemycop-be-goodstick?”hesaidasIsatthereinagony.“It’sthewhippingactionoftheflexpipethatreallydeliversthegroceries.Ialsolovethewayitsmashesandcutsatthe same time. All without putting too much strain on my wrist. I’m older and mustconsidersuchthings.Youwillcooperatewithusnow.”

Iglancedintomytormentor’scoldbrowneyesasmyskullthrobbed.

“So here we are,” said the cruel prick as he sat down and crossed his legs onYevdokimov’sbody.“Youwishedtofindus,yes,Mr.NYPD?Well,becarefulwhatyouwishfor.”

“Aren’tyougoingtoaskuswhoweare?”saidtheyoungerguy—theoneinthegreenT-shirt—who,unsurprisingly,hadaRussianaccentaswell.

“You’re the bombers. The terrorists,” I finally said with slow deliberation as Icontinued tobleed.With thedrugsand thepainand the fear, itwasn’teasy tokeepmyvoicesteady.

“Wearethebombers.Thisistrue,”saidtheoldman.“Butwe’renotterrorists.”

“No. More like pissed-off citizens, you could call us,” said the younger Russian,cuttingin.“What’stheword?Disgruntled—that’sit.Callusdisgruntledimmigrants.”

“Butenoughaboutus,”saidtheoldman,slappingtheflailintoapalm.“Let’sseewhatyouknow,okay?Questionone.”

HeliftedhisbootedfootoverYevdokimovandbroughtitdownhard.

“Doyouknowwhywekilledthispieceofshit?”

“Theransom,”Isaidcarefully.“Hefoundyourvideoandtriedtomakemoneyoffit.”

The old pig looked surprised. “That’s right.Yevdokimov and Iwere associates.We

actuallyusedtoworktogetherintheKGBalifetimeago.Icontractedoutajobforhim,buthemadeamistake.Hetriedtoturnthetables.

“Now,”theoldmansaid,stompingthebodyagainwithhiscombatboot,“Yevismytable.”

“WhenyouwereintheKGB,youworkedwithRezende’suncle,”Isaid,puttingthepiecestogether.“InCapeVerde,tooverthrowthePortuguese.”

“You know a little history, I see,” the oldman said. “Which is saying a lot for anAmerican.That’sexactlywhereImetPauloRezendeandhistoolofanephew,Armenio.PaulowastherewhenIcameupwiththetsunamiprojectbackin1971.”

NowIwasconfused.

“Yes. Surprising, isn’t it? This plan has been in the pipeline since before youwereborn,cop.ThebureaucalleditKrasnyyNavodneniye.”

Hesmiled.

“OperationRedFlood,”hesaid.

CHAPTER104

“ITSTARTEDOUTasa lark, really,” theoldmancontinued.“Onenight,PauloandIcamebackfromabombingrunandwerelisteningtotheBBCnews.Astoryabout the latestvolcanic threatonÁrvorePretaandageologistwhospeculatedthatonepiecefallingoffthevolcanomightbeatitanictsunamithreattotheUnitedStates.

“Thatgotmethinking.Whynotjustgetsomedynamiteandgivethatcliffapush?IputitoverthewirebacktothebigboysinMoscow,andtheyjustateitup.Amonthlater,theysentoutateamofengineersandsurveyorswhoconcludedthatitcouldbedone.Theycommissioned and typed up a plan for exactly how to do it, down to the last detail. Iactuallygotapromotionforthink-tankingthatattack.Andwhynot?Itwasgenius.”

“Whydidn’ttheydoit?”

“Theywerethinkingaboutitinlate1980,Iheard.Therewassomeseismicactivity,sotheyweregoing tomake it look likeanaccident,but thenReagangotelected,and theythoughtifthetruthevercameout,hewasjustcrazyenoughtoletthenukesfly.”

“Whynow, then?”Isaid.“WhydestroyNewYorknow?DoesRussiawant tobringbacktheglorydaysandstartWorldWarThree?”

“No,”saidtheoldman.“Wehavenopoliticalagenda.Igaveupallthatpoliticalshityearsago.I’vebeenagoodhonestcrookforthelasttwentyyears.”

HelookedoverattheyoungerRussian.

“Ididit formysonhere,”saidtheoldman,pattingtheotherguyontheback.“Forhimandformygrandson.”

“Yourgrandson?”Isaid,panicking, thinkingtherewasstillanothernutout therewehadn’tfoundyet.

“Myson,Mikhail,”theyoungerRussiansaid,staringalmostsadlyatme.“WediditforMikhail.”

CHAPTER105

THEYOUNGERRUSSIAN tookaphotooutofhiswalletandwalkedoverandcrouchedbesideme.

“Doyourecognizehim?”hesaid.

