contents also by james patterson and -...

Contents

AbouttheBookAbouttheAuthorsAlsobyJamesPattersonandHowardRoughanTitlePageDedicationPrologueOneTwoThree

BookOne

Chapter1Chapter2Chapter3Chapter4Chapter5Chapter6Chapter7Chapter8Chapter9Chapter10Chapter11Chapter12Chapter13Chapter14

Chapter29

BookTwoChapter30Chapter31Chapter32Chapter33Chapter34Chapter35Chapter36Chapter37Chapter38Chapter39Chapter40

Chapter55Chapter56Chapter57

BookThreeChapter58Chapter59Chapter60Chapter61Chapter62Chapter63Chapter64Chapter65Chapter66

Chapter67Chapter68Chapter69Chapter70Chapter71Chapter72Chapter73Chapter74Chapter75Chapter76Chapter77

BookFourChapter78

Chapter93Chapter94Chapter95Chapter96Chapter97Chapter98Chapter99Chapter100Chapter101Chapter102Chapter103

BookFiveChapter104

Chapter105Chapter106Chapter107Chapter108Chapter109Chapter110Chapter111Chapter112Chapter113

EpilogueChapter114Chapter115

SneakPreview

Copyright

ABOUTTHEBOOK

Thetruthwillsetyoufree–ifitdoesn’tkillyoufirst.

New York attorney TrevorMann’s world shatters whenhe receives a phone calltelling him his girlfriend has

beenshotdeadinamugging.But the circumstances pointtosomethingmorecalculatedthanarandomattack.

ClairewasaNewYorkTimesjournalist and Trevor isconvinced she had uneartheda secret so shocking that shewasmurderedtokeepitfromcoming to light. ChasingClaire’s leads, Trevor willrisk everything to discover

what exactly she was killedfor.

It’stimetofindoutthetruth,ordie.

ABOUTTHEAUTHORS

JAMES PATTERSON isone of the best-known andbiggest-selling writers of alltime. Since winning theEdgar™AwardforBestFirstNovel with The Thomas

BerrymanNumber,hisbookshave sold in excess of 300millioncopiesworldwideandhe has been the mostborrowed author in UKlibraries for the past eightyears in a row. He is theauthor of some of the mostpopularseriesofthepasttwodecades – the Alex Cross,Women’s Murder Club,Detective Michael Bennettand Private novels – and hehas written many other

number one bestsellersincludingromancenovelsandstand-alone thrillers.He livesin Florida with his wife andson.

James is passionate aboutencouragingchildren to read.Inspiredbyhisownsonwhowasareluctantreader,healsowrites a range of booksspecifically for youngreaders. James is a foundingpartner of Booktrust’s

Children’s Reading Fund intheUK.

HOWARDROUGHAN hasco-writtenseveralbookswithJames Patterson and is theauthor of The Promise of aLie and The Up and Comer.He lives in Florida with hiswifeandson.

AlsobyJamesPatterson

STAND-ALONETHRILLERS

Sail(withHowardRoughan)Swimsuit(withMaxine

Paetro)

Don’tBlink(withHowardRoughan)

PostcardKillers(withLizaMarklund)

Toys(withNeilMcMahon)NowYouSeeHer(withMichaelLedwidge)

KillMeIfYouCan(withMarshallKarp)

GuiltyWives(withDavidEllis)

Zoo(withMichaelLedwidge)SecondHoneymoon(with

HowardRoughan)

Mistress(withDavidEllis)Invisible(withDavidEllis)TheThomasBerryman

NumberMurderHouse(withDavidEllis,tobepublishedJuly

2015)

ALEXCROSSNOVELS

AlongCameaSpiderKisstheGirlsJackandJill

CatandMousePopGoestheWeasel

RosesareRedVioletsareBlueFourBlindMiceTheBigBadWolfLondonBridgesMary,Mary

CrossDoubleCrossCrossCountry

AlexCross’sTrial(withRichardDiLallo)I,AlexCross

CrossFireKillAlexCross

MerryChristmas,AlexCrossAlexCross,RunCrossMyHeartHopetoDie

THEWOMEN’SMURDERCLUBSERIES

1sttoDie2ndChance(withAndrew

Gross)

3rdDegree(withAndrewGross)

4thofJuly(withMaxinePaetro)

The5thHorseman(withMaxinePaetro)

The6thTarget(withMaxinePaetro)

7thHeaven(withMaxinePaetro)

8thConfession(withMaxinePaetro)

9thJudgement(withMaxinePaetro)

10thAnniversary(withMaxinePaetro)

11thHour(withMaxinePaetro)

12thofNever(withMaxinePaetro)

Unlucky13(withMaxinePaetro)

14thDeadlySin(withMaxinePaetro)

DETECTIVEMICHAELBENNETTSERIES

SteponaCrack(withMichaelLedwidge)

RunforYourLife(withMichaelLedwidge)

WorstCase(withMichaelLedwidge)

TickTock(withMichaelLedwidge)

I,MichaelBennett(withMichaelLedwidge)Gone(withMichael

Ledwidge)

Burn(withMichaelLedwidge)

Alert(withMichaelLedwidge,tobepublished

September2015)

PRIVATENOVELS

Private(withMaxinePaetro)PrivateLondon(withMark

Pearson)PrivateGames(withMark

Sullivan)

Private:No.1Suspect(withMaxinePaetro)

PrivateBerlin(withMarkSullivan)

PrivateDownUnder(withMichaelWhite)

PrivateL.A.(withMarkSullivan)

PrivateIndia(withAshwinSanghi)

PrivateVegas(withMaxinePaetro)

PrivateSydney(withKathrynFox,tobepublishedAugust

2015)

NYPDREDSERIES

NYPDRed(withMarshallKarp)

NYPDRed2(withMarshallKarp)

NYPDRed3(withMarshallKarp)

NON-FICTION

TornApart(withHalandCoryFriedman)

TheMurderofKingTut(withMartinDugard)

ROMANCE

SundaysatTiffany’s(withGabrielleCharbonnet)

TheChristmasWedding(withRichardDiLallo)

FirstLove(withEmilyRaymond)

OTHERTITLES

MiracleatAugusta(withPeterdeJonge)

FAMILYOFPAGE-TURNERS

MIDDLESCHOOLBOOKS

MiddleSchool:TheWorstYearsofMyLife(withChris

Tebbetts)MiddleSchool:GetMeOut

ofHere!(withChrisTebbetts)

MiddleSchool:MyBrotherIsaBig,FatLiar(withLisa

Papademetriou)MiddleSchool:HowI

SurvivedBullies,Broccoli,

andSnakeHill(withChrisTebbetts)

MiddleSchool:UltimateShowdown(withJulia

Bergen)MiddleSchool:SaveRafe!

(withChrisTebbetts)

IFUNNYSERIES

IFunny(withChrisGrabenstein)

IEvenFunnier(withChrisGrabenstein)

ITotallyFunniest(withChrisGrabenstein)

TREASUREHUNTERSSERIES

TreasureHunters(withChrisGrabenstein)

TreasureHunters:DangerDowntheNile(withChris

Grabenstein)

HOUSEOFROBOTS

HouseofRobots(withChrisGrabenstein)

KENNYWRIGHT

KennyWright:Superhero(withChrisTebbetts)

HOMEROOMDIARIES

HomeroomDiaries(withLisaPapademetriou)

MAXIMUMRIDESERIES

TheAngelExperimentSchool’sOutForever

SavingtheWorldandOtherExtremeSports

TheFinalWarningMax

FangAngel

NevermoreForever(tobepublishedMay

2015)

CONFESSIONSSERIES

ConfessionsofaMurderSuspect(withMaxinePaetro)Confessions:ThePrivate

SchoolMurders(withMaxinePaetro)

Confessions:TheParisMysteries(withMaxine

Paetro)

WITCH&WIZARDSERIES

Witch&Wizard(withGabrielleCharbonnet)TheGift(withNedRust)

TheFire(withJillDembowski)

TheKiss(withJillDembowski)

TheLost(withEmilyRaymond)

DANIELXSERIES

TheDangerousDaysofDanielX(withMichael

Ledwidge)WatchtheSkies(withNed

Rust)

DemonsandDruids(withAdamSadler)

GameOver(withNedRust)Armageddon(withChris

Grabenstein)LightsOut(withChris

Grabenstein)

GRAPHICNOVELS

DanielX:AlienHunter(withLeopoldoGout)

MaximumRide:MangaVols.1–8(withNaRaeLee)

FormoreinformationaboutJamesPatterson’snovels,

visitwww.jamespatterson.co.uk

OrbecomeafanonFacebook

http://www.jamespatterson.co.uk

ForDr.SusanBoulwareandGailPond

PROLOGUE

OLDHABITSDIEHARD

ONE

ATPRECISELY5:15everymorning,sevendaysaweek,Dr.StephenHellermanemergedfromhismodestbrickcolonialinthebucolictownofSilverSpring,Maryland,andjoggedsixmiles.Six-point-twomiles,tobeexact.

DependingonwhetheritwasDaylightSavingTimeornot,itwaseitherstilldarkorjustdawnashefirststretchedhiscalvesagainstthetalloakshadingmostofhisfrontyard,butnomatterwhattheseason,Dr.Hellerman,anacclaimedneurologistatMercyHospitalinnearbyLangley,rarelysawanotherhumanbeingfromstarttofinishofhisrun.

Thatwasexactlyhowhewantedit.Althoughhe’dneverbeen

married,datedsparingly,andsocializedwithfriendsevenless,itwasn’tthattheforty-eight-year-olddoctordidn’tlikepeople;hesimplylikedbeingalonebetter.Beingalonemeantneverbeingtemptedtotellsomeoneyoursecrets.AndDr.StephenHellermanhadalotofsecrets.

Abrand-newone,inparticular.Arealdandy.Takinghiscustomaryleft

turnoutofhisdriveway,headingnorthonKnollStreet,HellermanthenhungarightontoBishopLane,whichcurvedabitbeforefeedingintothestraightshootofRoute9thathuggedthetown’sreservoir.Fromthereitwasnothingbutwateronhisleft,densetreesonhisright,andtheweatheredgray

asphaltbeneathhisNikeFlyknitRacers.Hellermanlikedthesound

theshoesmadeasheran,theconsistentthomp-thomp-thomp-thompthatmeasuredoffhisstrideslikeametronome.Morethanthat,helikedthefactthathecouldfocusonthatsoundtotheexclusionofeverythingelse.Thatwastherealbeautyofhisdailyrun,thewayit

alwaysseemedtoclearhismindlikeagiantsqueegee.Buttherewassomething

differentaboutthisparticularmorning,andHellermanrealizeditevenbeforethefirstbeadsofsweatbegantodottheedgeofhisthickhairline.Thethomp-thomp-thomp-

thompwasn’tworking.Thisnewsecretofhis—

lessthantwelvehoursold—wasunlikealltheothers

encryptedinsidehishead,nevertoberevealed.ThefactsthatHellermanmoonlightedfortheCIA,waspaidthroughanoffshorenumberedaccount,andengagedinresearchthatnomedicalboardwouldeverapproveweresecretsofhisownchoosing.Decisionshe’dmade.Dealshe’dcutwithhisownconscienceinaMachiavelliantrade-offsobigthatitwouldgarnerits

ownwingintheRationalizationHallofFame.Butthisnewsecret?This

onewasdifferent.Itdidn’tbelongtohim.Itwasn’thistokeep.Andtryashedid,there

simplywasn’tenoughthomp-thomp-thomp-thompintheworldtolethimpushthatthoughtoutofhishead,evenifonlyforanhour.Still,Hellermankept

runningthatmorning,just

likeeverymorningbeforeit.Thatwaswhathedid.Thatwastheroutine.Thehabit.Six-point-twomiles,everydayoftheweek.Thesamestretchofroadseverytime.Suddenly,though,

Hellermanstopped.Ifhehadn’t,hewould’ve

runstraightintoit.

TWO

AWHITEvanwasparkedalongthesideofRoute9withitshoodopen,thedriverhunchedovertheengine,whichwashissingsteam.HehadhisbackturnedtoHellerman.Hehadn’theardhimapproaching.

“Dammit!”theguyyelled,pullingbackhishandinpain.Whateverhe’dtouchedontheenginewaswaytoohot.Asifthesteamweren’tagiveaway.“Youokay?”asked

Hellerman.Theguyturnedwithalook

ofsurprisetoseehewasn’talone.“Oh,hey,”hesaid.“Yeah,I’mfine,thanks.WishIcouldsaythesameforthispieceofshitvan,though.”

“Overheated,huh?”“Ithinkthecoolantlinehas

aleak.Thiswatershouldatleastgetmethroughmyroute,”theguysaid,pointingtoabottleofPolandSpringperchedontopofthegrille.Hesmiled.“Unless,ofcourse,you’reamechanic.”“No,justahumbledoctor,”

saidHellerman.“Oh,yeah?Whatkind?”“Neurologist.”

“Abraindoctor,huh?I’venevermetoneofthosebefore.”Theguypouredsomewaterontheradiatorcaptocoolitdownbeforegivingitasecondgo.“Myname’sEddie,”hesaid.“Stephen.”HellermanshookEddie’s

handandwatchedasheemptiedthePolandSpringintotheradiator.Helookedprettyyoung,thirtyish.Goodshape,too.Hellerman,asan

MDandarunningfanatic,tendedtonoticesuchthings.Anytimehefirstmetsomeone,theywereimmediatelyclassifiedaseither“fit”or“unfit.”Eddiewasfit.“Yeah,thatoughtadoit,”

saidEddie,rescrewingtheradiatorcap.Meanwhile,Hellerman

glancedatthesideofthewhitevan.Therewasnologo,nomarkingofanykind.

Eddie,nonetheless,wasdressedinmatchinggrayshortsandatucked-inpolo,muchlikeadriverforFedExorUPS.“Youmentionedhavinga

route,”saidHellerman.“Areyouadeliveryman,Eddie?”Eddiesmiledagain.

“Somethinglikethat,”hesaidbeforeslammingthehood.“Butmyrealspecialty,Dr.Hellerman,ispickups.”

Hellerman’stoestwitchedinsidehisFlyknitRacers.Nevermindthathehadn’ttoldEddiehislastname.Justthewaytheguydeliveredtheline—hell,thelineitself—wasenoughtosetoffeverywarningbellinhishead.Myrealspecialtyis

pickups?Thatcouldonlymeanonething,thoughtHellerman.Hewasthepackage.

Thesoundheheardnextonlyconfirmedit.Itwasthevan’ssidedoorslidingopen.Eddiewasn’talone.Outcameaguywho

could’vebeenEddie’sbrother,ifnothisclone.Sameage,justasfit.Theonemajordifference?Thegunhewasholding.“Youknow,”saidtheguy,

aimingatHellerman’schest,“oneofthefirstthingsyoulearninfieldtrainingisthat

theonlyhabityoushouldhaveistohavenohabits.Younevereatlunchatthesamerestaurant,youdon’thaveafavoriteparkbench…andfortheloveofstupidity,youneverjogeverydayatthesametimealongthesameroute.But,ofcourse,you’renotactuallyafieldagent,Dr.Hellerman,areyou?You’rejustacivilianrecruit.”Hemotionedtothevan.“Getin.”

IttookHellermanallofonesecondtoconsiderhisoptions.Thereweren’tany.None,atleast,thatdidn’tendwithhistakingabullet.Sointothewindowlessvan

hewent.Itwasemptyintheback.Savenowforhim.“Wherearewegoing?”heasked.“Thatdepends,”saidthe

onewiththegun.“Canyoukeepasecret?”

HeletgowithaloudlaughthatimmediatelybecamethemostannoyingandterrifyingnoiseHellermanhadeverheardinhislife.Evenaftertheslidingdoorwasclosedinhisface,hecouldstillhearitloudandclear.Until.Pop!Pop-pop!Itsoundedlike

firecrackers,butHellermanknewthatwasn’twhatitwas.Thoseweredefinitelygunshots.Threeofthem.

Whatthehell…?

THREE

THEONEwiththegunwasn’ttheonlyonewithagun.BeforeHellermancould

evenbegintofigureoutwhathadhappenedoutsidethevan,Eddieopenedthedriver’ssidedoorandquicklyclimbedbehindthewheel.He

slidhisBerettaM9intooneofthecupholderssocasuallyitcould’vebeenagrandemochafromStarbucks.“You’resafenow,”he

said,startingtheengine.“Butweneedtogetoutofhere.Fast.”“Eddie,whoareyou?”

askedHellerman.“Myname’snotEddie,”he

said,shiftingintodriveandpunchingthegassimultaneously.

Thetiresscreeched,kickingupgravelfromthesideoftheroad,asHellermanfranticallygrabbedthebackoftheshotgunseattoholdon.Ashewatchedthespeedometerhitforty,thenfifty,thensixty,hewaitedforNotEddietoelaborate,butnothingcame.“Inthatcase,whowasthat

withyou?”Hellermanasked.“He’stheguywhowas

goingtokillyou,”NotEddie

answered.“Rightafterhegotwhathewanted.”“Whichiswhat?”“Youtellme.”Oddlyenough,Hellerman

knewexactlywhatNotEddiemeant.Thiswasallabouthisnewsecret,ithadtobe.“Arewetalkingaboutthekid?”“Yes,exactly…thekid.

Whereishe?Weneedtogettohimbeforetheydo.”Thespeedometerwas

pushingseventynow.The

postedspeedlimitonRoute9wasthirty-five.“Waitasecond,”said

Hellerman.Hewasbacktofull-blownconfused.“Who’sthey?”“Theoneswhodeveloped

theserum.That’swhatthekidtoldyouabout,right?That’swhatheuncovered.Theserum.”“Howdoyouknow?”Finally,NotEddiewas

readytoexplain.“I’mFBI,”

hesaid.HadHellermanactually

beensittinginaseat,hewould’vefallenoutofit.Hecouldn’tbelievewhathewashearing.“You’retellingmetheFBIhasanagentworkingundercoverintheCIA?”“Someonehastokeep

theminline.”“Bykillingoneofthem?”“Itwaseitheryouorhim,

soIthinkthewordsyou’re

reallylookingforare‘thankyou.’”“I’msorry,”said

Hellerman.“Thankyou.”“You’rewelcome.Butnow

you’vegottohelpme,”NotEddiesaid.“Whereishe?Becausewecan’tprotecthimifwedon’tknowwhereheis.”Hellermancouldn’targue

withthelogic.Afterall,hewaslivingproofofit.Mr.NotEddie—orwhateverhis

realnamewas—hadjustsavedhislife.Sohetoldhimwhathe

knew,thatthekidhadtravelplans.“Areyousure?”“Yes,”saidHellerman.“Andwhatdidhewantyou

todo?”“Spillthebeansinternally.

Laterthismorning,I’msupposedtomeetwiththeassistantdirector.”

NotEddie,whoserealnamewasGordon,glancedbackatHellermanintherearviewmirror.“Thanks,”hesaidwithanod.“Iappreciateyourtellingmethetruth.”“AsdoI,”saidHellerman.“Yeah,aboutthat…

there’ssomethingelseIneedtotellyou.”“What’sthat?”Gordonpulledofftheroad

withasharptugonthewheel.HeturnedbacktoHellerman

andshrugged.“ThatstuffaboutmeworkingfortheFBI?Ilied.”Andjustlikethat,without

theslightesthesitation,hereachedforhisgrandemochaBerettaM9andshotHellermaninthehead.Thenheturnedthevan

aroundandwentbacktopickuphispartner,whomhehadn’treallykilled.Thatwasalie,too.

BOOKONE

WHATTHETRUTHKNOWS

CHAPTER1

HADITbeenanyoneelse,anyotherwoman,themomentmighthaveregisteredupwardofa7.6ontheEmasculationScale,orwhatevernumberittakestorattleaman’sself-confidenceuntilhecrumbles.

Butthiswasn’tanyotherwoman.ThiswasClaire.“What’ssofunny?”I

asked.Rightinthemiddleofour

havingsex,she’dburstoutlaughing.Imean,reallylaughing.Thewholebedwasshaking.“I’msorry,”Clairesaid,

tryingtostop.Thatjustmadeherlaughharderanddothatlittlecrinklethingwithhernosethatinaweirdand

wonderfulwayalwaysmadeherlookevenprettier.“Damn,it’sthesex,isn’t

it?I’mdoingitallwrongagain,”Ijoked.Atleast,IhopedIwasjoking.AsIproppedanelbowon

themattress,shefinallyexplained.“Iwasjustrememberingthattimewhenyou—”“Really?”Isaid,

immediatelycuttingheroff.

“That’swhatyouwerethinkingabout?”Therewasacertain

somethingsimpaticobetweenClaireandmethatallowedeachofustoknowwhattheotherwasabouttosayordo,basedonnothingmorethanoursharedhistory.Fortherecord,thathistorywastwoyearsofofficiallydating,followedbythepasttwoyears,duringwhichwewerejustfriends(withbenefits)

becauseourrespectivecareershadputamajorstrainontheofficiallydatingthing.Oddlyenough—ormaybe

not—we’dneverbeenhappiertogether.Clairewrappedherarms

aroundme,smiling.“Justsoyouknow,Ialwaysthoughtitwascute,”shesaid.“Endearing,even.”“Andjustsoyouknow,it

happenedoverthreeyears

agoandI’mprettysureIwasdrunk.”“Youweren’tdrunk,”she

said.“Okay,butitwasdefinitely

overthreeyearsago.Shouldn’ttherebesomekindofstatuteoflimitations?”“Onaman’sfirstattempt

totalkdirtyinbed?Idon’tthinkso.”“Howdoyouknowitwas

myfirsttime?”

Sheshotmeadeadpanlook.“IwanttospankyoulikeSantaClaus?”Allright,shehadmethere.“Fairenough,”Isaid.

“Rookiemistake.Inmydefense,though,itwasrightbeforeChristmas.”“Ofcourse,”saidClaire,

“becausethat’sthefirstruleoftalkingdirtyinbed.Keepittopical.”“Okay,nowyou’rejust

mockingme.”

“No,I’mprettysureIwasmockingyoubeforethat,”shesaid.“Tellyouwhat,though,I’mwillingtogiveyouasecondchance.”“Noway.”“Whynot?”“CharlieBrownandthe

football,that’swhy,”Isaid.“IpromiseIwon’tlaugh

thistime.”“Surething,Lucy.”“No,really.”Clairelifted

herheadoffthepillow,

gentlykissingmylowerlip.“Let’sseewhatyou’vegot,Mr.Mann.”Istaredather,waitingfor

hertosayshewasonlykidding.Callingmebymylastnamewassometimesatip-off.Notthistime,though.“You’restalling,”she

insisted.“No,juststumped.Nota

lotofholidaysinJune.”Clairechuckled,playing

along.Shealwaysplayed

along.“You’vegotFlagDaynextweek,”shesaid.“Maybesomethingaboutyourpole?”“Veryfunny.”“Speakingofhalf-mast,

though.”Iglanceddownbeneaththe

sheets.“Well,whosefaultisthat?”Clairesuddenlygrabbed

mybackside,rollingmelikeakayak.NextthingIknew,shewasontopandpushing

herlongauburnhairbackfromhereyes.“Sometimesitjusttakesa

woman,”shesaid.Shethenleaneddownto

myearandwhisperedarequestthatwaseasilythedirtiestthingI’deverheardhersay.Justfilthy.X-rated.Obscene.AndIlovedit.ButbeforeIcouldshow

herjusthowmuch,weboth

frozetoahorriblesoundfillingtheroom.NowIreallycouldn’t

believemyears.

CHAPTER2

CLAIREUNATTACHEDherselffromme,forlackofamoredelicatewaytodescribeit,andreachedfor“theStopper”onmybedsidetable.Thatwasmynicknameforit.Whenitrang,everythingelsestopped.

“I’msorry,”shesaidbeforetakingthecall.“Youandmeboth,”Isaid

undermybreath.Inall,Claireownedthree

cellphones.Thefirst,heriPhone,wasforpersonaluse.Friendsandfamily.Thesecond,aBlackBerry,

wasforwork.ClaireS.Parker,asherbylineread,wasanationalaffairsreporterfortheNewYorkTimes.

Herthirdphone,anoldMotorola,wasalsoforwork.Exceptthisphoneanditsnumberwereforaverysmallandselectgroup.Hersources.Whichwasanotherreason

whytheStopperwasagoodnameforthisphone.Theidentityofthesesourcesstoppedwithher,cold,endofstory.Nothereditor,nottheexecutiveeditor,notevenJudgeReginaldMcCabehad

everbeentoldthenameofasinglesourceofClaire’s.Asfarasthatlastguy,

JudgeMcCabeoftheUnitedStatesDistrictCourt,wasconcerned,hewentsofarastochargeClairewithcontemptwhensherefusedtoidentifyasourceafterbeingsubpoenaedinacriminalhomicidecaseinvolvinganAmericanmilitaryattachéassignedtotheUN.Thatgotherthirty-sixdaysandnights

attheTaconicCorrectionalFacilityinBedfordHills,NewYork.Ihavetosay,sherockedtheorangejumpsuittheymadeherwear.“Hello?”Claireanswered.Theunwrittengroundrules

forwhenshetookthesecallsweresimple.IfIhadbeenatherplacedowntown,I’dhavegottenupandgivenhersomeprivacy.Sincewewereatmyplace,though,Ihadsquatter’srights.Ifsheneededprivacy,

she’dbetheoneleavingthebedroom.Butsheremainedsitting

thereontheedgeofthebed.Naked,noless.Shelistenedforafew

moments,thebeat-upoldflipphonepressedtightagainstherear.Then,hervoicehigh-pitchedwithsurprise,sheasked,“Wait,you’rehereinthecity?”Quickly,shebegantappingherthumbandforefingertogether,twisting

herwristintheair.IfI’dbeenawaiterinarestaurant,Iwould’vebeenbringingherthecheck.ButIknewwhatsheactuallywanted.Ileanedovertothebedside

tableclosesttome,pullingoutthedrawer.Afterhandingherapen,IwasabouttoofferupsomepaperwhenIsawherreachforayellowlegalpadthatwassittingatopatallstackofbooksonthefloor,alsoknownasmyto-read

pile.Mostlybiographies.Somehistoricalfictionmixedinaswell.AsClairescribbled

somethingonthepad,Istaredatthefrecklesonthecurveofhershoulders,hundredsofthem.MyeyesdrifteddownherspineandIsmiled,thinkingofthetripwetooktoBlockIslandafewsummersago,whenIrubbedsuntanlotiononherbikiniedbackandsneakilyleftbareasmall

stretchofrealestatespellingoutmyinitials,TM.“TrevorMann!”she

screamedlaterthatafternoonwhenshecaughtaglimpseinthemirrorasshesteppedoutoftheshower.Afterdeliveringapunchtomyshoulder—withmorewallopthanherthinframewouldeverhavesuggested—shebrokeuplaughing.“I’vebeentrademarked!”

Evennow,squintingabitinthedimnessofmybedroom,IcouldstillsortofseemostoftheTandsomeoftheM.OrsoI’dconvincedmyself.“Okay,don’tgo

anywhere,”Clairesaidintothephone.Damn.Iwashopingshe’dhang

up,turnaround,andsay,“Now,wherewerewe?”butIknewthatwasbeyond

wishfulthinking.Bythetimeshelookedbackatmeoverhershoulderandallthosefreckles,Ialreadyknew.“Youhavetogo,don’t

you?”Isaid.Sheleanedoverandkissed

me.“I’msorry.”Thosesameunwritten

groundruleshaditthatIwasn’tsupposedtopry.ButasIwatchedherdress,andsawthebounceinherstep,Icouldn’thelpmyself.

“You’vegotsomething,don’tyou?”Iasked.“Somethinggood.”Shenoddedwithatouchof

giddiness.Istaredather,waitingfor

something,anythingthathintedatwhatitmightbe.Imusthavelookedlikeadogsittingattheedgeofthedinnertable,silentlybeggingforscraps.“Iknow,”shesaidfinally.

“Butwehavetokeepsome

mysterybetweenus,don’twe?”Buttoningthelastbutton

onhernavy-blueblouse,shereturnedtothesideofthebedandkissedmeonelasttimebeforeleaving.“Callmeinthemorning,”I

said.Shesmiled.“Promise.”Alittleovertwohours

later,Iwasjoltedawakebythesoundofmyphone.Itwasjustshyofonea.m.

Claire’soldersisterwascallingfromBoston.Shewascryingandcouldn’tgetthewordsout.Shedidn’thaveto.ItwasasifIknewthesecondIpickedupthephone.TherewasacertainsomethingsimpaticobetweenClaireandme.Somethingterriblehad

happened.

CHAPTER3

DETECTIVEDAVELamontshookmyhandfirmlyinthefrontwaitingareaoftheMidtownNorthPrecinctonWestFifty-FourthStreetandledmeupstairstothefarbackcornerofasquadroomthatwasemptyandsilent,save

forthebaritonehumofthefluorescentlightingoverhead.“Haveaseat,”hesaid,

pointingtoafoldingmetalchairinfrontofhisdesk.“Youwantsomecoffee?”“No,I’mokay.Thanks.”Hegrabbedamugwitha

fadedNewYorkGiantslogoonitthatwassittingontopofsomeoverstuffedfolders.“I’llberightback.”Iwatchedhimashe

walkedoff.Lamontwasatall

man,filledoutbyage,butstillwithabuildthatsuggestedadegreeofathleticismsomewhereinhispast.GiventheGiantsmug,Iwasthinkingtherewasprobablyanoldhighschoolyearbookouttherewiththewordlinebackernexttohisname.Claireonceshowedmeher

highschoolyearbook.HerseniorquotewasfromAndrewMarvell:“Hadwe

butworldenoughandtime…”Christ,thisisreally

happening,isn’tit?She’sreallygone.Justlikethat.Ifeelnumb.No,that’snotright.Ifeeleverything.Andit’shurtinglikehell.Claire’ssister,Ellen,had

givenmeDetectiveLamont’snameandnumber.He’dmadethecalltoherupinBoston,breakingthenews.

Iwasn’tnextofkin,husbandorfiancé,oreventhelastpersontoseeClairealive,butwhenI’dtoldLamontmynameoverthephoneI’dbeenprettysurehe’dagreetoseemerightaway.“YouwerethatADA,

weren’tyou?”heasked.“Yeah,thatwasme,”I

answered.Me,asinthatformer

Manhattanassistantdistrictattorney.BackwhenIplayed

forthehometeam.BeforeIchangedjerseys.BeforeIgotdisbarred.Iknewheknewthestory.

Mosteverycopinthecitydid,atleasttheveterans.Itwasthekindofstorytheywouldn’tforget.Lamontcamebacknow

andsatbehindhisdeskwithafullmugofcoffee.HetookasipashepulledClaire’sfileinfrontofhim,thesteammomentarilyfoggingthe

bottomhalfofhisdrugstore-varietyglasses.Thenheshookhishead

slowlyandsimplystaredatmeforamoment,unblinking.“Fuckin’random,”hesaid

finally.Inoddedasheflippedopen

thefiletohisnotesinanticipationofmyquestions.Ihadalotofthem.Christ.Thepainisonly

goingtogetworse,isn’tit?

CHAPTER4

“WHEREEXACTLYdidithappen?”Iasked.“WestEndAvenueat

Seventy-Third.Thetaxiwasstoppedataredlight,”saidLamont.“Theassailantsmashedthedriver’ssidewindow,pistol-whippedthedriveruntilhewasknocked

outcold,andgrabbedhismoneybag.HethenrobbedMs.Parkeratgunpoint.”“Claire,”Isaid.“Excuseme?”“PleasecallherClaire.”Iknewitwasaweirdthing

formetosay,butweirderstillwashearingLamontrefertoClaireasMs.Parker,notthatIblamedhim.VictimsarealwaysMr.,Mrs.,orMs.foradetective.Hewassupposedto

callherthat.Ijustwasn’treadytohearit.“Iapologize,”Isaid.“It’s

justthat—”“Don’tworryaboutit,”he

saidwitharaisedpalm.Heunderstood.Hegotit.“Sowhathappenednext?”

Iasked.“Whatwentwrong?”“We’renotsure,exactly.

Bestwecantell,shefullycooperated,didn’tputupafight.”

Thatmadesense.Clairemighthavebeenyourprototypical“tough”NewYorker,butshewasalsonofool.Shedidn’townanythingshe’driskherlifetokeep.Doesanyone?No,shedefinitelyknewthe

drill.Neverbeastatistic.Ifyourtaxigetsjacked,youdoexactlyastold.“Andyousaidthedriver

wasknockedout¸right?He

didn’thearanything?”Iasked.“Noteventhegunshots,”

saidLamont.“Infact,hedidn’tactuallyregainconsciousnessuntilafterthefirsttwoofficersarrivedatthescene.”“Whocalleditin?”“Anoldercouplewalking

nearby.”“Whatdidtheysee?”“Theshooterrunningback

tohiscar,whichwasbehind

thetaxi.Theywerethirtyorfortyyardsaway;theydidn’tgetagoodlook.”“Anyotherwitnesses?”“You’dthink,butno.Then

again,residentialblock…aftermidnight,”hesaid.“We’llobviouslyfollowupintheareatomorrow.Talktothedriver,too.HewastakentoSt.Luke’sbeforewearrived.”Ileanedbackinmychair,a

metalhingesomewhere

belowtheseatcreakingitsage.ImusthavehadadozenmorequestionsforLamont,eachonetryingtogetmethatmuchclosertobeinginthetaxiwithClaire,toknowingwhathadreallyhappened.Toknowingwhetherornot

ittrulywas…fuckin’random.ButIwasn’tfooling

anyone.NotLamont,andespeciallynotmyself.AllIwasdoingwas

procrastinating,tryinghopelesslytoavoidaskingtheonequestionIwastrulydreading.Icouldn’tavoiditany

longer.

CHAPTER5

“FORTHErecord,youwereneverinhere,”saidLamont,pausingatacloseddoortowardthebackcorneroftheprecincthouse.Istaredathimblanklyasif

Iweresomechronicsuffererofshort-termmemoryloss.“Inwhere?”Iasked.

Hesmirked.Thenheopenedthedoor.ThewindowlessroomI

followedhimintowasonlyslightlybiggerthanclaustrophobic.Afterclosingthedoorbehindus,Lamontintroducedmetohispartner,DetectiveMikeMcGeary,whowasatthehelmofwhatlookedlikeoneofthosevideoarcadegameswhereyousitinacaptain’schairshootingatalienspaceshipsonalarge

screen.Hewasevenholdingwhatlookedlikeajoystick.McGeary,square-jawed

andbald,gaveLamontasidewaysglancethatallbutscreamed,Whatthehellishedoinginhere?“Mr.Mannwasaclose

acquaintanceofthevictim,”saidLamont.Headdedaslightemphasisonmylastname,asiftojoghispartner’smemory.

McGearystudiedmeinthedimlightoftheroomuntilheputmyfaceandnametogether.PerhapshewasrememberingthecoveroftheNewYorkPostacoupleofyearsback.AnHonestMann,readtheheadline.“Yeah,fine,”McGeary

saidfinally.Itwasn’texactlyaringing

endorsement,butitwasenoughtoconsidertheissueofmybeingthereresolved.I

couldstay.Icouldseetherecording.Icouldwatch,frameby

frame,themurderofthewomanIloved.Lamonthadn’thadtotell

metherewasasurveillancecamerainthetaxi.I’dknownrightaway,givenhowhe’ddescribedtheshootingoverthephone,someofthedetailshehad.Therewerelittlethingsnoeyewitnessescould

everprovide.Hadtherebeenanyeyewitnesses,thatis.Lamontremovedhis

glasses,wearilypinchingthebridgeofhisnose.Nooneevertrulygetsusedtothegraveyardshift.“Anymatchessofar?”heaskedhispartner.McGearyshookhishead.Iglancedatthelarge

monitor,whichhadshiftedintoscreensavermode,anNYPDlogofloatingabout.

Lamont,Icouldtell,waswaitingformetoaskhimaboutthespace-ageconsole,thereasonIwasn’tsupposedtobeintheroom.Themachineobviouslydidalittlemorethanjustdigitalplayback.ButIdidn’task.Ialready

knew.I’msurethethinghadan

officialname,somethingultra-high-techsounding,butbackwhenIwasintheDA’s

officeI’donlyeverhearditreferredtobyitsnickname,CrackerJack.Whatitdidwascombineeveryknownrecognitionsoftwareprogramintoonegiantcross-referencing“decoder”thatwaslinkedtopracticallyeverycriminaldatabaseinthecountry,aswellasthosefromtwenty-threeothercountries,orbasicallyallofourofficialalliesinthe“waronterror.”

Inshort,givenanyimageatanyangleofanysuspectedterrorist,CrackerJackcouldsourcealitanyofidentifyingcharacteristics,beitanexposedmoleortattoo;theexactmeasurementsbetweenthesuspect’seyes,ears,nose,andmouth;orevenapieceofjewelry.Clothing,too.Apparently,foralltheprecautionsterroriststakeintheirplanning,itrarelyoccurstothemthatwearingthesame

polyestershirtinLondon,Cairo,andIslamabadmightbeabadidea.Ofcourse,itdidn’ttake

longforlawenforcementinmajorcities—whereCrackerJackswereheavilydeployedbytheDepartmentofHomelandSecurity—torealizethatthesemachinesdidn’thavetoidentifyjustterrorists.Anyonewithacriminalrecordwasfairgame.