Thepicturewasofapaleyoungteenagerwithaslightlymisshapenshavedhead.Hiseyesweren’texactlylevelwitheachother.Hewasmorethanalittleloony-looking,butIkeptthattomyself.

“No.ShouldIknowhim?”Iasked.

“Yes.HewasonthecoveroftheDailyNewslastyear.”

ToobadIreadthePost,Ithought,notknowingwherethiscouldbegoing.

“Didsomethinghappentoyourson?”

“I’mathinker,anintrovert,ashut-in,somemightsay,”theRussiancontinued.“Ilikebooks.Math,physics,mechanics,engineering,abstractthings.Butbackinmytwenties,Iwasalittlemoreoutgoing,andIhadadalliancewithastripper.”

“Oneofmyworkers,”saidtheoldman.“IownedfourclubsinMiamiatthetime.Itwashistwenty-firstbirthday.TheleastIcoulddo.”

Fatheroftheyear,Ithought.

“So shegot pregnant, andMikhailwasborn.Hehadproblems fromdayone.Birthdefects,thenadiagnosisofautism,thenschizophrenia.Allthesestupiddiagnosesjusttosayhewasmentallynotokay.”

“Yearsofpsychologistsandmedicationandmyfavorite—therapy,”saidtheoldman,disgusted.“Bullshit!Allofit!”

“Theywantedtoinstitutionalizehim,”thesoncontinued.“ButIsaidno.Iknewtherewassomebodyinthere.Somebodysmartwhocouldbefunnyandwhojustneededtobewatchedover.SoItookcareofhim.Iraisedhimbymyside;hewaswithmeallthetime.Hewasabigpaininmyass,buthewassmart.Wewouldplaychessandcards.Hewassogoodatcards.Couldaddinhisheadalmostasfastasme.”

Thesonlookeddownatthefloorwistfullyashetookabreath.

“In2012,hewasdoingokayenoughthatIwasabletoleavehimwithanaideeveryonceinawhile.Theaide,Ithought,wasagoodman,butheturnedouttobenotsogood.Because he smoked dope and fell asleep one morning while I was at an engineeringconferenceinPhilly,andMikhaillefttheapartmentalone.

“Hegotonthesubway,andIdon’tknowwhathappened,but thatmorninginupperManhattan,hepushedawomaninfrontofthenumberonetrain.”

“AtaHundredandSixty-EighthStreet,” I said,vaguely remembering thecasenow.“That’swhyyoublewitup.”

“Yes,” the son said. “You’re catching on. See,Mikhailwas taken into custody. I’maway. Mikhail has no one, no ID. He can’t speak for himself, but he was obviouslymentallysick.Theyshouldhavetakenhimtoahospital,yes?”

“No,” said the old man bitterly. “Turned out the Manhattan DA knew the femalevictim and pulled strings to have Mikhail booked, put immediately into the system.WithoutlearningthedetailsaboutMikhail’scondition.Withoutthinkingaboutanyoftheconsequences.DoyouknowthenameofthemanwhowastheDAatthetime?”

“MayorCarlDoucette,”Isaid.

Henodded,smiled.

“ThelatemayorCarlDoucette,”hesaid.

“SoMikhailisbooked,andthere’snoroominCentralBookingtoholdhim,sotheysendhimovertoRikers,”thesonsaid.“Mysoncannotcopewiththis.He’smentallysick,likeIsay,sohestartsfreaking.Acorrectionsofficerputshiminaroomtheyhaveinthebasementforpeoplenotcooperating.Thisroomwasoverahundreddegrees.Theysaiditwassomeboilerproblem.

“ItsurewasaproblemforMikhail.Theylefthimtherefortwodays—myson.Theyforgotabouthim.MypoorMikhail.NewYorkCityboiledmymentallyillsonalive.”

CHAPTER106

“WHYDIDYOUEMPYorkville?”Isaid.

“Mayor Doucette had his mother at Sloan Kettering hospital,” said the old man,smilingagain.“Thepreciousoldgirldidn’tmakeitduringtheevac.Shame.”

“AndTwenty-SixFederalPlaza?”

“The corrections officerwho locked upMikhail got a new job on themaintenancecrewthere,”saidtheoldman.“Iwouldhavetakendownanairlinerifhewasoneofthepassengers.TohellwithhimforslaughteringmygrandsonandtohellwiththiscityandAmerica. Oh, how you crowed when the ColdWar was over; howmuch greater yourcountrywasthanourswithyourfreedoms—orsoyouthought.

“And now look at yourselves. You have the freedom to land planes at the wrongairports, the freedom to shunt downtown trains onto uptown tracks, the freedom to killprisonersbyaccident.Why?Idon’tknow.AllIknowisthatyou’reapackoffools,andafoolandhiscivilizationaresoonparted.