SoherewasMcGearygoingthroughtherecordingsentoverbytheNewYorkTaxi&LimousineCommissiontoseeifanyimageoftheshootertriggeredamatch.Andherewasme,havingaskedifIcouldwatchit,too.“Mike,cueitupfromthe

beginning,willyou?”saidLamont.McGearypunchedabutton

andthenanotheruntilthe

screenlitupwiththefirstframe,thetaxihavingpulledovertopickClaireup.Theimagewasgrainy,black-and-white,likeonanoldtubetelevisionwithasetofrabbitears.ButwhatlittleIcouldseewasstillwaytoomuch.ItwasexactlyasLamont

haddescribedit.Theshootersmashesthedriver’ssidewindow,beatingthedriversenselesswiththebuttofhisgun.He’swearingadark

turtleneckandaskimaskwithholesfortheeyes,nose,andmouth.Hisglovesaretight,likethoseIsotonersthatO.J.Simpsonpretendeddidn’tfit.Sofar,Claireisbarely

visible.NotoncecanIseeherface.ThenIdo.It’srightaftertheshooter

snatchesthedriver’smoneybag.Heswingshisgun,aimingitatClaireinthebackseat.Shejolts.There’s

noPlexiglasdivider.There’snothingbutair.Presumably,hesays

somethingtoher,butthebackofhisheadistowardthecamera.Claireoffersupherpurse.Hetakesitandshesayssomething.Iwasneveranygoodatreadinglips.Heshouldbeleaving.

Runningaway.Instead,heswingsoutandaround,openingthereardoor.He’soutofframefornomorethan

threeseconds.ThenallIseeishisoutstretchedarm.Andthefearinhereyes.Hefirestwoshotsatpoint-

blankrange.Didhepanic?Notenoughtofleerightaway.Quickly,herifflesthroughherpockets,andthentearsoffherearrings,followedbyherwatch,theRolexMilgaussIgaveherforherthirtiethbirthday.Hedumpseverythinginherpurseandtakesoff.

“Waitaminute,”Isaidsuddenly.“Gobackalittlebit.”

CHAPTER6

LAMONTANDMcGearybothturnedtome,theireyesaskingifIwascrazy.Youwanttowatchherbeingmurderedasecondtime?No,Ididn’t.Notachance.Watchingitthefirsttime

mademesonauseousIthoughtI’dthrowupright

thereonthefloor.Iwantedthatrecordingerased,deleted,destroyedforalleternitynottwosecondsafteritwasusedtocatchthegoddamnsonofabitchwho’ddonethis.ThenIwantedalong,dark

alleyinthedeadofnightwhereheandIcouldhavealittletimealonetogether.Yeah.That’swhatIwanted.ButIthoughtIsaw

something.

Upuntilthatmoment,Ihadn’tknownwhatIwaslookingforintherecording,ifanything.IfClairehadbeenstandingnexttome,she,withherloveoflandmarkSupremeCourtcases,would’vedescribeditasthedefinitionofpornographyaccordingtoJusticePotterStewartinJacobellisv.Ohio.IknowitwhenIseeit.She’dalwaysadmiredthe

simplicityofthat.Not

everythingthat’struehastobeproven,sheusedtosay.“Whereto?”asked

McGeary,hishandhoveringoveraknobthatcouldrewindframebyframe,ifneedbe.“Justafterhebeatsthe

driver,”Isaid.Henodded.“Saywhen.”Iwatchedthesped-up

images,everythinghappeninginreverse.IfonlyIcouldreverseitallforreal.Iwaswaitingforthepartwhenthe

gunwasturnedonClaire.Afewmomentsbeforethat,actually.“Stop,”Isaid.“Right

there.”McGearyhitPlayagain

andIleanedin,myeyesgluedtothescreen.Meanwhile,IcouldfeelLamont’seyesgluedtomyprofile,asifhecouldsomehowbetterseewhatIwaslookingforbywatchingme.

“Whatisit?”heeventuallyasked.Isteppedback,shakingmy

headasifdisappointed.“Nothing,”Isaid.“Itwasn’tanything.”Becausethat’sexactly

whatClairewould’vewantedmetosay.Alittlewhitelieforthegreatergood,shewould’vecalledit.Shewasalwaysaquick

thinker,rightupuntiltheend.

CHAPTER7

NOWAYinhelldidIfeelliketakingataxihome.Infact,Ididn’tfeellike

goinghomeatall.Inmymind,I’dalreadyputmyapartmentonthemarket,packedupallmybelongings,andmovedtoanotherneighborhood,maybeeven

outofManhattanaltogether.Clairewasthecitytome.Bright.Vibrant.Alive.Andnowshewasn’t.Ipassedabar,looking

throughthewindowatthesmatteringof“patrons,”toputitpolitely,whowerestilldrinkingatthreeinthemorning.Icouldseeanemptystoolanditwascallingmyname.Morelikeshoutingit,really.

Don’t,Itoldmyself.Whenyousoberup,she’llstillbegone.Ikeptwalkinginthe

directionofmyapartment,butwitheverystepitbecameclearwhereItrulywantedtogo.ItwaswhereverClairehadbeengoing.Whowasshemeeting?Suddenly,Iwaschanneling

OliverStone,somehowtryingtolinkhermurdertothestoryshe’dbeenchasing.Butthat

wascrazy.Isawhermurderinblackandwhite.Itwasarobbery.Shewasinthewrongplaceatthewrongtime,andasmuchasthatwasacliché,so,too,washerdeath.She’dbethefirsttoadmitit.“Imaginethat,”Icould

hearhersaying.“AvictimofviolentcrimeinNewYorkCity.Howoriginal.”Still,I’dbecomefixatedon

wantingtoknowwhereshe’d

beenheadingwhensheleftmyapartment.Atwo-hundred-dollar-an-hourshrinkwouldprobablycallthatsublimatedgrief,whilethefour-hundred-dollar-an-hourshrinkwouldprobablycounterwithsublimatedanger.Iwasstickingwithoverwhelmingcuriosity.Iputmyselfinhershoes,

mentallytracingherstepsthroughthelobbyofmybuildingandouttothe

sidewalk.AssoonasIpicturedherraisingherarmforataxi¸itoccurredtome.Thedriver.Heatleastknewtheaddress.Forsure,Clairegaveittohimwhenhepickedherup.Almostoncue,ataxi

sloweddownnexttomeatthecurb,thedriverwonderingifIneededaride.Thatwasacommonoccurrencelateatnightwhen

supplyfaroutweigheddemand.AsIshookhimoff,Ibegan

thinkingofwhatelseClaire’sdrivermightrememberwhenLamontinterviewedhim.Toughtosayafterthebeatinghetook.Maybetheshooterhadsaidsomethingthatwouldkeyhisidentity,oratleastthinoutthesuspects.Didhespeakwithanykindofaccent?

Ormaybethedriverhadseensomethingthatwasn’tvisibletothatsurveillancecamera.Eyecolor?Anodd-shapedmole?Achippedtooth?Unfortunately,thelistof

possibilitiesdidn’tgoonandon.Theskimask,turtleneck,andglovesmadesureofthat.Clearly,thebastardknewthatpracticallyeverytaxiinthecitywasitsownlittle

recordingstudio.Somuchforcamerasbeingadeterrent.Astheoldexpressiongoes,

showmeaten-footwallandI’llshowyouaneleven-footladder.Thetwentyblocks

separatingmefrommyapartmentwereadaze.Iwasonautopilot,onefootinfrontoftheother.OnlyatthesoundofthekeysasIdroppedthemonmykitchen

counterdidIsnapoutofit,realizingIwasactuallyhome.Fullydressed,Ifellinto

mybed,shoesandall.Ididn’tevenbotherturningoffthelights.Butmyeyeswereclosedforonlyafewsecondsbeforetheypoppedopen.Damn.Allittookwasonebreath,oneexchangeoftheairaroundme,andIwaslyingtherefeelingmorealonethanIeverhadinmyentirelife.

Thesheetsstillsmelledofher.Isatup,lookingoveratthe

othersideofthebed…thepillow.IcouldstillmakeouttheimpressionofClaire’shead.Thatwastheword,wasn’tit?Impression.Herswaseverywhere,mostofallonme.Iwasabouttomakea

beelinetomyguestroom,which,ifanything,wouldsmellofdustorstalenessor

whateverotherodorisgivenoffbyaroomthat’srarely,ifever,used.Ididn’tcare.Solongasitwasn’ther.Suddenly,though,Ifroze.

Somethinghadcaughtmyeye.Itwastheyellowlegalpadontheendofthebed,theoneClairehadusedwhenshetookthephonecall.She’drippedoffthetopsheetshe’dwrittenon.Buttheonebeneathit…

CHAPTER8

IALLbutlungedforthepad,grippingitbeyondtightwhilestaringattheindentationsshe’dleftbehind.Anotherimpression.Icouldmakeoutaletter

here,aletterthere.AnSfollowedbysomething,

followedbyaB.Orwasthata6?Iflippedonthenearby

lampformorelight,anglingthepadeverywhichway,tryingtodeciphertheever-so-slightgroovesinthepaper.Itcould’vebeenaname,butallmymoneywasonitbeinganaddress.ItwaswhereClairewasgoing.Ithadtobe.ButIstillcouldn’tmakeitout.

Ithoughtforafewseconds,rackingmybrain.BeforeIknewit,Iwasdashingacrossmylivingroomandintomyoffice,grabbingapencil,followedbyapieceofpaperfrommyprintertray.Thiscouldwork,Ithought.Layingthepaperoverthe

pad,Ibegangentlymakingarubbing,likepeopledowithtombstonesandothermemorials.Buttheprinter

paperwastoothick.Ineededsomethingthinner.Iknewexactlywheretofindit,too.ItwasaninvitationI’djust

receivedtoalegalaidbenefitbeingheldattheNewYorkPublicLibrary.Prettyhardtomisstheirony,giventhatClairewouldhavebeenmyplus-one.Theinvitationitselfwason

athickstock,butallIcouldseeinmyheadwaswhathadbeeninsertedtoprotectthe

embossedtype:apieceofvellumasthinastracingpaper.Perfect.Iriffledthroughmypileof

mail,findingtheinviteandthevellum.Layingitonthelegalpad,Iagainbegangentlyrubbingthepencilbackandforth.Likemagic,thelettersstartedtoappearbeforemyeyes.Lettersandnumbers.Itwasanaddress,allright.

DowntownontheWestSide.

She’dalsowritten1701belowit.Wasthatanapartmentnumber?Iturnedonmylaptop,

grabbingmykeysandthrowingonabaseballcapwhilewaitingforittopowerup.Quickly,IGoogledtheaddress.Thefirstresultwasthe

onlyoneIneededtosee.Thiswasn’tsomeone’shome.Clairehadbeenheadingto

theLucindaHotel,room1701.NowIwas,too.

CHAPTER9

ANINTERRUPTION.ThatwaswhatOwen

Lewiswaswaitingforinroom1701oftheLucindaHotel.Thetinycamera,nobiggerthanalipstickcylinder,wastapedtotheexitsignabovetheentrancetothestairwell,wirelessly

transmittingtohislaptopthesameimageofthelong,emptyhallwayoutsidehisdoor.Itwasmonotonyinblackandwhite.Acontinuousloopofstillnessandsilence,overandover.Uninterrupted.Foranyoneelse,it

would’vebeenthemostboringmovieofthecentury.ToOwen,itwaseasilythescariest.Especiallyhowitmightend.

Shesaidshe’dbehereintwentyminutes.Thatwashoursago.Didtheygettoher?AmInext?He’dthoughtaboutleaving

town,butitwasalreadysolate.Therewerenobuses,trains,orplaneshecouldcatchatthishour,andheknewyouhadtobetwenty-fivetorentacar.Hisdriver’slicensecouldn’tgethimabeer,letaloneaBuick.

Allinall,theonlyrealoptionwasataxi,butthatdidn’tfeellikeagoodidea,forsomereason.Justhisgutinstinct.No,hewouldwaititout

untilmorning,stickwithhisplan.Itwasagoodplan,

extremelywellthoughtout,withthehighestattentiontoeverydetail.Ofcourse,whenyou’resportinganIQthatapproachestheboilingpoint

ofwater,anticipationisyourstockintrade.Youseethefuturebeforeothersdo.Youliveit,too.“TheBoyGenius!”

declaredhishometownpaperbackinAmherst,NewHampshire,inafront-pagestorywhenOwenwasonlyfour.Bythen,hehadmemorizedtheperiodictable,couldreadandwriteinthreelanguages,andwasdoingcomplexalgebra.Thephoto

accompanyingthearticleshowedhimshakinghandswithSteveJobsata“PioneersofTomorrow”conferenceatApple’sheadquartersinCupertino.Foranentireyearafter

that,Owenworeonlyablackmockturtleneckeverywherehewent.Elementaryschoolwas

finishedatagesix,juniorhighateight,andthenhighschoolwhenhewaseleven.

Atfourteen,hewastheyoungestevertograduatefromCalBerkeley,earningsummacumlaudeandsalutatorianhonors.Hewould’vebeenvaledictorianifithadn’tbeenforaB+incomparativeRussianliterature.Evengeniuseshavetheirblindspots.Nextupwerecombined

MDandPhDdegreesfromHarvardMedicalSchoolandMITatageseventeen,after

whichOwenspentnearlytwoyearsatEidgenössischeTechnischeHochschuleZürich,akatheSwissFederalInstituteofTechnologyinZurich,studyingwhathadbecomehistruepassion:artificialneuralnetworks.Thatwaswhenthetwo

menfirstapproachedhim,onenightashewasleavingthelibrary.TheywereAmericans.

“Howwouldyouliketohelpsavetheworld?”oneasked.Owenlaughed,nottaking

himseriouslyatfirst.“OnlyifIgettowearacape,”hesaid.Apredilectionforsarcasm

commensuratewithsapience,readtheextensivepsychprofileofOwenthatthetwomenhadalreadyseen.“No,I’mafraidthere’sno

capeorevenaskintightsuit,”saidtheotherman.

“However,youwillgettobeapartofthedigitalage’sequivalentoftheManhattanProject.”Owenlikedthesoundof

that.Lovedit,tobemoreprecise.Itwashischancetomakehistory.Andwhodoesn’twanttodothat?Butthatwasthen.Now,lessthanayearlater,

herehewashidingoutinacrampedhotelroom—inManhattan,noless—hoping

againsthopethathe’dlivetoseeanothersunrise.Turnedout,OwenLewis

hadtheoneproblemheneverthoughthe’dhave.Notinamillionyears.Orcertainly,atleast,notbeforehistwenty-firstbirthday.Itwaswhytheywantedto

killhim,theBoyGenius.Heknewtoomuch.

CHAPTER10

WITHOUTONCEtakinghiseyesoffhisscuffed-uplaptopandthelivefeedfromthehallway,Owenbitoffanothertriangleofthetwelve-dollarTobleronefromhisminibaranddialedClaireParker’scellforathirdtime.Andforthe

thirdtimethecallwentstraighttovoicemail.Somethingwaswrong.He

justdidn’tknowwhat.Therewereafewplausibleexplanationsastowhyshehadn’tshownupathisroom,rangingfromtherelativelyharmlesstotheabsoluteworst-casescenario.Hecouldspeculateallhewanted,butthatwasallitwouldbe.Speculation.Theimportantthingnowwaswhetherornot

shewastheonlyonewhoknewhislocation.Shewasn’t.Twominuteslater,the

imageofthemansteppingofftheelevatorattheotherendofthehallwaytoldOwensomuchatoncethathisbraintingledwithoverload,whichwasnosmallfeat.Male…solo…decent

physique…runningshoes…baseballcapwithcurledbill

…noroomkeyinhand…nosuitcaseorcarryon…Themanpausedbythe

elevatorbanktolookatthedirectionalsignfortheroomsonthefloor.Ifhe’djustbeencheckingin,thoughtOwen,he’dalmostcertainlyhavehadluggage.Ifhe’dbeenstayingatthehotelalready,he’dhavehadnoneedtolookatthesign.Plus,withthatcurledbill

onhisbaseballcap,hecould

shieldhisfacefromanysecuritycamerasinthehotel.Butmostincriminatingof

all?Noneofthatmattered.Theguycould’vebeena

blindmidgetwearingaclownsuit,anditwouldn’thavechangedanything.Itwasfourinthemorningandhewasheadingstraighttowardroom1701.Thirtyyardsawayandclosing.

Asifhischairhadsprings,Owenjumpedupandslap-closedhislaptop,stuffingitinhisalreadypackedbackpackalongwiththewirelessreceiverforthetransmittingcameraoutsideinthehallway.Hesprintedintothe

bathroom,wherehe’dalreadyfilledthetubtothebrimwithwater,notaninchofporcelainleftdry.Witha

hardyank,heturnedtheshoweronfullblast.Asforthehotel’shair

dryer,itwasalreadypluggedin,thesurgeprotectordismantledandtheoutletrewiredtodeliverthemaximumcurrentpossible.Sufficeittosay,thatsortofthingdoesn’tgetachapterinElectricalWiringforDummies.Quicklybackingoutofthe

bathroom,Owentookonelast

lookatthesetupbeforeshuttingthedoor,hiseyesdartingabouttomakesurealltheelementswereinplace.Theshowercurtaindrawn

closed,tuckedinsidethetub.Thecordofthehairdryer

knottedaroundthetowelbartoensurethatitwouldremainpluggedintotheoutletnomatterwhat.Andthefloormat

strategicallyplacedonthetilefloortoensurethatOwen

wouldn’tslipwhenhecamebarginginbehindtheguy.Fromtheroomnextdoor.Thiswastheplan,allright.

BasedontwothingsOwenknewassurelyasheknewthatsunrisewasonlyafewhoursaway.Thefirstwasprimal.

Sometimesinlifeit’sassimpleaskillorbekilled.Second,professionalhit

menaren’texactlysuckers.Youcan’texpectthemtofall

forthe“I’mintheshower”tricksimplybecauseyou’vegotthedoortotheroomcrackedopenandhavethewaterrunning.They’llsearchtherestofyourroomfirst,toptobottom.Sohidingbehindthe

armchairinthecornerorsqueezingyourselfunderthebed?Probablytheverylastdumbideayou’lleverhave.No,ifyouwantthetrue

elementofsurprise,youneed

tothinkoutsidethebox.Betteryet,comeupwithyourownbox.Justmakesurethere’sa

connectingdoor.“I’dliketworooms,”he’d

toldtheclerkatthefrontdeskwhenhecheckedin.“Andtheyneedtobeadjoining.”Owenslippedthroughthe

doubledoorsseparatingroom1701from1703,pullingthefirstoneclosedbehindhim.Hisheartwaspoundinglikea

jackhammeragainsthischest,buthecouldn’thelpnoticingthatitwasn’tjustfear.Ascrazyasitsounded,healsofeltatwingeofexcitement,asortofin-the-momentbuzzofanticipationthatcamefromanintellectualcuriosityalwaysinhyperdrive.Aprodigy’sconceit,ifyouwill.Inotherwords,he

desperatelywantedtoknowifhisplanwouldwork.And

therewasonlyonewaytofindout.Pressinghisearupagainst

thedoor,allOwencouldnowdowaswaitandwonder.“Willyouwalkintomy

parlor?”saidtheSpidertotheFly.

CHAPTER11

IOWNEDonlyonecellphone,asopposedtoClaire’sthree,anditwaspinnedtomyearasIenteredthelobbyoftheLucindaatfourinthemorning,pretendingtobecompletelyengrossedinaconversation.

Thelobby—whichsadlylookedasifithadn’tbeenupdatedsincetheKochadministration—wascompletelyempty,asitshould’vebeen,giventhehour,saveforawary-eyedwomanbehindthefrontdeskinaturquoiseblazerwhowasclearlyinthemidstofdecidingwhetherornottoaskmeifIwasaguestofthehotel.

ThatwaswhenIdeliveredtheclinchertomyimaginaryfriendontheotherendoftheimaginaryline.“Yeah,I’mheadingupto

myroomnow,”Iannounced.AsIwalkedpastthefront

desk,walkingstraighttowardtheelevators,thewomandidn’tsayaword.Iwasin.ThenIwasup…tothe

seventeenthfloor.Withatugonmybaseballcap,Isteppedofftheelevatorandstopped

brieflybeforethesigntellingmewhichroomswereinwhichdirection,leftorright.Room1701wastothe

right.Iwalkeddownthelong,

narrowhallway,thebeigecarpetblendinginwiththebeigewallstoformaseamlesstunnelofblandness,theonlysplashofcolorcomingfromtheglowingredexitsignannouncingthestairwellattheveryend.The

odd-numberedroomsweretomyleft.1723…1721…1719…Iwasrepeatingthem

silentlyinmyhead,likeacountdown.Towhat,though,Iwondered?AndwhatwasIgoingto

sayafterIknocked?WhoeverwasontheothersideofthedoorwasexpectingClaire,butthatwashoursago.Nowitwasthemiddleofthenight,andIwasacompletestranger

withalotofexplainingtodo.This,afterfirstbreakingthenewsthatClairewasdead.1709…1707…1705…Myvisionwassotrained

ontheroomnumbersthatIdidn’tevennoticeitatfirst.Myhandwasliterallyintheair,knucklestuckedandreadytoknock,whenIsawthatthedoorwasopen.Notopenlikesee-into-the-roomopen,butratherthedoorwasjustshyoftheframe,asif

someonehadforgottentocloseitalltheway.IfIwantedtostepinside,

allIhadtodowaspush.Instead,Isteppedback.

Therewasabadviberacingthroughme,headtotoe.Somethingwasn’tright.Istoodthereonthebeige

carpet,myfeetfrozen,whilemybrainsiftedquicklythroughtheoptions.Badvibeornot,leavingwasn’toneofthem.Infact,thatdoorbeing

open—beiteversoslightly—justmademeallthemorecurious.Forbetterorworse.Iknocked.Softly,atfirst,

ontheoutsidechancethatwhoeverwasintherewasstillawakeatfourinthemorning.Veryoutsidechance.After

tensecondsofsilence,Iknockedagain.Thistime,louder.Thenlouderstill.Oh,shit.Tooloud.Thejarringsoundcame

fromdirectlybehindme,a

deadboltslidingonthedoortoanotherroom.I’dwokensomebodyup,allright,justthewrongperson.Suddenly,Iwasinno-

man’s-land,andmyonlythoughtwasthatIcouldn’taffordtobeseen.Callitinstinctorsheerpanic,butIwasdoneknockingonthedoorofroom1701.Iwasnowinroom1701.AndIwasn’talone.

CHAPTER12

ITWASpitchblack;Icouldn’tseeathing.Buttherewasnomistakingthesoundofrunningwater.Itwastheshower.Meanwhile,therewasthe

othersoundbehindme.Adooropeningandclosingoutinthehallway.WhoeverI’d

wokenupwasgoingbacktobedwithoutlayingeyesonme.Onebulletdodged.Nowwhat?Icouldpracticallyhear

myselfplayinglawyerwiththepolice,tellingthemthiswasn’tbreakingandenteringbecausetechnicallythedoorwasopen.Thetrespassingcharge,however,wouldbealittlehardertoargue.No,thiswasaneasy

decision.I’dslipbackoutside

thedoorandwaitforwhoeverwasintheshowertogetout.I’dknockagain,andthistimeClaire’ssourcewouldhearme.ItwouldbeasifI’dneversetfootintheroom.ButasIturnedtoreachfor

thehandle,Ifeltthesquishbeneathmyshoe.Thecarpetwaswet.Soaked,actually.Fromthere,itwasalla

blur.Immediately,Islappedmy

handblindlyagainstthewall

untilIfoundthenearestlightswitch.TheentrywaylitupasIrushedintothebathroom,thewatersplashingupbeneathmyfeet.Again,Ifeltaroundfora

lightandfoundtheswitch.Butitwasn’tworking.Icouldn’tseeanythingbeyondshadows.Reachingformyphone,I

hittheflashlightappandwaitedformyeyestoadjust.Whentheydid,Iliterally

jumpedback,almosttrippingovermyself.Halfhisbodywasinthe

bathtub;theotherhalf—hislegs—dangledovertheside.Alsodanglingwasthecordofthehairdryerthatwassubmergedinthewater.Itdidn’ttakeageniustoputittogether.Thiswasnoaccident.Claire’ssourcehadbeenmurdered.Itookastepforward,the

lightfrommyphoneedging

uptowardhisface.Itwaslikeagrotesquefreeze-frameoftheelectrocution.Everymusclecontracted,hismouthovaledasifmidscream.Thestuffofnightmares.IknewwhatIwas

supposedtodonext.Itwaswhatallthestupidcharactersinmoviessomehowdecidenottodorightbeforethingsspiralhopelesslyoutofcontrol.Gotothepolice.Inthebigschemeofthings,it

didn’tmatterhoworwhyIwasthereinthatroom.Asaforensicpsychologist

oncetoldmeinadeposition,withaslownodofhisbeardedchin,“Adeadbodychangeseverything.”Problemwas,allIcould

reallythinkaboutinthatmomentwasClaire.Whateverstoryshewaschasing,itwasthekindsomeoneelsedidn’twanttold.Reallydidn’twanttold.

Andjustlikethat,therandomactofviolencethathadendedherlife—ataxirobbery—didn’tseemsorandom.

CHAPTER13

THENEXTthingIknew,Iwasholdingoffaminuteoncallingthepolice.Yes,itwasacrimescene.

Yes,IwasawareIshouldn’tbetouchingthevictim.ButIwasinthathoteltofindoutwhomClairehadbeencomingtosee,andIstill

didn’tknow.Rightorwrong,theanswerwasonlyafewfeetaway.Anglingmyphonenearthe

sink,IspottedandgrabbedafacetoweltopreventmyleavinganyfingerprintsasIturnedofftheshower.Ikneltdownattheedgeofthebathtubandbeganlookingforawallet,oranythingelsethatwouldIDtheguy.Onehandwasstillholdingmyphoneforlight,theothersearching

hispockets.Itwould’vebeenaloteasierifhehadn’tbeenwearingjeans.Thefronttwopockets

didn’tturnupanythingexceptperhapsameasureofguilt.MostofClaire’ssourceswerepeopledoingthe“rightthing”inonewayoranother.Whistle-blowingoncorruption,settingtherecordstraight,thingslikethat.Someofthemriskedtheirlivesindoingso.Now

herewasone,itseemed,who’dpaidtheultimateprice.UntilIsearchedhisback

pockets.Atfirst,Ithoughtitwashis

walletIwasfeeling.Itwasn’t,butitwascertainlyaformofID.Evendrenchedandbunchedinaballasitwas,IknewrightawaywhatIwasholdinginmyhand.Askimask.Lookedlikethesameonefromthetaxisurveillancevideo.

Thiswasn’ttheguyClairehadbeengoingtosee.Thiswastheguywhokilled

her.Allatonce,therestofthe

piecescametogetherbeforemyeyes.Underneaththeguy’sgraysweatshirtwasthesameblackturtleneckI’dseeninthevideo.Therewasalsoablackbaseballcaponthetilefloornexttothetub.Therewasnodoubtthis

washim,whoeverhewas,

andallIcouldthinkof,allIwantedtodointhatveryinstant,wastobringhimbacktolifejustsoIcouldkillhimagainmyself.I’dneverknownsucha

feeling.Vengeancewasanabstractiontome,themelodramaticwordthatalwaysseemedabittoomuch.Nowitwasn’tnearlyenough.Wherehaveyoutakenme,Claire?

Istoodup,lookingatthecordofthehairdryerknottedaroundthetowelbar.Thetubhadbeenfull,thewaterrunning.Asaplan,itwasbrilliantinitssimplicity.Claire’ssourcehadknownhewasindanger,andhadknownenoughtoturnthetables.Damngoodforhim.NowifIonlyknewwherehe’dgone.Clairewould’vebeenall

overmeforassumingthat

onlyaguywould’vehadthewherewithaltooutwitakiller,andshewould’vebeenright.Hecould’veeasilybeenashe.Anyproofeitherway,

though,wasnowheretobefoundasIsearchedtherestoftheroom.Itwasspotless.Thetwoqueenbedsweremade,thewastebasketwasempty,nothinghadbeendisturbed.Exceptforthedeadguyinthe

bathtub,ofcourse.Nowitwastimetocallthepolice.ButbeforeIcouldeven

reachformyphoneagain,Isuddenlyhadabrand-newproblem.Itwasthedistinctsoundofthingsabouttospiralhopelesslyoutofcontrol.Someonewasknockingon

thedoor.

CHAPTER14

THEFIRSTthingIdidwasfreeze.Therewasnosecondthing.Atleast,notrightaway.Ihadnoideawhattodo.Instead,itwasallabout

whatnottodo.TherewasnowayIwasopeningthatdoor.

NowayIwasasking,“Who’sthere?”ButIdidneedtoknow.If

itwasanyonefromthehotel,theyweren’tnecessarilygoingawayifnooneanswered.Abouttwentyfeetofthat

beigecarpetseparatedmefromthedoor,thefinalfewfeetdrenchedwithwater.Ihadtotimeitjustright.Quickly,Itiptoedrightup

tothedoorofthebathroom.

ThenIwaited.Icouldn’tcoverupthesquishingsoundofmylastfootstepsonmyown.Itwouldtakesomehelp,andIknewitwascoming.Thesecondknockonthe

door—evenlouderthanthefirst—wasallIneededtogetrightupnexttothepeephole.Iheldmybreathandtookafastlookbeforepeelingofftotheside.Damn.Thereweretwo

possibilities.One,the

peepholewassomehowbroken.Two,itwasworkingjustfine.Eitherway,allIcouldsee

wasblack.AsIreachedoverandoh-so-silentlyswungthedoorguardclosed,Iwasbettingmyentirestackontheperfectlyworkingpeephole…andahandinthehallwayplacedoverit.Tensecondspassed.

Twenty.Halfaminute.Iremainedwithmyback

plasteredagainstthewall,inchesawayfromthehinges,hopingthenextthingI’dhearwouldbefootstepsfadingawaytowardtheelevator.Ifonly.Itwasmoreliketheexact

oppositeasthesoundofthekeycardslidingintothelockwasfollowedbyaclickandabeep.Thedooropened,onlytobestoppedshortbythedoorguard.Littlehardto

pretendnoonewasintheroomnow.Iwaitedforthevoiceof

hotelsecurity,oratleastsomeonewhoworkedatthehotel.Anyone.Ididn’tcare.Letitberoomserviceorhousekeeping.Mymouthwashalfopen,readytorespondtowhateverwassaid.Butnothingwas.What’stakingsolong?No,wait…afarmore

pressingquestion.

What’sthatsmell?

CHAPTER15

ITWASstraightoutofanIanFlemingnovel,somethingQwould’vegiven007.Juttingthroughthetwo-inchopeninginthedoorwaswhatlookedatfirstglancelikeacommonpairofpliers.Theonlydifferencebeingwhattheyweredoing,literallymelting

themetalloopofthedoorguard.Silently,noless.Thiswasn’tsomeonefrom

thehotel.Astarter’spistolwentoff

inmyhead,butIhadnowheretorun.Ilookedoveratthewindows,whichdidn’topen,andthebedI’dbeafooltohideunder.DittofortheoneandonlyclosetasIpicturedmyselftryingtoduckbehindahotelrobe.The

ultimateindignity.Dyingwhilestupid.TheonlyrealshotIhad

waserectingtheworld’squickestwalloffurniture.Basically,I’dlodgeeverythingintheroomthatwasn’tbolteddownagainstthedoor.Itcouldwork.Ithadtowork.Questionwas,howmuchtimedidIhaveleft?Istaredbackatthedoor,

thoseplierscuttingthroughthemetalasthesmellof

sulfurcontinuedtooverwhelmtheair.IhadtostepbackjustsoIwouldn’tcough.AsIslidalongthewall,it

wasmyhandthatfeltitfirst—theconnectingdoortothenextroom.Myeyeshadpassedrightbyit,andIcouldn’tblamethem.Countlesstimes,ifonlyforshitsandgiggles,I’dbeeninahotelroomandopenedthefirstdoor,onlytoseethedoor

behindit,leadingtotheadjoiningroom,staringbackatme,shuttightasadrumandlocked.Heregoesnothing…Iopenedthedooronmy

side,peekingaroundtheedge,andinone,beautifulskipofaheartbeat,itwasasifAlMichaelswerebroadcastingmylifeinsteadoftheUSmen’sOlympichockeyteam.“Doyoubelieveinmiracles?Yes!”

Theseconddoor—thedoorthatwasneveropen,notever—showedasliverofdaylight,orwhateverkindoflightwascomingthroughfromtheotherside.GiventheoddsIwasbeating,itmightaswellhavebeentheburningbush.AssilentlyasIcould,I

slippedintotheadjoiningroom,closingbothdoorsbehindmeandlockingtheonenowfacingme.IknewimmediatelyIwasn’tbarging

inonanyone.Theroomwasempty,withaneatlymadekingbedandnoluggagelyingaround.Ipeekedintothebathroom.Nodeadbody,either.Let’skeepitthatway,I

thought.Myfirstinstinctwasto

stripdowntomyboxers,crawlbeneaththesheets,andsimplyplaydumbshouldtherebeaknockonthedoor.I’dansweritwhilerubbing

thesleepfrommyeyesandconvincewhoeverownedthosemagicpliersthatIwasnothingmorethananinnocentbystander.Apissed-offoneatthat,forhavingbeenwokenup.Therewasjustone

problem.Whothehellflippedthedoorguardshutintheotherroom?Theguyinthebathtub?No,Ihadtogetoutofthis

room,too.Toorisky,

otherwise.Andagain,Ihadtotimeitjustright.Listeningthroughthe

walls,Ipacedandwaited.Itwaslikeasurrealgameofmusicaldoorsinsteadofchairs,anditwould’vebeenfunnyifIhadn’tbeensopessimisticaboutthepenaltyforlosing.Finally,thesoundcame.

Thedooropeninginthenextroom,andmoreimportantly,thesamedoorclosing.That

wasmycue.AsquietlyasIcould,Islippedbackintothehallway.Tohellwiththeelevator.Thestairswererightthere,andIdidn’thavetowaitforthem.Iwasoutofthere,lickety-split.Atleast,Ishould’vebeen.Icouldn’thelpmyself,

though.AsIpassedthedoortoroom1701,Istoppedandlistened.Icouldhearaguy’svoice.Atfirst,Ithoughthewastalkingtosomeoneelse

intheroom,thathehadn’tcomealone.Thenhemadeitclearhehad.Hewastalkingonaphoneorsomekindofradio.“Thekid’sstillalive,”he

said.“Irepeat,thekidisstillalive.”

CHAPTER16

IDIDN’TneedanyaddedincentiveforwhatIplannedtodonext,butthereshewasanywayasIwalkedascasuallyaspossiblethroughthelobbyoftheLucindaandouttothestreet.Thesamewary-eyed

womanbehindthefrontdesk

wearingaturquoiseblazerwatchedmestepbystep.Still,shedidn’tsayaword.Thatwouldchange,ofcourse,onceshelearnedofthedeadbodyinthebathtubseventeenfloorsup.She’dhaveplentytosaythen,adescriptionofmesuretobeincluded.“Didyounoticeanything

oranyoneoutoftheordinary?”thecrimescenedetectiveswouldaskher.

WiththehelpofForensics,theywould’vealreadydeterminedthetimeofdeathasduringhershift,andquitepossiblybetweenthetimesIcameandleft.Safelydowntheblock,I

dialedmyowncrimescenedetective.AstheysayinbothPRandpolitics,alwaysgetaheadofthestory.“Wait,slowdown,”said

DetectiveLamontfrombehindhisdesk.Icouldhear

himthroughthephoneshufflingpapers,probablymovingClaire’sfilebackinfrontofhim.Iapologized.Iwasgetting

toofaraheadofthestory,talkingamillionwordsaminute.Myheartbeat,stillracing,wasactinglikeametronomeformymouth.Istopped,tookadeep

breath,andbeganagaintodetailwhathadhappenedsinceIshookhishandonmy

wayoutoftheMidtownNorthprecincthouse.“Talktoyousoon,”Lamonthadtoldme.He’dhadnoideajusthowsoon.IcouldtellnowthatIwas

tryinghispatience.ThefactthatClairehadleftmyapartmenttogoseeasourcedidnothingtochallengewhatheknew—or,atleast,thoughtheknew—tobetrue:thatshewasinthewrongplaceatthe

wrongtimeinthebackofthattaxi.Andwhywouldn’the

believethat?Icertainlyhad.Theincidentwasdesignedthatway,caughtonvideoforalltosee.Itoldhimaboutthephone

callClairehadreceived,andhowI’dfiguredouttheaddress.Lamontinterruptedme.

“Whereareyougoingwith

allthis?”heasked,wantingmetomovethestoryalong.“TotheLucindaHotel,”I

answered.“Hurryupandgetthere.”Icouldn’tblametheguy.It

waslateandhewastired.ButIknewallwouldbeforgivenwithonesentenceaboutroom1701.“Theguyinthebathtubis

theguywhokilledClaire,”Isaid.

Icouldliterallyhearhimsitboltuprightinhischair.“Whereareyouright

now?”heasked.No,demanded.“EighthAvenueand

Thirty-Fourth.”“Don’tmove,I’llhaveit

radioedrightnow.Acruiserwillbethereshortly,”hesaid.“I’llmeetyouatthehotel.”“Holdon,there’sonemore

thing,”Isaid.