“Because this isn’tover,”he said. “If it takesus twentyyears,we’regoing tomakeyoubastardspay.IrantheRussianmobinMiami.Ihavemillionsofdollarsandcontactsand access to many interesting things. If you think Krasnyy Navodneniye is the onlyrecipeintheoldSovietbookofdirtytricks,thinkagain.Youshouldhavethoughttwicebeforeyoufuckedwithmyfamily!”

“Ihearyou,”Isaid,tryingtobuysometime.“I’mafathermyself,andIcan’timaginehowhorribleit’sbeenforyou.Howangryyoumustbe.WhathappenedtoMikhailwasadisgustingtravestythatdeserves justice.But thinkaboutall theotherMikhailsout therewho are going to die over this.You’re right about this decadent Sodom-and-Gomorrahdirectionwe’vetakenoflate.Buttherearestillsomegoodpeopleoutthere.”

“What’sthis?ABible-thumpingcop?”saidtheoldman.“Sparethecityforthesakeofafewgoodpeople?Wherearethey?Who’sgood?Wait.Letmeguess.You?”

“Sure.I’mnotsobad,”Isaidwithashrug.“Spareitforme.Whynot?”

TheoldmandroppedtheflailandtookoutaGlockandpressedittomyforehead.

“IfIwereGod,Imightbetempted,”hesaidashecockedthehammer.“Toobadforyou:I’mtheotherguy.”

CHAPTER107

THAT’SWHENWEheardthenoise.Aheavycrunchingsoundfollowedbyglassshattering.

Itwascomingfromupstairs.

TheoldmanstillhadtheguntomyheadasthetwoRussiansstaredateachother.Theoldman looked down atmewith hate in his eyes, pressing the barrel hard againstmyhead, but then therewas another creak ofwood. Itwas a footstep in the roomdirectlyabove,andtheyoungermanputafingertohislipsandthecoldmetalliftedaway.

Hecutapieceofducttapeandwrappeditaroundmymouthbeforethetwoofthemwentoutthedoor.Themassiveshoot-outeruptedthirtysecondslater.Automaticgunfireinthenextroomstartingandstoppingandstartingagain.Ihitthedeckjustbeforearoundrippedaholeinthecheapwoodendoor.

Twentysecondsafterthat,Iheardit.ThethreewordsI’dbeenprayingfor.

“He’sinhere!”Emilysaid.

“How’dyoufindme?Myphone?”wasthefirstthingIsaid.

Shenodded.

“Thatfind-your-friendappcomesindamnhandy!”shesaid,smiling,assheunlockedmycuffedankle.

“I’mgladwe’refriends,”Isaid,finallystanding.“Therewasanoldguyandayoungerone.Russians,likewethought.Didyougetthem?”

“TheFilipovs.Weheard.Wegot theyoungerone.Hegothit and they foundhimablockaway.They’dbuggedoutofacellardoorwemissed.”

“Whatabouttheoldbastard?HesaidhewasKGB.Evilasasnake.”

“Notyet.Butwehavethewholeneighborhoodsurrounded.He’sonfoot.”

EmilyhandedmemyGlockandIstumbledupthebasementstairsbehindher.Gollytamale,didit feelgoodinmyhandat thatmoment.Icouldhavekissedbothitandher.Theymusthavefounditatthecrashscene.

Wewentoutsidethroughthefrontdoor.Iwasshockedtoseethatthebuildingwasasmallbrickhouseatthedeadendofaleafyresidentialstreet.Totherightofitwasahugeschoolor something—severaldarkbuildingswith a largeemptyparking lotbeyond theguardrailattheendofthestreet.

“Wherearewe?”Isaid.

“Brooklyn. Manhattan Beach, Brooklyn. That’s Kingsborough Community Collegerightthere.Wethinkheraninthere.Don’tworry,we’reonit.Adozenagentsareonhistail.We’regoingdoor-to-door.”

Iimmediatelyhoppedtheguardrailandstartedrunningacrosstheparkinglot.

“Mike,stop!Whatareyoudoing?”Emilyyelledatmyback.“Youneedadoctor.”

Ididn’thavetimetoexplain.Iwasprobablystillhalfinshockorsomethingaftertheaccidentandbeating,butwhereverhewasIhadtofindthecrazyoldevilprick.Therewasnothing this guywouldn’t do to get away—nodepths hewouldn’t stoop to.He had noqualmsaboutkillinganother innocentperson.Ihadtofindhimif itwasthelast thingIdid.

Ipassedaguard shackandcamedownsomestepsandwas runningpast abuildingwhen I noticedoneof its doorswas slightlyopen. I creaked it open somemore, then Iheardfeetpoundingonthestairsinside.