IwasbacktotalkingamillionwordsaminuteasItriedtoexplaintheguywiththemagicpliers.ThemoreIlistenedtomyself,themoreIrealizedhowcrazyitmustsoundtoLamont.Ifitdid,though,hedidn’tleton.Instead,hecuttothechase,theonlythingthatmatteredatthemoment.“Goodguyorbadguy?”he

asked.“Badguy,”Isaid.

Hepausedforamoment.“Aren’ttheyall?”Click.

CHAPTER17

FROMTHEmomentIfirstgotthecallfromClaire’ssister,Ellen,somuchhadchanged,andthenchangedagain.Still,insomeways,Icouldn’thelpthinkingIwasrightbackwhereI’dstarted.Withmorequestionsthananswers.

Thekidisstillalive.AsIwaitedforthecruiser

courtesyofLamont,Ikeptrepeatingthelineinmyhead.Itcouldn’tliterallybeakid,couldit?Ididn’tthinkso,butanythingwaspossible.Thenightsofarwasatestamenttothat,andherewewererollingintothenextday.Afewminuteslater,I

caughtaflashofredandbluelightsoutofthecornerofmyeye.Iturnedtoseemy

escortspullingupalongthecurbonEighthAvenue.Theofficerridingshotgunsteppedout.HelookedlikeaveryyoungversionofKieferSutherland,albeitonsomeserioussteroids.Theguywasrippedandheknewit.Hadthesleevesonhisuniformbeenrolledupanyhigher,hewould’veofficiallybeenwearingatanktop.“TrevorMann?”heasked.“Yeah.”

Henoddedatthedoortothebackseat.“Let’sgo.”Iclimbedinandanswered

arapid-firesuccessionofquestionsfromhimwhilehispartner,aguywhodidn’tresembleanyactorIknew,tooktheturnontoThirty-FourthStreet,drivingslowlytowardthefrontoftheLucinda.Basically,Iwasconfirming

everythingI’dtoldLamont.Theroomnumber.Theguyin

thebathtub.Theotherguywhostillmightbeintheroom.“Andthisotherguy,you

neveractuallysawhim?”askedtheofficer.“No,Ijustheardhim

throughthedoor.”“Whatdidhesoundlike?

Black?White?Hispanic?”“White,”Isaid.Heturnedtohispartner

behindthewheeland

smirked.“Shootthewhiteguy.”Theybothchuckledaswe

pulledupinfrontofthehotel.Engineoff,batteryon.Ireachedforthedoorhandle,thinkingIwasgoinginsidewiththem.Sillyme.“Stayhere,”Iwastold.Itmadesense.Ofthethree

ofus,Iwastheonlyonewhodidn’thavea9mmpistolstrappedtomybelt.Besides,

IwashappynevertosetfootinsidetheLucindaagain.“Domeafavor,though,”I

said.“Couldyouturnofftheflashers?”Thecopbehindthewheel

smiledandnodded.Heunderstood.Theremightnothavebeenalotoffoottrafficonthecuspofdawn,buttherewasstillnoneedformetolooklikeaperpsittinginthebackseat.Offwenttheflashers.

ThetwodisappearedintothehotelasIdidmybesttokeepmyeyesopen.Iwasexhausted,mylackofsleepsuddenlycrashingdownonme.Pointbeing,IhadnoideahowmuchtimehadpassedwhenIwasjoltedawakebythesoundofknucklesrappingonthewindow.Kiefer’sdoppelgangerwaswavingformetojoinhimonthecurb.Isteppedout,glancing

quicklyathisnameplate.

OFFICERBOWMAN,itread.ThemomentseemedtosuggestthatitwastimeIknewthat.“Wastheotherguyinthe

roomgone?”Iasked.Henodded.Itwastheway

henodded,though.Therewassomethingelse,moretoit.“Howlongdidyouwait

beforeyoucalledthisin?”heasked.“Ididn’twait,”Isaid.“It

wasrightaway.”

Henoddedagain.Thesamekindofnod.“Followme,”hesaid.

CHAPTER18

SOMUCHformyneversettingfootintheLucindaagain.IfollowedOfficer

Bowmanthroughthelobby,wherehispartnerwasquestioning—whoelse?—thewary-eyedwomanintheturquoiseblazerbehindthe

frontdesk.Ikeptwaitingforhertoglareatmeaswepassedby,butitdidn’thappen.Ontherideupinthe

elevator,IkeptwaitingforBowmantogivesomeclueaboutwhatwasgoingon.Butthatdidn’thappen,either.Wewalkedthelong,beige

hallwayinsilence,andaswereachedthedoorofroom1701,hesteppedinsidefirstandimmediatelyspunaround

tolookatme.OnlyinhindsightdidIrealizewhathewasdoing.Gaugingmyreaction.Iturnedandstaredintothe

bathroom,myjawliterallydropping.Itwasasifnothinghadhappened.Thelightwasworking.The

hairdryerwasunpluggedandsittingontheshelfbeneaththesink,thecordneatlywound.Therewasn’tadrop

ofwateronthefloororinthetub.Alsonotinthetub?The

guywhokilledClaire.Hewasgone.IstaredbackatBowman,

whowasstillwatchingmelikeIwasascienceexperiment,ormoreaccurately,ascienceexperimentwiththetitle“IsThisManTellingtheTruth?”“Youdon’tseriouslythink

I’vemadethisup,doyou?”I

asked.“Ofcoursenot,”hesaid.

“Thatwouldmakeyoucrazy.”Ofcourse,thewayhesaid

itmadeclearthathewasleavingthedooropen.Speakingofwhich…“Youdidnoticethe

sheared-offdoorguardbehindme,right?”Iasked.IcertainlyhadasIwalkedin.Bowmannodded.“Yep,

sawit,”hesaid.“Icanalso

feelthesquishbeneathmyfeet.Thecarpet’sdefinitelywet.”Heleftitatthat.Iknew

whathewasthinking,though,ifonlybecauseIwasthinkingthesamething.Therewasnodeadbodyinthebathtub,andthecombinationofasheared-offdoorguardandsomewetcarpetdidn’tprovethereeverhadbeen.“Theymusthavemoved

thebodyandcleanedup

afterward,”Isaid.“They?”“Iheardonlyonevoice

throughthedoor,butthatdoesn’tmeantherewasonlyoneperson.”“You’reright,itdoesn’t,”

saidBowmanbeforecheckinghiswatch.“Andabouthowmuchtimewouldtheyhavehadtodothis?”“Apparentlyenough.”ButevenIwasdoingthe

mathinmyhead.Ten

minutes.Fifteen,tops.Ilookedbackintothebathroomattheneatlyfoldeddrytowels,andespeciallythedryfloor.Inadditiontothemagicpliers,wastherealsoamagicmop?IcouldseehowBowman

oranyoneelsewouldbeabitskeptical.Thatdidn’tconcernme.Truthwas,itdidn’tmatterhowit’dbeendone.Ithadbeendone.Quickly.Quietly.Professionally.And

thatcombinationcouldmeanonlyonething.ThestorythatClairewasworkingonwasgettingbiggerbytheminute.Thekidisstillalive.Thewordswereechoing

againinmyhead.Someonehadcheckedintothisroomandmaybeeventheroomnexttoit.AllIcouldlookatnowwastheotherthingstrappedtoBowman’sbeltbesidesapistol.Hisradio.

“Yourpartnerdownstairs,”Isaid.“Didhegetthenameofwhowasstayinginthisroom?”“Yeah,hegotaname,”

cameavoicefrombehindme.Iknewrightawayitwasn’tBowman’spartner.IturnedtoseeDetective

Lamont.Quitethesight.Hisglasseswereaskew,histieloosenedtothepointoflookinglikeanoose.Hissuitjacket,meanwhile,hadmore

creasesthananunfoldedpieceoforigami.Still,foraguyso

disheveled,hesomehowmaintainedanauraofcompletecontrol.Youcan’tfakeexperience.Aftersilentlystudyingthe

sheared-offdoorguardforafewseconds,Lamontsteppedpastme,gazinginsidethebathroomasifconfirmingwhathe’dalreadybeentold

inthelobby.Therewasnodeadguyinthetub.Allthewhile,Iwas

waitingforhimtosaythenameofwhoeveritwaswho’dbeenstayingintheroom.Hedidn’t.“Isitsupposedtobesome

kindofsecret?”Ifinallyasked.Icouldn’thelpthesarcasm.“No,”saidLamont,

bendingdowntotouchthewetcarpet.“Nosecret.It’s

justnothisrealname,that’sall.”“Howdoyouknow?”Hestoodup,lookingatme

forthefirsttime.“BecauseIgraduatedhighschoolin1984.”“What’sthatsupposedto

mean?”askedBowman.“Besidesthefactthatyou’reold.”Lamontignoredhim.He

wasalsoignoringthenotepadclutchedinhishand,

suggestingthathe’dneverevenbotheredtowritedownthename.Instead,hesimplyrecited

it,asiffrommemory.“WinstonSmith.”Bowmanlookedatbothof

usandshrugged.IlookedatLamontandnodded.“You’reright,”Isaid.

“That’snothisrealname.”

CHAPTER19

“WHYCAN’TWinstonSmithbehisrealname?”askedBowman.“It’sfromabook,”said

Lamont,straighteninghisglasseswithaprofessorialnudge.Classwasinsession.“GeorgeOrwell’s1984.Everyoneinmyhighschool

hadtoreaditthatyear.Theypracticallymadeusmemorizeit.ThenameofthemaincharacterwasWinstonSmith.”Bowmanshruggedagain.

“What?Sonooneelsecanhavethatname?”“Theycould,butWinston

SmithwassupposedtorepresentEveryman,”Isaid.IcaughtLamont’seyesandcrackedasmile.“Itwasafew

yearslater,butIreaditinhighschool,too.”“Goodforyouboth,”said

Bowman,gettinghisBronxup.“Iwasn’tevenbornin1984.”Iwasreallystartingto

dislikethisguy.“Anyway,”Isaid,“WinstonSmithissimplyamorecleverversionofJohnDoe.”“Nottomentionthatour

Mr.Smithalsopaidincash

forthisroomandtheonenextdoor,”saidLamont.Asifhavingprompted

himself,hetookawalkthroughtheconnectingdoorstolookattheotherroom.Hewasbackwithinseconds.“Domeafavor,Bowman,”

hesaid.“GiveMr.Mannandmeafewminutes,willyou?”Bowmanwasmorethan

happytooblige.“I’llbeinthelobby,”hesaid.

Ashewalkedout,Lamontclosedthedoorbehindhim.Heturnedandmadeabeelinefortheminibarfridge,grabbingaDietCoke.“Whatdoyouthinkthey

chargeforthis?”heasked,diggingafingernailunderthetab.Hepoppedopenthecanwithaloudsnapandgrinned.“Iguesswe’lljusthavetoputitonMr.Smith’sbill.”Aftertakingalongsip,he

steppedbackandsettledinto

thearmchairinthecorner.Hewasinnorush,andwhetherornotthatwascalculatedIdidn’tknow.Hesurelyhadquestionsforme.Ijustdidn’texpecthisfirstonetobethesameoneIhad.“Sowhathappensnow?”

heasked.“I’mnotsurewhatyou

mean,”Isaid.“Well,IknowwhatIneed

todo,”hesaid,pointingathischest.“Ineedtoeyeballall

theexitsandhopethatthesecuritycamerasaimedatthemwereactuallyrecording.IalsoneedtogetadescriptionofourMr.Smithfromtheclerkwhoactuallycheckedhimin,sincethebeady-eyedwomandownstairstoldmeitwasn’ther.”Hewasright.Ihadthe

wrongword.Thewomanatthefrontdeskwasmorebeady-eyedthanwary-eyed.

Lamontpaused,takinganothersip.“Thenmaybe,justmaybe,wecanstartpiecingthiswholethingtogether.Becauseuntilthen,we’vegotalittleproblem.”Yes,wedid,andhedidn’t

needtospellitout.I’dlearneditinlawschool;he’dlearneditatthepoliceacademy.Nobody?Nocrime.“So,likeIsaid,what

happensnow?”heasked.

“Whatdoyouneedtodo?”“Youmean,besidesgetting

somesleep?”“That’sagoodstart,”he

said.“Butyeah,besidesthat.”IwasstallingbecauseIhad

noideawhathewasgettingat.Ofcourse,thatwashispoint.“YoutriedtotraceClaire’s

footstepstonightandlookwhereitgotyou,”hesaid.“Iknowherkillerisdead,

don’tI?”

“Yes,andifitwasn’tforthosedumbdoorsbeingopentothenextroom,youcould’vebeennext.”“Isthisyourwayofsaying

letusdoourjobs?”Lamontwinced.“God,I

hopenot.Theyonlysaythatoncopshows.WhatI’msayingisthis:Stoptryingtodohers.”Iwasabouttoshakemy

head,tellhimhewasoffbase.No,worse.Delusional.

LikeDonaldTrumpwithacomb.ButLamontknewthatwas

comingandwaswayaheadofme.He’dalreadyreachedintohispocketandwasnowholdingitintheair,ExhibitA.“Wherethehelldidyouget

that?”Iasked.Hebrokeintoasmile,and

ashedid,Icouldpracticallyseethecanaryfeatherscaughtinhisteeth.

“DidImentionyou’realousyliar,Mr.Mann?”

CHAPTER20

LAMONTWASholdingClaire’scellphone,theoldMotorolasheusedstrictlyforhersources.TheStopper.“Whydidn’tyousay

anythingbackattheprecinct?”heasked.

“Iwasn’tsurethatwaswhatshewasdoing,”Isaid.“Still,whatthehellwere

youplanning?HopthefencelaterthisafternoonattheWhitestonePoundandsearchbehindthebackseat?”“Itwasreallythere,huh?”“Thesecondyouwantedto

watchthatpartoftherecordingagain,Iknewyousawherdosomething,”saidLamont.

“OnlyIdidn’tknowitwasherphoneshewashiding.”“Youknowwhyshe

would,though,don’tyou?”Hehadmedeadtorights

oneverything,rightdowntomywaitinguntilthetaxihadbeenclearedbyForensics,thenshrink-wrappedandflatbeddedfromLamont’sprecinctto,yes,theWhitestonePoundinQueens,whereitwouldeventuallybe

claimedbywhoeverownedthemedallionforit.Theonlypartthedetective

gotwrongwasthetiming.Screwtheafternoon.Waytoorisky.Criminaltrespassingisbetterleftforthedark,no?Iwasn’tplanningonhoppingthatfenceuntilwellaftermidnight.“Shewasjustprotecting

hersources,”Isaid.“Thatphonewasforthemexclusively.”

Withthat,Icockedmyhead,andheimmediatelyshookhis.HeknewwhatIwasabouttoask.“Counselor,webothknow

Ican’tturnitovertoyou,atleastnotyet,”hesaid.“Prettydamnimpressive,though,herpresenceofmind.Eveninthatmoment…wantingtoshieldthem.”Heflippedopenthephone.“Ofcourse,Icanseewhy.Therearealotofboldfacednamesinthe

directory,atleastthoseIcoulddecipher.Mostwerejustlistedbyinitials.”“WasthereaW.S.,byany

chance?”“Nosuchluck,”hesaid,

pointingatthetablebetweenthetwobeds.WinstonSmithhadcalledfromthephoneintheroom.Thekidwasstillalive,and

westillhadnowayofcontactinghim.

Likeakickinthehead,though,itoccurredtome.Whataboutthepeoplewhowantedtokillhim?Whataboutcontactingthem?Itookoutmyownphone,

quicklysendingananonymoustexttoanumberIknewbyheart.Lamont’seyesnarrowedto

asuspicioussquint.“Whatareyoudoing?”heasked.Somethingyou’redefinitely

notgoingtolike,Detective.

CHAPTER21

ONEGOODsetupdeservedanother.Onlyminehadtobebetter,becauseI’dalreadydiscoveredtheirs.Lessthanthreehourslater,

IwassittingononeoftheconcretebenchesliningtheperimeterofBethesdaTerracebytheLakein

CentralPark.I’dtriedtogetalittlesleepbeforehandbackinthesparebedroomatmyapartment,butitwasimpossible.Closingmyeyesjustseemedtomagnifyeverything,ifthatmakesanysense.InmylapnowwasaNikon

D4,the300mmlenspeekingoutbeneaththebottomoftheDailyNews.Withtheweatherwarmandbreezyandnocloudsinsight,Icouldn’t

haveaskedforamorepicture-perfectday.Aboutthirtyyardsinfront

ofmewasthefamousfountainknownastheAngeloftheWaters,thelilybeingheldinthebronzestatue’slefthandrepresentingthepurityofthecircularpoolaroundher.Clairehadtoldmethat.IsuspecteditwaswhyI’dchosenthelocation.That,andthecrowdsofpeople.Therewerejoggerspassingby,

localssippingcoffeeandhangingout,evensomeearly-birdtouristslookingintheirguidebooksorjustlookinglost.Allinall,safetyinnumbers.Clairehadcleverlyhidden

theStopperbehindherseatinthetaxi,butherothertwophoneshadbeeninherpurse,whichhaddisappearedwithherkiller.Hesuredidn’thaveitwhenheshowedupdeadinthetubattheLucinda.

Questionwas,whohadthephonesnow?I’dsentthetexttoClaire’s

BlackBerry,thephoneprovidedandpaidforbytheTimes.Iwasposingasaconfidant—someonesheknewandtrusted—andasrolesgo,itwashardlyastretch.Thetoughpart,ineverysense,wasactingasifshewerestillalive.Timingwaseverything.Thetexthadtobesentbeforeherdeath

hadmadethemorningnews.Samethingforthemeeting.Ruupyet?Needtocu

asap.Thinkkidmightbetellinguthetruth.Meetmeinpark,farendofBethesdaFountat9.Somethingtoshowu.Tenminuteslater,afterI’d

lefttheLucinda,thereplycame.AtextfromClaire’sBlackBerry.Ok,cuthere.

EvenifClairehadstillbeenalive,Iwould’veknownthereplywasn’tfromher.Shehatedtheshorthandoftexting,countlesstimescomplainingtomethatitwasdumbingdownkidsandadultsalike.Notonlywouldsheneveruseshorthand,butshemadefunofmewheneverIdid.Ok,seeyouthere,she

would’vetyped.Notavowelorconsonantless.