Iraninandupandgottothesecondfloorjustasthepersonleftthestairwellontothethirdfloor.Iwascomingthroughthethirdfloor’sswingingdoorintoadarkhallwayfiveseconds laterwhen I felt something onmy face, and awirewas tightening aroundmyneck.

Iwasjustabletogetmyhandsinastheoldbastardtightenedthegarrote.Itwasasteelwire, incredibly fine, like titanium dental floss. Blood squirted as it slid deep into theedgesofmypalmsabovemywrists.

I bulled back into him.We went through the swinging door into the stairwell andtumbledbackwards,bangingdownthestairs.ThegarroteslackenedasIfellonhimonthelanding,andIrippedthewireawayfrommyneckwithahissofbreath.

Icrawledtomyfeet,bloodfreelypouringfromthecutmeatofmypalms.IturnedastheoldRussianwastakingsomethingoutofhispocket.Itwasastraightrazor.

Beforehecouldcutmeagain,Ikickedhimintherightear.Icenter-massedmysize-11NunnBushwingtipoxfordrightinhisear.Hard.IbootedhimlikeIneverkickedanythinginmylife.Hisheadslammedbackatthecrushingimpactandbashedofftheradiatorwithalowgongasthestraightrazorwentflying.

As hewas sitting there, stunned, I lifted him by his lapels withmy bloody achinghands,yankedhimupandoffhisfeet,andwitheverynanoparticleofpanickedstrengthIhadinme,threwtheeviloldprickashardasIcouldbackwardsdownthenextflightofstairs.

HewasfacedownwhenIgottohim,hisnosebleeding.Iliftedhimupagain.Ithoughtofallthepeoplehehadcomeahair-breadthfromwipingout,peoplelikemykids.Howhe’dtriedtokillmeasplitsecondbefore.

IwasabouttosendhimflyingdownthestairsagainwhenEmilyandtwootheragentscamerunningup.

“Mike,wegothim!Yougothim!”shesaid.“It’sover!”

CHAPTER108

ITWASAROUND midnight when Emily and I arrived back at the BroadStreetFBIbuilding,acrossfromthestockexchange.Wewereintheundergroundlot,andabouthalf adozenNewYork–officeFBIguyswere taking theoldKGBbastardwho’djusttriedtokillmenonetoogentlyoutofoneoftheothercars.

“Mike,youwanttohelpbookandinterviewthisguy?You’retheonewhofoundhim,”Emilysaid.

“Nah,youguys take it,” I said,holdingupmybandagedhands. “I’ve spent enoughtimewithhim.Believeme.Besides,ItoldFabrettithatI’ddisappearbeforethereportersshowed.He’sallyours.TelltheFBItheycan’tsayInevergavethemanything.”

“Youwantmetodriveyoubacktoyourapartment?”

“I’llcatchacab.Youneedtodebriefthatsnake.”

“Yousure?You’vebeenthroughhelltoday,Mike.It’sokaytohavesomehelp.Oratleastsomecompany.”

Iwentoverandgaveherahug.

“Don’tworryaboutme,”Isaidinherear.“You’vedoneenoughalready,friend.”

IcameupoutoftherampofthegarageontoshadowedBroadStreet.ImadeadrunkguywalkingpastinasuitlaughasIsalutedtheflagonthestockexchangeandthenthestatueofGeorgeWashingtononthestepsofFederalHall.ThenIproceededtowalkpastWallStreettoChinatownandthenLittleItalyuntilIfoundtheBowery.

Itwasagorgeousnight.IthadrainedalittleaswewerecomingbackfromBrooklyn,butitwasclearnow.Theneonsignsinthebarwindowsandbrakelightsuptheavenueswerevividashigh-defagainstthenight.

Iwalked throughNolita and smiled as I arrived atAstorPlace,where I used togetNewWavehaircutswithmybuddies.Afterwardwe’dgotothepizzaplaceonthecorner,whichhadthegreatestslicesknowntoman.Irememberedbeingateenager,standingoutontheplazawherethecubesculpturewas,smokingcigaretteswithmygoofballfriends,staringdownthepunkrockersaswetriedtogetgirls’phonenumbers.Thefewnumberswe’d scrape together we’d scrawl on scraps of paper and napkins and keep under ourmattresseslikepreciousmedals.

All thoseyearsago, I thought, smiling. It reallywasawonder, likeEmilyhadsaid.This city. How many ghosts? I wondered. How many memories and dreams andaspirations packed in and out of how many walls? Who knew what would happentomorrow?But Iwas glad I’d been part of keeping this oldwonder rolling for at least

anotherday.

Iwent left on 14thStreet toUnionSquare andwalked through some skateboardersrollingaroundtheemptyfarmers’marketandpastthecloseddoorsoftheBarnes&Noble.IfoundBroadwayandpushednorth.

Itwascomingon2:00a.m.bythetimeIgottomybuildingonWestEndAvenueandsteppedofftheelevatorontomyfloor.

I truly was bamboozled by all the noise coming from behindmy closed apartmentdoor.Therewaslaughinganddistinctwhooping.

Aparty?Ithought.Whowasoldenoughtopartytill2:00a.m.?Seamuswastooold,IthoughtasIturnedthelockandpushedopenthedoor.

“Michael!You’rehome!”MaryCatherinesaid,standingtherewide-eyedonthefront-hallcarpet,surroundedbythekids.

Istoodthere,stunnedfrozen,withmyfingersstillonthekeyinthelock.

How?Ithought.Wasn’tshestillinIreland?

ThenIwiselydispensedwithallthatanddidtheonlysensiblething.

I let thedoorbangclosedbehindmeas IslammedintoMaryCatherineandhuggedherforallIwasworth.

“Iloveyou,too,”shefinallywhisperedinmyear.

WHOISDETECTIVEMICHAELBENNETT?

PERSONALLIFE

MichaelBennettlivesinNewYorkCitywithhistenadoptedkids:Chrissy,Shawna,Trent, twins Fiona andBridget, Eddie,Ricky, Jane,Brian and Juliana.HiswifeMaeveworked as a nurse on the trauma ward at Jacobi Hospital in the Bronx. Maeve diedtragicallyyoungafterlosingabattlewithcancerinDecember2007.AlsointheBennetthousehold are his Irish grandfather Seamus and their nanny,MaryCatherine.Bennett’srelationshipwithMaryCatherineisacomplicatedoneandtheyhaveanon-offromance.

HOBBIES

Bennettdoesn’thavetimeforhobbies.Hespendshissparetimelookingafterhiskids.

EDUCATION

Bennett graduated from Regis High School and studied philosophy at ManhattanCollegeintheBronx.

WORK

Bennettjoinedthepoliceforcetouncoverthetruthatallcosts.HestartedhiscareerintheBronx’s44thPrecinctbeforemoving to theFBI.Afterhis timewith theBureau,herejoinedtheNYPDasaseniordetective.

Bennettisanexpertinhostagenegotiation,terrorism,homicideandorganisedcrime.

He will stop at nothing to get the job done and protect the city, even if this meansdisobeying orders and ignoring protocol. Despite these unorthodox methods, he is arelentless,determinedandinmanywaysincomparabledetective.

THEFUNERALFORMelaniePhillipsisheavilyattended,fillingthepewsofthePresbyterianchurchandoverflowingontoMainStreet.Shewasalloftwentyyearsoldwhenshewasmurdered,everydayofwhichshe lived inBridgehampton.Poorgirl,nevergottoseetheworld,thoughforsomepeople,theplaceyougrewupisyourworld.MaybethatwasMelanie.MaybeallsheeverwantedwastobeawaitressatTasty’sDiner,servingsteamersandlobstertotouristsandtowniesandtheoccasionalrichcouplelookingtodrinkinthe“localenvironment.”

Butwithher looks, at least fromwhat I’ve seen inphotos, sheprobablyhadbiggerplans.Ayoungwoman like that,with luminousbrownhairandsculpted features,couldhavebeeninmagazines.That,nodoubt,iswhyshecaughttheattentionofZachStern,theheadofatalentagencythatincludedA-listcelebrities,amanwhoownedhisownjetandwholikedtohangoutintheHamptonsnowandthen.

And that, no doubt, is also why she caught the attention of Noah Walker, whoapparentlyhadquiteanaffinityforyoungMelaniehimselfandmustnothave taken tookindlytoheraffairwithZach.

ItwasonlyfournightsagothatZacharySternandMelaniePhillipswerefounddead,victimsofabrutalmurder ina rentalhousenear thebeach thatZachhad leasedfor theweek.ThecarnagewasbrutalenoughthatMelanie’sservicewasclosed-casket.

So thecrowd isowed inpart toMelanie’s localpopularity,and inpart to themediainterest,givenZachStern’snotorietyinHollywood.

Itisalsodue,Iamtold,tothefactthatthemurdersoccurredat7OceanDrive,whichamongthelocalshasbecomeknownastheMurderHouse.

Nowwe’vemoved to theburial,which is justnextdoor to thechurch. Itallows thethrong that couldn’tget inside thechurch tomill around the southendof thecemetery,whereMelaniePhillipswillbe laid to rest.Theremustbe threehundredpeoplehere, ifyoucountthemedia,whichforthemostpartarekeepingarespectfuldistanceevenwhiletheysnaptheirphotographs.

The overhead sun atmidday is strong enough for squinting and sunglasses, both ofwhichmake it harder forme to dowhat I came here to do,which is to check out thepeopleattendingthefuneraltoseeifanyonepingsmyradar.Someofthesecreepsliketocomeandwatchthesorrowtheycaused,soit’sstandardoperatingproceduretoscanthecrowdatcrimescenesandfunerals.