Eitherway,thetimeandplacehadbeenset.Allthatwasleftwastheguestlist.Myendwassimple.Itwasjustme.Icould’vetoldLamontaboutit,butthatwould’vechangedeverything.Policedetectivesmightnot

havetheequivalentofaHippocraticoath,buttherewasnowayLamontwould’veallowedmetosetthistrapalone.He’deither

havetohandcuffmetoalargeinanimateobjectfarfromtheparkorberightnexttomebythefountain.Mostdefinitelywithbackup.Thatwasthedifference,

really.WhyIhadn’ttoldhim.Hisjobwastoarrestpeopleforwhattheydid,notwhytheydidit.IfIhadinvolvedhim,he’dimmediatelyhavebroughtthispersoninforquestioning.Possessionofstolengoods,atthebare

minimum,withaneyetowardaccessorytomurder.Orwasitaccessories?Who

knewwhocouldshowup,orhowmany?Thatwastheirendoftheguestlist.SoIhadtobepatient.Take

pictures.Nottaketheminforquestioning.Betheirshadow.Identifythem,followthem,andfigureoutthewhy.Becauseifyouwanttogetsomerealanswersfrompeople,thelastthingyoudo

isletthemknowyou’rewatchingthem.Ipulledbackmy

shirtsleeves,checkingmywatch.Twominutesafternine.AsmuchasIdidn’tknowwhoIwaslookingfor,Iknewitwasn’ttheelderlymanandwomandeepinconversationwho’dbeensittingbythefarsideofthefountainsinceI’darrived.Turningthepageofthe

DailyNewsspreadbetween

myhands,Icontinuedtopretendtoread.Throughdarksunglasses,Ikeptpeekingabovethepaper,myeyesscanningforanyonewhomightbeapproaching,oratleastlookinginthedirectionof,theelderlycoupleonthebench.Theminuteskeptticking

away.Noonelookedsuspiciousoroutofplace.Thenagain,neitherdidI.OrsoIthought.

IwasabouttocheckthetimeagainwhenIfeltthequick,shortvibrationofmycell.Itwasanincomingtext.Onlyitwasn’tfromClaire’sphone.Infact,Ididn’tknowwhosephoneitwasfrom.Thesenderwasanonymous.Getoutofthere!itread.Butitwastoolate.

CHAPTER22

HECAMEoutofnowhere.Amanwearingsunglassesevendarkerthanmine,walkingaroundthecurveofthefountainandheadingstraighttowardme.Notfast.Notslow.Just

walking.Theclickofhis

heelswitheachstepnowtheonlysoundintheworld.HowhadImissedhim?Hewasdressedinadark

suitwithanopen-collaredwhiteshirt.Helookedtobeinhisthirties.Short-croppedblondhairandingoodshape.Icouldn’tseehiseyesbehindthosesunglasses,butIhadlittledoubttheyweren’taimedatanyoneelse.Icouldliterallyfeelhisstare.

Orwasitjusttherushoffearshootingupmyspine?Suddenly,Ididn’tknow

whattodowithanypartofmybody.Myfeetwerestucktotheground,myhandsfrozenandlockedintheair,thenewspaperpinchedbetweenmyfingertipsfeelingasheavyasoneofthoseleadblanketstheycoveryouwithbeforeanX-ray.Hehadanewspaper,too.

Ididn’tseeitatfirst,thewayitwastuckedneatlyunderhisleftarm.NowitwasallIcouldlookat.Therewassomethingaboutit,howitwasfoldedsotightlyasiftherewassomething…shit.Insideit.Hisrightarmwasabluras

itswungacrosshisbody,hishandoutstretchedwithhisfingersspread.Allatonce,hisleftarmloosened,thepaperholsterslidingdownto

hiselbowwhilebeginningtoopen.Thewayhecaughttheguninmidair,Iwasinstantlysureoftwothings.One,he’ddonethisbefore.Andtwo,Iwassimplydone.It’snottruewhattheysay.

Youdon’tseeyourlifeflashbeforeyoureyes.Youseeyourdeath.Inslowmotion,noless.He’dcometoacomplete

stop,tenmercilessfeetinfrontofme,withtheAngelof

theWatersrisingupbehindhim.Butshewasn’tlookingmyway.Otherswere,though.There

wasawomanscreamingtomyleft,herhighpitchandvolumesendingnearbypigeonsscatteringintheair.Tomyright,therewasthesoundoffeetscampering,someoneliterallyrunningforhislife.Gun!Gun!Gun!Ihearditall.Still,I

couldn’tmove.

Hisarmbegantounfold,thebarrelofthegunliningupwithmyhead.ItwastheonlythingIcouldsee.Until,outofnowhere,therewassomethingelse.Itwasanotherblur,I

couldn’tseewhatexactly.Moreimportantly,neithercouldmyexecutioner.Hewasbeingblindsided,someonetacklinghimatfullspeed.Likealinebacker.

CHAPTER23

IWATCHEDasbothbodiesslammedagainstthepavementandrolled,atumbleofarmsandlegshurtlingoverandover.Icouldn’ttellwhowaswho,butIwasconvincedIknewoneofthem.Lamont!Ithadtobehim.

Butitwasn’t.Asthebodiesseparated,bothsprawlingontheground,Icouldtellthisguywasyounger.Hewasatleasthalfthedetective’sage.Andnotnearlyasbig.Bigenough,though.I

certainlywasn’tcomplaining.Hepushedhimselfup,

standingquickly,ifnotalittlewobbly.“Thegun!”hebarked,pointing.

Ihadn’tseenitgoflying,butthereitwas,matteblackagainsttheterracottaoftheRomanbricksaroundthefountain.Itwasclosertomethantohim.Asforthegun’soriginalowner,hewassomewhereinbetweenandstaringrightatit.Thenatme.Thenrightbackatthegun.Itwasupforgrabs.Isprangfromthebench

intoaheadfirstdivewhilemy

camera,launchedfrommylap,shatteredtopieces.Scoopingupthegun,Iwhippedmyarmandlockedbothelbows,anddammitiftheviewwasn’tsomuchbetterfromthisangle.“Staydown!”Iyelled,

jabbingthebarrelofhisBerettaM9straightathischest.Withitsfifteen-roundstaggeredboxmagazine,heandIbothknewIcould

remindhimoverandoverwhohadtheupperhand.Yeah,Iknewguns.Iknew

themwell.EversincemyhighschooldaysatValleyForgeMilitaryAcademy.Ishotthem,cleanedthem,tookthemapartandputthembacktogetheragain.Evenoncewhilenaked,blindfolded,andbeingblastedbyapowerwasherduringtheschool’sversionofHellWeek.Ihatedguns.

“Callnine-one-one,”Isaidwithaquickglanceattheguywho’dsavedmylife.Man,didhelookyoung.Hewaspracticallyakid.Hell,hewasakid.Hewasalsowayaheadofme,hiscellalreadyinhand.“Onit,”hesaid.Icouldhearhimperfectly

amidthehushthathadfallenovertheterraceandthefountain.NeverhadsomanyNewYorkersbeensoquiet

allatonce.Icouldfeelthem,though,astheybeganpeekingoutfromwhatevertheywereduckingbehind,atleastthosewhodidn’thavethecameralensesfromtheircellphonestrainedonme.IwasabouttotrendmightilyonYouTube.Allthewhile,Ikeptmy

eyesfixedonthemanontheground,hopinghewouldn’tevenblinkuntilthepolicearrived.Turnedout,hisgun

wasn’ttheonlythingthathadgoneflyingwhenhewastackled.Gone,too,werehissunglasses.Goodthing.Ifhe’dstillhadthemon,I

wouldneverhaveknownabouthispartner.

CHAPTER24

ITWASN’Tmuchofapokerface.Infact,ifanything,Icould’veswornhecrackedtheslightestofsmilesthesecondheglancedovermyshoulder.Followinghiseyes,I

quicklyturnedtoseetheonlypersoninthecrowdwhowas

actuallyrunningtowardus—asecondguyingreatshapesportingshort-croppedhairandapparentlythederigueurwardrobeamongtheassassinset.Darksuit,whiteshirt,opencollar…andasemiautomatichandgun.Somuchformyhavingthe

upperhand.Hewasracingdownthe

fartherofthetwomassivestaircasesthatconnectedBethesdaTerracetothe

Seventy-SecondStreetCrossDrive.Fiftyyardsawayandgaining.Fast.HemightaswellhavebeenMoses,thewaypeoplewerepartingforhim.Wieldingadeadlyweaponhasafunnywayofdoingthat.“C’mon,let’sgo!”saidthe

kid.Thekid.Thewayhe’dsaidit,asif

thereweren’tevenadecision,itallclicked.HewasClaire’s

source.HewastheoneattheLucinda.Hewaswhatthiswasallabout—eventhoughIstillhadnoideawhatthiswasreallyallabout.Exceptthatthiswashim.Thekid.“C’mon,”herepeated.

“Let’sgo!”Hetookoff,hurdlingthe

concretebenchwhereI’dbeensitting.Hewassprintingacrossthelawn,headingforthecoverofthetreesliningtheLake.Ididn’tneedany

morepromptingtofollowhim,butitcameanywaywiththecrackofasingleshotsplittingtheair.Peopleandpigeonswerescatteringalloveragain.Imighthavebeentheonly

otheronewithagun,butthebulletwasn’tintendedforme.Assassin#2wasaimingforthekidandnearlygothim,thedivotofgrassflyingupamerefoottohisleftasheran.Therewasabetter-than-good

chancetheguywasn’tgoingtomisstwice…unlessIdidsomething.Hoppingovertheconcrete

bench,Ididn’trunrightaway.Instead,Ispunaround,crouched,andletgowithafewrounds.Thenafewmore.Notathim,though.Youstillsmiling,buddy?Theguyonthegroundhad

seemedalltoopleasedtostaythereandwatchmesweat,butasIsprayedacircleof

bulletsaroundhim,hewasquicktofindthefetalposition.Evenquickerwashispartner,whogotthemessage.Fromafullsprinthestoppedonadime,loweringtheguntohisside.Iwasabouttotellhimto

layitonthegroundandbackaway.Problemwas,Ididn’thavemuchofaplanfromthere.Iwasjustbuyingtime,andonlyafewextrasecondsatthat.Assoonashestepped

back,Iwastakingoff,andthenwe’dseehowfastwebothcouldrun.ThatwaswhenIglanced

upandsawher.Thereshewas,theAngelof

theWaters,perchedhighintheairandwatching.Nowshewaslookingoutforme,andherplanwasahellofalotbetter.Ijerkedmyheadatthe

fountain.Ididn’tneedtoexplain.Infact,Ididn’tsay

anotherword.AllIdidwaskeepaimingwhereIwasaiming.MaybeIhaveitinmeto

shootyourassholepartner,ormaybeIdon’t.Butdoyoureallywanttotakethechance?Mytwowould-bekillers

exchangedglances,theoneonthegroundnoddingsomewhathelplesslyattheonewiththegun.Henodded

back.Then—plop!—hetosseditintothefountain.OneMississippi,two

Mississippi,three…Iwaswaitinguntilthe

countwasten,longenoughforthebarreltofillwithwater.Woulditstillfire?Sure.Butfirsthe’dhavetofishitoutandshakeitdry,andeventhenthecompressionwouldbeoff.Andasforme?

EightMississippi,nineMississippi,ten…Iwasoffandrunning.Sprintingformylifeacross

theopenstretchofgrass,Icouldfeelmylungsonfire.OnlywhenIreachedthetreesdidIlookbackforthefirsttime,relievedashelltoseetheyweren’tchasingafterme.Still,Ikeptrunning.Fear

oftheunknown,partly,andtheresthopingIcouldfind

thekid.Buthewasnowheretobefound.Until,thatis,Ifeltthequickvibrationofmyphoneagain.Itwasanothertextfromhim.Last4ofurSS#Iknewrightawaywhathe

wasdoing—makingsureitwasreallymewhohadmyphone.Heobviouslyhadn’thungaroundtoseehowthingsplayedoutbackatthefountain.Couldn’tblamehim.ButIalsocouldn’t

figureouthowhewouldknowmySocialSecuritynumber.JustaddthattothelitanyofquestionsIhadforhim.Itextedbackthelastfour

digits,andwithinsecondsherespondedwithalocationwhereweshouldmeet.Finally,Iwasgoingtogetsomeanswers.Carefulwhatyouwishfor

…

CHAPTER25

IDIDN’TlookaroundthestreetbeforeopeningthedoortotheOakTavernonSeventy-FourthoffBroadway,butIknewhewaswatchingmefrombehindsomestooporparkedcar,ormoreaccurately,watchingtoseeifanyonewasfollowing

me.Thekidwasn’tdumb.Thatwaswhyhewasstillalive.Thatwaswhywewerebothstillalive.Sothisguywalksintoa

barwithaBerettaM9tuckedunderhisshirt…MostNewYorkerscantell

youthatlastcallinthecityis4a.m.Farfewerofthemcantelltheflipside—firstcall,thetimeatwhichabarcanlegallystartserving.It’s8a.m.Iknewitonlyastrivia.

Forsure,thefourguysscatteredalongthestools,whodidn’tevenbothertoglancemywayasIapproachedthebartender,knewitasawayoflife.“DoubleJohnnieBlack,

rocks,”Iordered.ThefactthatIwashaving

whiskeyforbreakfastdidn’tseemnearlyasrelevantasmyhavingjusthadagunaimedatmyhead.DrinkingtonumbthepainofClaire’sdeathwas

onething;drinkingtosettleanentirebodyoffrayednerveswasanother.Thebartender,tallandthin

andhunchedwithage,nodded,completelyexpressionless,beforeheadingofftograbthebottle.HemightaswellhavehadasignhangingaroundhisneckthatreadNOJUDGMENTS.Waitingforhimtoreturn,I

lookedaroundabit.Fittingly,theOakTavernwasa

genuinethrowback,notthekindofplacethathungreproductioncraponthewalltoimitateatimegoneby.Instead,whathungonthe

wallwasactualcrapandoldasshit.SignedphotosofD-listcelebritiesfromtheseventies.Apaintingofahorsethatlookedasifithadbeenboughtatoneofthosehotelartfairsoffthehighway.Andrightnexttoit,

acoatrackmissinghalfitspegs.Genuineaswellwasthe

mustysmelloftheplace.Icouldpracticallyfeelthedusttravelingupmynosewitheachbreath.“Fivefifty,”saidthe

bartender,standinginfrontofmeagainandpouring.Igavehimseven,picked

upmyglass,andheadedfortherearofthetavernandarowofbooths.Theywere

thoseclassichigh-backones,thecrimsonleathersowornandcrackeditlookedlikeamarbleizedporterhouse.Islidintothelastboothontheleft,beyondthelineofsightfromthebar.Afewminuteslater,the

kidarrived.Ashewalkedtowardme,I

noticedthatalmosteverythingabouthimwasacontradiction.Hewasskinny,withunusuallybroad

shoulders.HehaddisheveledhairandslackerclothesandwasstaringaheadwiththemostfocusedeyesI’deverseen.Hisgaitwasslowanddeliberate,andyethishandscouldn’tkeepstill.Hewasrubbingthemtogetherasiftheywereundersomeimaginaryfaucet.Thekidsatdownacross

frommewithoutsayingaword.Nointroduction.Noofferofahandshake,either,

lestoneofthosehandsofhismightactuallyhavetostopmovingwhilewaitingtogripmine.Finally,hespoke.“Sorryforallthis,”hesaid.Thatwasthebiggest

contradictionofall,asfarasIwasconcerned.“Forwhat?”Iasked.“Yousavedmylife.”“I’mtheonlyreasonitwas

everindanger,dude.”“We’llgettothatina

moment,”Isaid.“That,andwhetherI’mreallygoingto

letyoucallmedude.Butspeakingofnames,what’syours?Anddon’tsayWinstonSmith.”“It’sOwen,”heanswered.“Andyoualreadyknow

mine,don’tyou?Amongotherthings.”Henodded.“Areyousomekindof

hacker?”Iasked.“It’snotwhatIdofora

living,ifthat’swhatyou’rewondering.”

“Okay.Whatdoyoudoforaliving?”Butitwasasifhehadn’t

heardme.Or,morelikely,asifheneededtoaskafewquestionsforhimselfbeforeansweringthatone.

CHAPTER26

“WHAT’SYOURconnectiontoClaire?”“Closefriend,”Ianswered.

Itwasagoodenoughexplanationforthetimebeing.“Areyouareporter?”“No.”

“Youdon’tworkattheTimes?”“No.”Hehesitated,reluctantto

askhisnextquestion.Heneededtoknow,though,andIneededtotellhim.“She’sdead,isn’tshe?”he

asked.“Yes,”Ianswered.Iexplainedhowithad

happened.Hisheaddropped.“It’smyfault,”hesaid.“Everything.”

“Clairewould’vebeenthefirsttotellyouthatisn’ttrue,”Isaid.“AndI’dbethesecond.”“Howdoyouknow?”“BecauseIwaswithher

beforeshewenttomeetyou.Thiswasherjob,Owen.It’swhatshedid.”“Soyouknewaboutme?”Ismiled.“No.Clairenever

discussedhersources.Idon’tevenknowhowshefoundyou.”

“Shedidn’t—Ifoundher,”hesaid.“Iknewherwork.That’swhyIcalledher.”“Whenwasthis?”“SheandIspoketwodays

ago,”hesaid.“Iwasplanningoncomingupherenextweek.”“Whatchanged?”Hereachedintohispocket,

takingouthisiPhone.Afterafewtaps,hehandedittome.Onthescreenwasanobituaryfromtheonlineeditionofthe

SunGazettedowninVirginia.“Dr.StephenHellerman,48,LeadingNeurologist,”theheadlineread.Apictureofaclean-cut,good-lookingguywasunderneath.“Who’sthat?”Iasked.“Myboss.”Ileanedin,squintingto

readthefirstfewsentences.“‘Anearly-morninghomeinvasion’?”

“That’swhatitwasmadetolooklike.Theyshothiminthehead.Then,lastnight,theyalmostgotme,too.”“Who’sthey?”“I’mnotsureyet.Iwas

hopingClairecouldtellme.”Werewehomingin,I

wondered,orjustgoingaroundincircles?“Whywouldsheknow?”Iasked.“Thepieceshewrotelast

yearabouttheCIAblacksiteinPoland.”

Iknewthearticlewell,ifonlybecauseClairewasinWarsawfortwoweeksresearchingit,andmissedmybirthday.“Thesecretjail?”“Yeah,inStareKiejkuty,”

hesaidwithaperfectPolishaccent.Impressive.StareKiejkutywasaPolish

intelligence-trainingsitetuckedawayinaforestabouttwohoursnorthofthecapital.ClairegotaguidedtourofitfromPolishofficials,thekey

wordbeingguided.Asshedescribedit,thewholepurposeofthetourwastoconvincehertheCIAwasn’tusingaspareroomortwotointerrogatesuspectedMuslimterroristsoutsidethereachofUSlegalprotections.“Soyouhaveactualproof

thatit’saCIAblacksite?”Iasked.Thekidshookhishead

slowly.“No,whatIhavegoes

waybeyondthat,”hesaid.“Waybeyond.”