“Remindmewhywe’rehere,DetectiveMurphy,”saysmypartner,IsaacMarks.

“I’mpayingmyrespects.”

“Youdidn’tknowMelanie,”hesays.

Trueenough. Idon’tknowanyonearoundhere.Onceupona time,myfamilycamehereeverysummer,agoodthree-weekstretchstraddlingJuneandJuly,tostaywithUncleLangdonandAuntChloe.Mymemoriesof thosesummers—beachesandboatridesandfishingoffthedocks—endatageseven.

ForsomereasonIneverknew,myfamilystoppedcomingafterthat.UntilninemonthsagowhenIjoinedtheforce,Ihadn’tsetfootintheHamptonsforeighteenyears.

“I’mworkingonmysuntan,”Isay.

“Nottomention,”saysIsaac,ignoringmyremark,“thatwealreadyhaveourbadguyincustody.”

Alsotrue.WearrestedNoahWalkeryesterday.He’llgetabondhearingtomorrow,butthere’snowaythejudgeisgoingtobondhimoutonadoublemurder.

“AndmightIfurtheradd,”saysIsaac,“thatthisisn’tevenyourcase.”

Rightagain.IvolunteeredtoleadtheteamarrestingNoah,butIwasn’tgiventhecase.Infact,thechief—myaforementioneduncleLangdon—ishandlingthematterpersonally.The town, especially the hoity-toity millionaires along the beach, just about busted acollectivegutwhenthecelebrityagentZachSternwasbrutallymurderedintheirsceniclittlehamlet.It’sthekindofcasethatcouldcostthechiefhisjob,ifheisn’tcareful.I’mtoldthetownsupervisorhasbeencallinghimonthehourforupdates.

SowhyamIhere,atafuneralforsomeoneIdon’tknow,onacasethat isn’tmine?Because I’m bored. Because since I left the NYPD, I haven’t seen any action. AndbecauseI’vehandledmorehomicidesineightyearsontheforcethanallofthesecopsinBridgehamptonputtogether.Translation:Iwantedthecase,andIwasalittledispleasedwhenIdidn’tgetit.

“Who’sthat?”Iask,gesturingacrossthewaytoanodd-lookingmaninagreencap,with long stringyhair and ratty clothes.Deep-set, creepyeyes that seem towander.Heshiftshisweightfromfoottofoot,unabletostaystill.

Isaacpushesdownhis sunglasses toget abetter look. “Oh, that’sAidenWillis,”hesays.“Heworksforthechurch.ProbablydugMelanie’sgrave.”

“Lookslikehesleptinitfirst.”

Isaaclikesthat.“Seriously,Murphy.You’relookingforsuspects?Withallyouknowaboutthiscase,whichisdiddly-squat,youdon’tlikeNoahWalkerforthemurders?”

“I’mnotsayingthat,”Ianswer.

“You’renotdenyingit,either.”

Iconsiderthat.He’sright,ofcourse.WhatthehelldoIknowaboutNoahWalkerorthe evidence against him?Hemay not have jumped out atme as someonewho’d justcommittedabrutaldoublemurder,butwhendopublicfacesevermatchprivatemisdeeds?I once busted a second-grade schoolteacher whowas selling heroin to the high schoolkids.Andacandystriperwhowasboningthecorpsesinthebasementofthehospital.Youneverknowpeople.AndI’dknownNoahWalkerforallofthirtyminutes.

“Gohome,”saysIsaac.“Goworkout—”

Alreadydidthismorning.

“—orseetheocean—”

I’veseenitalready.It’sareallybigbodyofwater.

“—orhaveadrink.”

Yeah,aglassofwinemightbeinmyfuture.Butfirst,I’mgoingtotakeaquickdetour.Adetourthatcouldprobablygetmeinalotoftrouble.

ASTHEFUNERALforMelaniePhillipsends,Isaygoodbyetomypartner,Detective IsaacMarks,without telling himwhere I’mgoing.Hedoesn’t need to know,and I don’t know if he’d keep the information to himself. I’m not yet sure where hisloyaltieslie,andI’mnotgoingtomakethesamemistakeImadewiththeNYPD.

I decide to walk, heading south from the cemetery toward the Atlantic. I alwaysunderestimate the distance to the ocean, but it’s a nice day for a walk, even if a littlesteamy. And I enjoy the houses just south of Main Street along this road, the white-trimmedCapeCodswithcedarshingleswhosecolorshavegrownricherwithagefromallthe precipitation that comes with proximity to the ocean. Some are bigger, some arenewer,butthesehousesgenerallylookthesame,whichIfindbothcomfortingandalittlecreepy.

AsIgetclosertotheocean,theplotsoflandgetwider,thehousesgetbigger,andtheprivacy shrubs flanking themget taller. I stopwhen I reach shrubbery that’s agood tenfeethigh.IknowI’vefoundtheplacebecausethemajesticwrought-irongatesattheendof the driveway,which are slightly parted, are adornedwith black-and-yellow tape thatsaysCRIMESCENEDONOTCROSS.

I slide between the gates without breaking the seal. I start up the driveway, but itcurves off to some kind of carriage house up a hill, which once upon a time probablyservedasa stable for thehorsesandpossibly the servants’quarters.So I take the stonepaththatwilleventuallyleadmetothefrontdoor.

Inthecenterofthewideexpanseofgrass, justbeforeitslopesdramaticallyupward,there is a small stone fountain, with a monument jutting up that bears a crest and aninscription.Ileanoverthefountaintotakeacloserlook.Thesmalltabletofstonefeaturesabirdinthecenter,withahookedbeakandalongtailfeather,encircledbylittlesymbols,eachofwhichappears tobe the letterX,butwhichuponcloser inspection isaseriesofcrisscrossingdaggers.

Andthen,ka-boom.

It hitsme, the rush, the pressure inmy chest, the stranglehold tomy throat, I can’tbreathe,Ican’tsee,I’mweightless.Helpme,somebodypleasehelpme—

Istaggerbackward,almostlosingmybalance,andsuckinadeep,deliciousbreathofair.

“Wow,”Isayintothewarmbreeze.Easy,girl.Takeiteasy.Iwipegreasysweatfrommyforeheadandinhaleandexhaleafewmoretimestoslowmypulse.

Beneaththemonument’screst,carvedintothestoneinathickGothicfont,arethesewords:

Okay,that’sprettycreepy.Itakeaphotoofthemonumentwithmysmartphone.Nowfrontandcenterbeforethehouse,Itakemyfirstgoodlook.

Themansion peering down atme from atop the hill is a Gothic structure of fadedmulticolored limestone. IthasaVictorian look to it,withmultiple rooflines,allof themsteeply pitched, fancy turrets, chimneys grouped at each end. There are elaboratemedieval-styleaccentsonthefacade.Everypeakistoppedwithanornamentthatendsina sharppoint, like spearsaimedat thegods.Thewindowsare longandnarrow,clover-shaped,withstainedglass.Thehouseislikeonegigantic,imperiousfrown.

I’ve heard some things about this house, read some things, even passed by itmanytimes,butseeingitupcloselikethissendsachillthroughme.

Itispartcathedralandpartcastle.Itisascowling,menacing,imposingstructure,bothregalandhaunting,almostromanticinitsgloom.

Allit’smissingisadrawbridgeandamoatfilledwithcrocodiles.

Thisis7OceanDrive.ThisiswhattheycalltheMurderHouse.

Thisisn’tyourcase,Iremindmyself.Thisisn’tyourproblem.

Thiscouldcostyouyourbadge,girl.

Istartupthehilltowardthefrontdoor.

I’MTRANSPORTEDBACK hundreds of years, to a time when yourode by horseback or carriage, when you lived by candlelight and torches, when youburnedwitchesandtreatedinfectionswithleeches.

WhenIclosethefrontdoorofthehouseat7OceanDrive,thesoundechoesuptotheimpossiblyhigh, roundedceiling,decoratedwithanornate frescoofwingedangelsandnakedwomenandbeardedmen in flowingrobes,allof themappearing to reach towardsomething,ormaybetowardoneanother.

Thesecondanteroomisaschillinganddatedasthefirst,withpatternedtilefloorsandmoreofthearched,OldTestamentceilings,antiquefurniture,gold-framedportraitsonthewallsofmendressedinruffledshirtsandlongcoats,wigsofwavywhitehairandsharplyangledhats—formalwear,circa1700.

The guy who built this place, the patriarch of the family, a guy named WinstonDahlquist,apparentlydidn’thaveasenseofhumor.

My heels echo on the hardwood floor as I enter the open-air foyer, rising up threestoriestotheroof.EverystepItakeelicitsareactionfromthishouse,fleetingcoughsandgroans.

“Hello,”Isay,likeachildmight,thesoundreturningtomefaintly.

The stairs up to the second floor are winding and predictably creaky. The housecontinues tocallout frompartsunseen,achesandhiccupsandwheezes,acenturies-oldcreaturedrawinglong,laboredbreaths.

WhenIreachthelanding,itseizesmeagain,stealingtheairfrommylungs,pressingagainstmychest,blindingme.No,please!Please,please,stop—

—high-pitchedchildlikesqueals,uncontrollablelaughter—

Pleasedon’t,pleasedon’tdothistome.