CHAPTER27

“DOYOUknowthenameAbdullahal-Hazim?”Owenasked.“No,”Isaid.“ShouldI?”“Hewasthoughttobethe

numbertwoguyinAlQaeda,”heexplained.“Ofcourse,it’sprettysillyhowweimagineterroristgroupsto

bestructuredlikeourowngovernment,withaneatlyorganizedlineofsuccession.Let’sjustsayal-HazimwasoneoftheringleadersbasedinYemen.”“Was?”“Aboutayearago,the

StateDepartmentannouncedhe’dbeenkilledbyadroneattackintheShabwahprovince,”Owensaid.“IfI’mnotmistaken,theTimesgave

ittwocolumnsabovethefoldintheInternationalsection.”Twocolumnsabovethe

fold…“YousoundlikeClaire,”I

said.“Therewasthestory,andthentherewaswherethestorywasplaced.”“Inthiscase,though,the

storywaswrong.”“Theguy’sstillalive?”“No,al-Hazimisdead,all

right.Itjustwasn’tadroneattackthatkilledhim.”

Withthat,Owenslidoutoftheboothandjoinedmeonmyside.Ididn’tknowwhathewasdoinguntilheremovedasmalldevicefromhispocket,attachingittotheLightningdockonhisiPhone.Itwasoneofthosetinyportableprojectors.Weweregoingtothemovies.Thebackrestofthebench

wherehe’dbeensittingbecamethescreen.Thevideowasblack-and-whiteandas

grainyastheleatherofthebooth,butitwasclearenoughtoseewhatwashappening…andtowhom.“That’sal-Haziminthe

chair,”saidOwen.TheMiddleEasternman

wasprobablyinhislatethirties,withashortbeardandrimlessglasses.Iwashardlyanexpertonbodylanguage,butthiswasaneasyread.Al-Hazimwas

tryingtoactdefiantbutwasclearlyscaredtodeath.“ThisisfromStare

Kiejkuty?”Iasked.“Yeah.”Theroomwasaverage-

sizedandwelllit,albeitwithnowindowsIcouldsee.Thechairal-Hazimwasshackledto—handsandfeet—wastheonlyfurniture,atleastinfrontofthecamera.ThereweretwomalevoicesinthebackgroundspeakingEnglish,

butIcouldn’tmakeouttheconversation.IturnedtoOwen.“What

aretheysaying?”“Ihaven’tbeenableto

makeitout,”heanswered.“Keepwatching,though.”Ileanedforwardfora

quickpeektowardthefrontofthetavern.Icouldn’tseeanyone,andnoonecouldseeus;thiswastrulyaprivatescreening.IfIhadn’tbeensointrigued,Iwould’vebeen

moreawareofhowsurrealthisallwas,evenbyNewYorkstandards.WhatthehellamIaboutto

see?Torture?Somesortofconfession?Acombinationofboth?OrisitD,noneoftheabove?Ikeptwatching.Seconds

later,threemenenteredthepicture.Twowereinsuitsandties,whilethethirdwaswearingawhitemedicalsmock.Thatman,presumably

adoctor,washoldingsomethingasheapproachedal-Hazim.“Isthatasyringe?”Iasked.“Yes.”“He’snotgettingaflu

shot,ishe?”Owenshookhishead.

“Nope.”

CHAPTER28

THETWOmenrestrainedal-Hazim,oneofthemgrippinghiminaheadlockasthedoctorswabbedthesideofhisneckwithanalcoholpad.Quickly,thedoctorinjectedthecontentsofthesyringeintothecarotidartery.All

threethensteppedoutofframe.Asal-Hazimsimplysat

thereashehadbefore,IwasabouttoaskOwenwhatwasgoingon.ThatwaswhenIheardamanclearinghisthroatoffcamera.Thissound,unlikethepreviousconversation,Icouldhearperfectly.“Whatisyourname?”the

manasked.

Immediately,anothervoiceoffcameratranslatedthequestionintoArabic.Ihadn’tsuddenlylearnedthelanguage—therewereactuallysubtitlesatthebottomoftheframe.Itwaslikeaforeignfilm,albeitnotthekindClaireandIwouldwatchattheAngelikadowninSoHo.Al-Hazimdidn’tanswer,

andeverythingrepeateditself.Onevoiceaskedthe

questionagaininEnglish,theothertranslateditagaininArabic.Andonceagain,al-Hazimdidn’trespond.“AreyouamemberofAl

Qaeda?”camethenextquestion.Thetranslationfollowed,alongwiththesubtitles.Still,al-Hazimdidn’tsayaword.Thensomethingstrange

startedtohappen.Itwasasifhischairhadbeenelectrified,althoughnotwithasudden

jolt.Rather,aslowbuild.Hisarmsandlegsbegantoshake,hisfacecontorting.Hewasclearlyfeelingpain.“Areyouawareofany

plansbyAlQaedatokillAmericancitizens?”camethethirdquestion,theinterrogator’svoiceunchanged.Itwascalm,placid,evenasal-Hazimbegantoshakeuncontrollablyasifhewerehavingaviolentseizure.Hewasinagony,and

noonewaslayingafingeronhim.Meanwhile,thequestion

wasrepeated—louder,finally,soastobeheardabovethemetalcuffsaroundhisanklesandwrists,whichwerenowclankingandrattlingincessantlyagainstthechair.“Areyouawareofany

plansbyAlQaedatokillAmericancitizens?”

Ifhewas,al-Hazimstillwasn’tsaying.Iwasn’tsurehecouldevenifhewantedto,atthispoint.Hismouthwasopenasiftoscream,buttherewasnosoundcomingout.Hiseyesrolledback.Helookedpossessed.Therewasnocontrol,notanywhere.Hisjumpsuitdarkenedaroundhiscrotchandthighs.Hewasurinatingonhimself,ifnotdefecating.

Suddenly,everythingstopped.Likesomeonehadpulledtheplug.Al-Hazimcollapsedinthechair,hisbodylimpandlifeless.Thedoctorinthewhite

smockreappearedandplacedtwofingersontheneck,exactlywherehe’dadministeredtheshot.Heturnedandshookhisheadtothosebehindthecamera.Hisfacewasasexpressionlessas

thebartenderwhohadpouredmemywhiskey.“Christ!”wasallIcould

sputteratfirst.Iwasstillstaringattheoppositesideoftheboothandwhatwasnowjustanemptywhitesquarebeingprojected.Itwasallsinkingin.Finally,IturnedtoOwen.“Thesyringe.Whateverwasinitkilledhim,right?”“Technically,no,”hesaid.“Technically?”

Hefoldedhisarmsonthetable.“Whatyoujustsawwasactuallyasuicide.”

CHAPTER29

BEFOREIcouldaskwhatthehellthatmeant,Owenreachedforhisphoneandbegantappingthescreenagain.Hewasbringingupanothervideo.Itwasadoublefeature.“Ifthisisthesamething

withadifferentprisoner,I

don’tneedtoseeit,”Isaid.“Justwatch,”saidOwen.HehitPlayandpositioned

thephoneagain,theimagebeamingacrosstheboothasithadbefore.Sameroom,samechair,differentMiddleEasternmanchainedtoit.Hisbeardwasslightlylonger,andhedidn’twearglasses.Theonlyotherdifference

wasthathefilledouthisjumpsuitmore.Helooked

bloated,puffywheretheremightotherwisebeedges.Maybeforthatreason

alone,hisblankstaredidn’tseemasdetermined.Thesamethreemen

enteredtheframe,theoneinthewhitesmockadministeringtheshot.Astheyretreatedbehindthecamera,Iwasalreadybracingforwhatwastocome.Itcame.Themanwas

askedhisnameinEnglish,

followedbyArabic,andherefusedtoanswer,onceandthentwice.Aswithal-Hazim,the“symptoms”started.“AreyouamemberofAl

Qaeda?”camethenextquestion,andagainherefusedtoanswer.Butthatwaswhenthingstookaturn.Ashisheavybodyshook

andconvulsed,theman’sfacelookedasifhewereinatug-of-war.Hewastryingtofightthepain,notgiveintoit,but

ashisteethgnashedandthetendonsinhisneckstretchedsotightIthoughttheywouldsnap,heopenedhismouthnottoscream…buttotalk.“Yes,”readthetranslation

beneathhim.Thevoiceofthe

interrogatorresumed.Socalmly,soeerily.“SoyouadmitthatyouareamemberofAlQaeda?”“Yes,”themanrepeated.

Andnosoonerhadhedonesothantheshaking,theconvulsing,theoutrightagonyhewasexperiencingbegantodissipate.Quickly,theinterrogatorfollowedup.“Areyouawareofany

plansbyAlQaedatokillAmericancitizens?”Secondspassedastheman

remainedsilent—andmotionless—inthechair.Hewasclearlydecidingwhattodo,howtoanswer.His

foreheadwasdrippingsweat.Hedidn’thavemuchtime,andheknewit.“No,”heanswered.“I

don’tknowanything.”Hetriedtosellit,hiseyes

pleadingdesperatelywitheveryonebehindthecameratobelievehim.Theroomwassilentforanotherfewseconds…andthencamethesound.Thehandcuffs,theanklecuffs—theybegantorattleagainstthechair.Hisfaced

seizedup,hisdarkeyespracticallypoppingoutofhishead.Everythingwasstartingallover,onlyfasterandmoresevere.“Yes!”hescreamed.In

English,noless.“Yes!Yes!Iknowofplans…”Andforasecondtime,

everythingstopped.Nomoreconvulsing,nomorepain.Nomorevideo,either.Itendedabruptly.

Owenturnedtome.“Gofigure,huh?Ofallthings,it’stheplanstheydidn’twantrecorded.”“Howthehelldidyouget

these?”Iasked.“It’salongstory.”“I’vegotnothingbut

time.”“Yeah,that’swhatIused

tothink.”Igotwhathewassaying.

Hislifewasnevergoingtobethesame.Maybethatwas

whyhewaseyeingmyglassasIthrewbackthelastofmywhiskey.“Youwantone?”Iasked.“Nothanks,”hesaid.Butitwasthewayhesaid

it,likeitwasn’tevenapossibility.“Howoldareyou,bytheway?”“Nineteen.”“Areyouinschool?”“No,”hesaid.“Iwork.”“Whatdoyoudo?”

“Idesignartificialneurologicalimplants.”Istaredathimblankly.“Yeah,Iknow,”hesaid.

“ButSubwaywasn’thiring.”Thekiddefinitelyhada

snarkystreak.Inagoodway,though.Clairewould’velikedhim.HeandIwereallalonein

thebackoftheOakTavern,everyoneelseoutofearshot.Still,Icouldn’thelploweringmyvoiceforwhatIwas

abouttoask.Itwasjustoneofthosekindsofquestions.“DoyouworkfortheCIA,Owen?”Henoddedathisphone.

“Notanymore,I’mguessing.”“Andthoseinjections,

whatwejustwatched.Didyouhavesomethingtodowiththat?”“Itdepends.”“Onwhat?”“Whetheryouthinkthe

WrightBrothershad

somethingtodowithnine-eleven,”hesaid.Heslidoutofmysideoftheboothandbackintohisbeforeexplaining.“Iwasworkingonartificialneurotransmittersforthehumanbrain.I’mnotasap,Iknewtherewerepossiblemilitaryapplications.ButIalsoknewthattheywerethecurefordozensofneurologicaldiseases.Sometimesyoujusthavetotakethegoodwiththebad.”

“Untilyousawthebadwithyourowneyes,”Isaid.“Iwastheirmissinglink.

Theyhadisolatedalltheneurologicalchanges,everythingthebraindoeswhenwelie,buttheydidn’tknowhowtomanipulateit.”Hedrewadeepbreath,exhalingwithregretwellbeyondhisyears.“IthoughtIwascuringAlzheimer’s.”Theironywasinescapable.

“Theyliedtoyou.”

“No,notexactly,”hesaid.“Thosepeopleintherecordings—themeninsuits,thedoctor—Idon’tevenknowwhotheyare.”“Buttheyknowwhoyou

are,don’tthey?Theyknowyouwantedtogopublic,andnowtheywantyoudeadandanyoneelseyoumighthavetold.”Ileanedback,sinkinginto

theboothasthoselastwordsofminehungintheairfora

fewseconds.I’dsaidthemthinkingentirelyaboutClaire.Thatwaswhenitdawned

onme,themorningI’dhad.Iwasleavingsomeoneoutoftheproverbialriskpool.Me.Asifoncue,Owentilted

hisheadand,ofallthings,smiled.“Welcometotheclub,dude.”

BOOKTWO

STRANGERTHAN

FICTION

CHAPTER30

BRETTONSAMUELMorris,tenmonthsintohisfirsttermaspresidentoftheUnitedStates,shookwhatremainedofhisbourbonandrocks,thespringwatericecubesrattlingagainstthecrystalofhisfavoriteglass.Tink-tinkity-tink.

Theglass,speciallycommissionedfromWaterfordandfeaturinganetchedAmericanflagononesideandabaldeagleontheother,hadoriginallybeenagifttoRonaldReaganfromthepresidentofIreland,PatrickHillery.Intotal,therewerefourglassesintheset,butafteravisittotheWhiteHousebyBorisYeltsinafewyearslater,onlythreeremained.TheRussianleader

notoriouslycouldn’tholdhisliquor,andsincehewasmissingthethumbandforefingeronhislefthand,heapparentlycouldn’tholdtheglass,either.“Whattimeisit?”asked

thepresident,breakingthesilenceoftheOvalOffice.Hewasstaringoutthewindowbytheeastdoor,whichledtotheRoseGarden,hisbackturnedtotheonlyother

peopleintheroom,histwomosttrustedadvisors.ClayDobson,thechiefof

staff,glancedathiswatch.“It’sapproachingmidnight,sir.”Thepresidentdrewadeep

breathandthenexhaled.“Yeah,thatfigures….”Inlessthantwelvehours,

theSenateconfirmationhearingforLawrenceBasstobecomethenextdirectorofCentralIntelligencewas

scheduledtobegin.Withtheextensivebackgroundchecklongsincecompleted,confidenceintheWhiteHousehadbeenridinghigh.SincethedaysofGeorgeTenet,noonedaredusethephraseslamdunkanymore,buteveryonewascertainlythinkingit.Bass,thecurrentdirector

ofintelligenceprogramswiththeNSC,didnotkeephighlyclassifiedinformationonhis

unsecuredhomecomputer;hedidnotbelongtoanall-whitecountryclub;hedranksocially,andsparinglyatthat;hepaidSocialSecuritytaxesforhisGuatemalanhousekeeper;hedidnotsecretlyliketodressupinwomen’sclothing;andhedidnothaveathingforlittlegirls.Or,forthatmatter,littleboys.LawrenceBass,theearly-to-bed-early-to-riseex-marineandSilverStarMedal

recipient,hadbeenvettedbacktohisdiapers.Checkedandrechecked.Everythinghadcomeupclean.Spic-and-span.Spotless.Thepresidentturnedfrom

thewindow,facingtheroom.“Tellmethismuch,atleast,”hesaid.“Areyouabsolutelysurewhatyou’vegotistrue?”“Assureaswecanbe,”

saidDobson,glancingdownatthefileinhishands.He

thenwatchedasthepresidentnoddedslowly.“So,basicallywhatyou’re

sayingis…we’rescrewed.”“That’sonewaytolookat

it,sir,”saidIanLandry,sittingcross-leggedonthefarsofa.TheWhiteHousepresssecretarythenshiftedtohisbreadandbutter:thespin.“Ontheflipside,knowingthere’saproblemnowsurebeatsthehelloutofknowingitafterthehearingtomorrow.

Atleasttonightwehavesomeoptions.”“Whodoyouguyshavein

mind?”askedthepresident.Dobsondidn’thesitate.

“Karcher,”hesaid.“Karcher?Hewasn’teven

ontheshortlist.”“That’snotwhattheTimes,

thePost,andPoliticowillbereportinginacoupleofdays,”saidLandry,allbutbragging.

“AndwhataboutBass?”askedthepresident.“WhatamItellinghim?”Withaquicknod,Landry

deferredtoDobson.Goldenparachuteswerestrictlythechiefofstaff’sdomain.“YousimplytellBassthat

hissupportcollapsedinthewakeoftheassault-riflebanbill,andthathe’sthesacrificiallambfortheRepublicansonthecommitteelookingfor

payback,”saidDobson.“I’lltakecareoftherest.Afterthreemonths,he’lllandonKStreetclearingamillionfiveayear.Trustme,he’llplayalong.He’llhavenochoice.”Tink-tinkity-tink.The

presidentrattledhisglassagain,hiseyesnarrowinginthought.Fivesecondspassed.Thenten.“Okay,”hesaidfinally.

“Wakethepoorsonofabitchup.”

DobsonandLandrybothquicklyassuredtheirbossthathewasdoingtherightthing.Then,evenfaster,theylefttheOvalOfficebeforehecouldchangehismind.PresidentMorriswasprone

tothatsometimes.Uncertainty.AsaBlueDogDemocratfromIowa,hemanagedastraight-shooterpersonainpublic,butbehindcloseddoors,accordingto“unnamedsources,”hehada

tendencytoagonizeoverdecisions.Hiscriticsrelentlesslyseizeduponthisastheultimatesignofweakness.AparticularlyscathingarticleintheNewYorkObserverwentsofarastoattributeittohisheight,orlackthereof.Onlytwopresidentsinthepastcenturyhavemeasuredundersixfeettall,thearticlepointedout:JimmyCarterandBrettonMorris.

ButashesatbehindhisdeskandwaitedforDobsontopatchhiminwithBasssohecouldbreakthebadnews,PresidentMorrisfeltsomethingdeepandstronginhisgut.Somethingcertain.Thatthisnight,ofallnights,wasgoingtohaunthimfortherestofhislife.Clearly,Dobsonhadn’t

sharedthedetailsofthatfileinhishandsbecausewhatwasinthatfilecould

embarrassthehelloutoftheadministration,ifnotworse.Givingspecificstohisbossmeantknowingthetruth,andknowingthetruthmeantaccountability.Rule#1:Presidentsdon’t

getimpeachedforthethingstheydon’tknow.Soleaveitatthat,right?

LawrenceBasshadbeeninvolvedinsomethingheshouldn’thavebeen,andwhateveritmightbewas

enoughtokeephimfrombecomingthenextdirectorofCentralIntelligence.Therewasjustone

problem,onemorethingthepresidentdidn’tknow.ThatfileinClayDobson’shand?Therewasnothinginit.Itwasempty.

CHAPTER31

“WHOIShe?”askedDobson,pausingbeforeasipofcoffee.Atninea.m.thefollowingmorninginhisWestWingoffice,hewasalreadyonhisthirdcupoftheday.Atleastthreeadditionalcups,ifnotmore,would

followbeforenoon.Alwaysblack.Justblack.Nosugar.“Maybeit’sbetterifyou

don’tknow,”repliedFrankKarcher,sittingontheothersideofDobson’sdeskwithhisthickarmsfolded.ThecurrentNationalClandestineServicechiefoftheCIAneverdrankcoffee.Nordidhesmokeorconsumealcohol.Fromtimetotime,though,hedidgiveorderstohavepeoplekilled.