IgraspthebanistersoIdon’tfallbackdownthestairs.Iopenmyeyesandraisemyface,pantingforair,untilmyheartbeatfinallydecelerates.

“Getagrip,Murphy.”Ipassthroughornatedoubledoorstothesecond-floorhallway,where the smell greets me immediately, the coppery odor of spilled blood, theoverpowering, putrid scent of decay. Iwalk along a thick red carpet, thewalls paperedwithredandgold,asIapproachthebedroomwhereZachSternandMelaniePhillipstooktheirlastbreaths.

I step onto the dark hardwood floor and look around the room. Gold wallpaper iseverywhere.Against onewall is a king-size canopy bedwith thick purple curtains andsturdybedposts.Thebedisdressedinapurplecomforterandrufflewithvelvetpillows,someofwhicharestillonthebed,someofwhichlieonthefloor.Thedarkwooddresserholds twopewter statuettes thatwereprobablybookends for the thickvolumesof shortstories that also now lie on the floor. The statuettes, aswell as an antique brass alarmclock,areknockedtothesideonthedresser.

Opposite thebed,madeofwoodthatmatchesthedresser, isagiantarmoire.Andinthefarcorneroftheroom,southofthearmoireandwestofthedresser,isthebathroom.

IremovecopiesofthecrimescenephotosIxeroxedfromthefile.ZacharySternwasfoundlyingfacedownonthefloor,hisheadturnedto theright towardthedoor,hisfeetpointedtowardthebed.Beneathhimwasapoolofbloodandotherbodilyexcrementfromthe horrific stabwound to hismidsection. Several of his fingerswere crushed aswell.MelaniePhillipswas foundby thearmoireopposite thebed, thebackofher righthandtouchingthearmoire’sleg;shewaslyingonherstomachlikeZach,herheadtotheleft,hereyesopenandhermouthfrozeninatinyo.Shewasstabbedmorethanadozentimes,inthebreastandtorsoandthenintheface,neck,back,arms,andlegs.

Nowbacktothescene.Thecomforteronthebedhasbeenpulledbackontheleftside,showing a large blood poolwhere Zachwas first stabbedwhile lying in bed. There isbloodspatteronthewallbehindthebed,andathickseaofbloodembeddedinthefloorwherehedied.ThereisbloodspatteronthearmoireandalloverthenearbyfloorwhereMelanielayasshedied.

Twomore facts: Judging from the fresh semen found insideMelanie andonZach’sgenitalia, itseemsclear that the twoof themhadhadsexual intercoursenot longbeforetheywere killed.And as of now, barringDNA testing that is still pending, there is nophysicalevidenceputtingNoahWalkerinthishouse—nofingerprints,nocarpetfibers,noshoeorbootprints.

Andnow the theory theSTPDand thedistrict attorneyare runningwith:NoahwasobsessedwithMelanie. He somehow learned of her affair with Zach and followed herhere.We don’t know how he got in. The front door should have been locked, and nodamagewasdonetoit.Inanyevent,helayinwaituntiltheyhadcompletedtheirsexualintercourse, when they were relaxed, when their guards were down, to spring into theroom.

Noah surprised Zach in bed, plunging his knife into Zach’s chest and dragging thebladedownward,causingaverticalcutofroughlyfiveinches,tearingopentheesophagusand stomach.At this point,Melanie, whowas in the bathroom cleaning up, came out.Noahsubduedherbythedresser,knockingoverthebooksandalarmclockandstabbinghermultipletimesinthebreastsandtorsobeforethrowinghertothefloorbythearmoire,wherehecontinuedtostabherfrombehind,slicinghercheekandearandneckandthenherback,arms,andlegs.HethenreturnedtoZachandthrewhimoutofthebedandontothefloor,stompingonandcrushingsomeofZach’sfingersinablindrage.

ImovetothecornerbeyondwhereZach’sbodywasfoundandsquatdown,tryingtoget the angle right andusing thephotos tomake sure I’maccurate.WhereZachwouldhavebeenlyingonthefloor,withhisheadtotheright,hissightlinetravelsbeyondtheedgeof thebed to thearmoire. I repeat thesameexercisefromMelanie’svantagepointandgetthesamelineofvision,fromtheoppositeend.

I removemycompact frommypurseandsquatdownby the legof thearmoire thatMelanie’srighthandtouched.IcurlthecompactunderthearmoireandaroundthelegsoIcanseethebackofit.AsIthought,thewoodisabraded—scrapedandcut.

Tenminuteslater,I’mwalkingonOceanDrivetowardMainStreet,onmycellphone

withUncleLangdon.“MelaniePhillipswashandcuffedtothearmoire’sleg,”Isay.“Hemade her watch the whole thing. This wasn’t an act of blind rage, Chief. This was acalculated,well-executedactofsadism.”

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