Thiswasthefirsttimethetwoweremeetingpublicly,asitwere,inDobson’soffice.Forthepasttwoyears,theyhadmetinsecret,aroutinethathadbeennosmallfeatgiventhatthebeatbloggersworkingthenation’scapitalmadeHollywoodpaparazzilooklikeagoraphobicslackers.Theemptyparkinggaragesaftermidnight,theabandonedwarehouseinIvyCity—thatpartoftheirplan

wasover.ItwouldnowbeexpectedthatKarcher’snameshowupontheWhiteHousevisitors’log.Dobsonforcedasmile,an

attemptatpatiencewithhisstrangestofpoliticalbedfellows.“IfIdidn’tneedtoknowtheguy’sname,Frank,youwouldn’tbesittinghere,”hesaid.“Yourmessismymess.”Karchercouldn’targue

withthat,choosinginsteadto

simplyscratchthebackofhisverylargeheadbeforeopeningthefileinhislap.Thisonewasn’tempty.“HisnameisTrevorMann,”hebegan,summarizinginbullet-pointfashion.“FormerManhattanADAwithanoutstandingconvictionrate…lefttobecomegeneralcounselforahedgefund…apparentlythatdidn’tgotoowell.”

“Whathappened?”askedDobson.“Thefirmwassuedbyone

ofitslargestclients,thePolicePensionFundofNewYorkCity.Thisguy,TrevorMann,discoveredduringthetrialthatthehedgefundmanagerswerewithholdingevidencethatshould’vebeengiventotheprosecution.Inshort,thecopsweregettingscrewedoutofprofits.”

KarcherwasabouttocontinuewhenheglancedupatDobsonandsuddenlystopped.TherewassomethingaboutDobson’sexpression,althoughKarchercouldn’tquitepegit.“Whatisit?”heasked.“Nothing,”Dobsonlied.

“Goon.Orbetteryet,letmeguess.Thelawyergrewaconscienceandsoldoutthehedgefundmanagers.”

“Somethinglikethat,”saidKarcher.“Heendedupbeingdisbarred.Nowhe’steachingatColumbiaLaw.Ethics,noless.Justfinishedhissecondyearthere.”Dobsontookanothersipof

coffee,leaningbackinhischair.HeknewthatKarcher,allsixfoottwoandtwohundredandfortypoundsofhim,couldbeasickfuckwithashortfuse,ifprovoked.

ButDobsonalsoknewwhattheyhadincommon,whathadinitiallybroughtthemtogether.Acompleteandthorough

understandingofleverage.

CHAPTER32

“FRANK,DIDyouevertakeLatin?”Karcher,abitwaryofthe

lackofseguefromDobson,slowlyshookthatlargeheadofhis.Whenhefirstenlistedinthearmyoverthirtyyearsago,theyhadtospecial-order

hishelmet.“I’massumingyoudid?”heasked.“Yeah,fouryearsofitat

PhillipsExeterAcademy,”saidDobson,fullyawareofhowpretentiousthatsounded.“Andyouknowwhattheironyis?TheonlyLatinexpressionthat’severhadanymeaningtomewhatsoeverinmyjobisonethatmostanybodywouldknowwithoutstudyingthe

languageforasinglegoddamnday.Quidproquo.”Karcherwaswell

acquaintedwiththeexpression.HealsoknewwhereDobsonwasheadingwithit.Butbeforehecouldevenopenhismouthtomounthisdefense,Dobsonwentrightontalking.“Lastnight,Iconvinced

thepresidentoftheUnitedStatestomakeyouthenextdirectoroftheCIA.You,

Frank.Notthehalfdozenorsomorequalifiedmenatthetopoftheintelligenceworld,butyou.Ididthisbecausethiswasouragreement,whatyougotinreturnforhelpingmewithmyplan.Andeverythingwasgoingwellwiththatplan,wasn’tit?”Dobsonpaused.Itwasa

rhetoricalquestion,buthestillwantedatleastanodfromKarcher,somethingthatwouldmakeitallveryclear.

NotthatKarcheragreedwithhim.Screwthat.Rather,thatKarcherunderstoodjustwhoexactlyhadtheleverage.Solet’sseeit,bigboy.Tilt

thathugemelonofyoursupanddownlikeagoodsoldier.Andthereitwas,righton

cue.Itwastheslightestofnodsbutanodjustthesame,andforaproudmanlikeKarcher,easilymorepainfulthanpassingacactus-sizedkidneystone.

Dobsoncontinued.“Sonowyou’reheretellingmethatnotonlyisthekidstillaliveupinNewYork,butthere’salsoanewguy,theboyfriendofthereporter,whomightknoweverythingaswell?”“I’lltakecareofit,”said

Karcher.“Thatsoundsawfully

familiar.”“Thenwhatdoyouwant

metosay?”

“Nothing.Iwantyoutodo,”saidDobson.“Asin,whateverittakestocleanthisup.Doyouunderstand?”“Yes.”“Quidproquo,Frank.”“Igotit.”Thehellhedid,thought

Dobson.“Quidproquo!”heshoutedatthetopofhislungs.“Iwantmyfuckingquidproquo!”Karcherdidn’tsayanother

word.Notevengood-bye.He

stoodupfromhischairandwalkedoutofDobson’soffice.Cavequiddicis,quando,et

cui.

CHAPTER33

PARANOIA,Iwasquicklydiscovering,hasasoundallitsown.Loud.“Christ,doyouhearthat?”

IaskedaswewalkedsouthalongBroadwayafterleavingtheOakTavern.Owenturnedtomewithout

breakingstride.“Hearwhat?”

“Everything,”Isaid.Itwasasifsomeonehad

grabbedagiantmunicipaldialwithtwohandsandturnedupthevolumeontheentirecity.Theclankingofaconstructioncraneoverhead,theidlingenginesofthebumper-to-bumpertraffic,theback-and-forthchatterofthepeoplewepassedalongthesidewalk—IcouldheareverysinglenoiseManhattanhadtooffer,louderthaneverbefore.

Andeachone,Iwasconvinced,wantedtokillme.“It’sactuallyprettycool,if

youthinkaboutit,”saidOwen.Thatwasn’texactlythe

reactionIhadinmind.“Cool?”“Yeah.Three-point-eight

billionyearsofevolutiontuckedawayinyourDNA,”hesaid.“Survivalinstincts.Hearbetter,livelonger.”

WecametoastopataDON’TWALKsignatthecornerofFifty-EighthStreet.MyneckwascraninglikeLindaBlair’sinTheExorcist.Wewereoutintheopen,twosittingducks.“Areyousureitisn’thidebetter,livelonger?”“Iknowhowitmust

seem,”hesaid,“butwe’reactuallyfineforabit.”“Whatmakesyouso

sure?”

“TheAchilles’heeloftheintelligencecommunity,”hesaid.“Theyonlyactonintelligence.”“Meaningwhat,exactly?”“Ourtwofriendsfromthe

parkaretoobusyrightnowturningyourapartmentupsidedown.Theywanttoknowwhatyouknow.They’llcombthrougheveryharddriveyouhave;they’llhackyourphonerecords,bankandcreditcardaccounts,anythingand

everything.Thenthey’llwaitandhope.”“Forwhat?”“Forustodosomething

foolish,”hesaid.“Thatremindsme.CanIborrowyourphoneforasecond?”“Sure,”Isaid,handingitto

him.“Hey!Whatthehell?”Thekidpromptlytookmy

iPhoneanddroppeditdownthesewer.Plop.“Nowwe’refineforabit,”

hesaid.

Igotit.GPS.Onoroff,it’salwayson.Inwhichcase…“Whataboutyourphone?”

Iasked.Iknewhehadoneonhim.“Let’sjustsaymyphone’s

configuredalittledifferently.”TheWALKsignalflashed.

Itmightaswellhavebeenastarter’spistol.Owenimmediatelytookoff,crossingBroadwayandheadingeastonFifty-Seventh

Street.Iwasstrugglingtokeepupwithhimineverysense.“Wherearewegoing?”I

calledout.“Itoldyou,”hesaidover

hisshoulder.“Ineedtomakeastop.It’scloseby.”Ijoggedupalongsidehim.

Thekidwasaworkout.“Yeah,butyoudidn’tsaywhere.”“It’srightupahead.”

Aswewalkedanotherblock,Icouldn’thelppicturingthetwoguysransackingmyapartment.Asunsettlingasthatwas,though,theideathattheywerethereinsteadofgettingreadytoleapoutfromaroundthenextcornerwithgunsblazingmanagedtomuffletheloudnessbetweenmyears.Still…“Ifwe’resupposedlysafe

forabit,”Isaid,“whyare

youwalkingsodamnfast?”“Marginoferror,”hesaid,

hisshouldersliftingwithaquickshrug.“There’salwaysthechanceIcouldbedeadwrong.”Andjustlikethat,thecity

wasscreamingintomyearsagain,rightupuntilthenextcorner,whereOwenstoppedonadimeandpointed.“There,”hesaid.“That’s

wherewe’regoing.”

Ifollowedthelineofhisfingeracrossthestreettoagiantglasscube,atleastthreestorieshighandjustaswide.Ifithadbeenshapedlikeapyramid,wewould’vebeeninfrontofI.M.Pei’sentrancetotheLouvreinParis.Instead,itwastheentrance

totheApplestorebeneaththeconcourseoftheGeneralMotorsBuilding.IsthekidbuyingmeanewiPhone?

“Whatdoweneedtodointhere?”Iasked.“Whatthey’rehopingfor,”

hesaid.“Somethingfoolish.”

CHAPTER34

OWENLOOKEDasifhewerecasingthejoint,butonlytome.TotherestofthestorehesimplylookedlikeanotherApplefanboybrowsingaboutthetablesofiPads,iPods,andiPhones.Iwasfollowingclosely

behindhim.“Arewewaiting

forsomething?”Ifinallyasked.“Orsomeone?”Owenstoppedinfrontofa

MacBookPro,anglingthescreentowardhimabitbeforeclickingontheiconfortheSafariWebbrowser.Icouldn’ttellifhe’devenheardme.“McLean,Virginia,”he

said.“Excuseme?”“That’swheretheveryfirst

Applestoreopened.Itwasin

amallcalledTysonsCornerCenterinMcLean,Virginia.”“Iwould’veguessed

somewherenearCupertino,”Isaid.“Yeah,Iwould’veguessed

thesamething.”Hewastypingaseriesoflettersandnumbersintothesearchbar.Itlookedlikegibberish.“Instead,SteveJobsopenedthefirststorenearlythreethousandmilesawayfromhis

headquarters.”Owenturnedtome.“Interesting,huh?”“Isuppose.”“Ofcourse,youknow

what’salsoinMcLean?”heasked.ThismuchIdidknow.Or,

atleast,Iwasabletofigureitoutgiventhekid’srésumé.“Langley,”Ianswered.Henodded.“Justsaying.”Withthat,hepunchedthe

Enterbutton,thescreeninstantlygoingblackasif

he’dturneditoff.Justasquick,itflashedbackonwithaburstofwhiteandaloadingiconI’dcertainlyneverseenbeforeonaMacoranyothercomputer,forthatmatter.Weweren’tinKansasanymore.“Anyblue-shirtslooking

thisway?”heasked,typingwhatlookedtobeapassword.Ilookedaround.Allthe

Applestoreemployeesin

theirblueT-shirtswerebusywithothercustomers.“Allclear,”Isaid.For

what,though?ASwissbankaccountwithdrawal?ReroutingplanesoverKennedy?Owenpulledaflashdrive

fromhispocket,slidingitintoaUSBportandpullingupavideofile.Immediately,Irecognizedtheimage.Thebeigecarpet,thebeigewalls,

theseamlesstunnelofblandness…Onceagain,Iwasbackat

theLucindaHotel.Theangleofthevideo—

lookingdown—wasfromtheendofthehallwayontheseventeenthfloor.MyfirstthoughtwasthatOwenhadtappedintoafeedfromasurveillancecamera,albeitacoloronewithasuper-crisppicture.Whywouldthe

Lucindaspringforthat?Theywouldn’t.“Iattachedthecamera

abovetheexitsignbythestairs,”saidOwen,allbutreadingmymind.“It’swireless.”Heinterruptedthelivefeed

tocueupthefootagefromthebeginning,backwhenhefirstcheckedintothehotel.Hehadrecordedeverything.Everysecondofeveryminuteofeverypersonwhowanted

tokillfirsthimandthen,later,me.Hewasfast-forwarding

throughitall,butitwasallrightthere,surrealashell.Claire’skillerarriving.Owenleaving.Myshowingup,followedbytheduofromBethesdaTerrace,who,afterwieldingtheirmagicpliers,indeedpulleddoubledutyastheworld’sfastestcleanupcrew,completewithremovingClaire’skiller

wrappedinablanket.Perhapsthemostunsettlingpartaboutthatdetailwashownonchalanttheywerecarryingadeadbodytowardthestairwell.Justanotherdayattheoffice.Nextcamethearrivalof

thepoliceandmeagain.Or,atleast,itwould’vebeen.Owenhadpausedtherecording,rewindingslowlybeforestoppingonacleanshotofoneofourwould-be

assassins.Withacrop,cut,andpaste,OwenfedtheimageintowhatIgatheredwassomekindofrestrictedpersonnelfileoftheCIA.Butnothingwashappening.“Shit,”hemutteredunder

hisbreath.“Somuchforthefrontdoor.”Thatwaswhenthingsgota

bitfreaky.Owenreachedintohis

otherpocket,pullingoutasmallcontactlenscase.

BeforeIcouldevenaskwhatthehellhewasdoing,he’dputared-tintedlensinhislefteyeandstareddirectlyintothetinycameraabovetheMacBookPro’sscreen.Now,suddenly—open

sesame—everythingwashappening.Pixelatedfragmentsoftheguy’sfacialfeatureswerebouncingfromonephototothenextatthespeedofastrobelightwhilechartsandgraphsmeasured

thesimilarities.Seizurealert.ThescreenlookedlikethelovechildofaPowerPointpresentationandapinballmachineontilt.“Thismighttakeawhileto

getamatch,”saidOwen,removingthelensfromhiseyewithaquickpinch.“Youjusthackedyourway

intotheCIA,didn’tyou?”Iasked.Helookedatmeand

flashedthequickest—and

guiltiest—ofsmiles.“Hackedissuchanuglyword,”hesaid.

CHAPTER35

OWENWATCHEDthescreenandwaited.IwaitedandwatchedOwen.Hewasdoingthatthingagain,washinghishandsunderanimaginaryfaucet.Andme?WhatwasI

doing?

Fromtheget-go,theverybeginning,I’dbeenplayingcatchup.WhokilledClaire?Whowasthesourceshewasgoingtosee,andwhatdidheknow?NowIknew.Sowhat

next?Itseemedprettyobviousto

me.Ofcourse,thatshould’vebeenmyfirstredflag.“Owen?”Isaid.“Yeah?”

Hiseyesremainedlockedonthescreen.Hewasbarelyevenblinking.Thatwasfine.Hedidn’tneedtolookatmesolongashelistened.“Weneedtogotothe

police,”Isaid.“Yeah,Iknow.Thatmakes

sense.”“Good.”“Butwe’renotgoingto.”“Whynot?”“Becauseitdoesn’twork

thatway,”hesaid.“They

can’thelpus.”“Theycanatleastprotect

us.”Hethrewmealook.“You

reallythinkso?”Ithadoccurredtome.

MaybeIwasn’tseeingthebigpicture,oratleasthowitlookedfromhispointofview.“Youwanttogotoanotherpaper,isthatwhatyou’resaying?Maybeanewsnetwork?”Iasked.

Finally,hestoppedrubbinghishandsandturnedtome.Thewordswerecalmandmeasured,butthemeaningwasanythingbut.Tohellwithwhistle-blowing.Thiswasnolongeraboutgoingpublic.Thiswasnowpersonal.“Adecisionwasmadeto

killmyboss…thenClaire…thenme…thenyou,”hesaid.“Andifyoucanmakeadecisionlikethat,you’renot

worriedaboutthelaw.You’reabovethelaw.”Attorneys,especially

formerprosecutors,generallybristleattheideaofanyonebeingabovethelaw.Thenagain,I’dbeendisbarred.“Whatexactlydoyouhave

inmind?”Iasked.“Theonlywaytosmoke

themoutistoremaintheirtarget,”hesaid.“Thinkaboutit.Aslongasthey’recomingforus…”

“It’sapathrightbacktothem,”Isaid.Owennodded—bingo—

beforeglancingbackatthescreen.“Nowwejustneedalittlebackgroundinformation,”hesaid.“Alwaysgettoknowbetterthepeoplewhowantyoudead.”Wordstoliveby.Sothereyouhadit.Why

wewerestandinginthemiddleofanApplestore

playingmatch-dot-comwiththepersonnelfilesoftheCIA.Letthemcomeafterus,Owenwassaying.Let’sbefoolish.“CanIborrowyourphone

foraminute?”Iasked.“Iseemtohavelostmine.”Owenignoredmysarcasm.

“Whoareyoucalling?”“Noone.”Hestillwasn’tsure,buthe

handedittomeanyway.ThenhewatchedasImadea

beelinetotheaccessoriessection,pullingani-FlashDriveofftheshelf.AsIbegantoopenthe

package,afemaleblue-shirtwithaponytailandgeek-chicglassescameoverinapanic.ShelookedasifI’djustdefacedtheMonaLisa.“Sir!Youcan’tjust—”“Howmuchisit?”Iasked,

reachingformywallet.Shecranedherneckto

checktheprice.“Forty-four

ninety-five,”shesaid.“Plustax.”Igaveherfifty.Then,

beforeshecouldtellmesheneededtoscanthebarcode,Iremovedthedriveandhandedoverthepackaging.“IthinkI’llpassontheextendedwarranty,”Isaid,walkingaway.IreturnedtoOwenwhile

pluggingthedriveintohisphone.“Whatarethefilenamesofthetworecordings

youshowedmeattheOakTavern?”Iasked.Hegavemethenamesand

Itransferredthemtothedrive.Ihandedhimbackhisphone.“Thanks,”Isaid.Hemotionedtothedriveas

Iputitinmypocket.“What’sthatfor?”“JusttellmewhereIcan

meetyouinanhour,”Isaid,takingacoupleofstepsback.“Wait.Whereareyou

going?”

Ireachedformysunglasses,slidingthemon.“Marginoferror,”Isaid.“Justincaseyougetusbothkilled.”

CHAPTER36

IQUICKLYwroteeverythingdownontheonlyblankpieceofpaperIcouldgetmyhandsoninthebackofthecabtakingmeacrosstowntoEighthAvenue.Itwastheflipsideofalogsheetthedriverwasusingtokeeptrackoffares.Hewas

finelettingmehaveit,althoughwhenIalsoaskedforhispenandclipboarditwasclearIwaspushingmyluck.“Youwanttodrive,too?”

heasked.Afterhedroppedmeoffin

frontoftheNewYorkTimesBuilding,itdawnedonmehowlongithadbeensinceI’dlastsetfootinClaire’soffice.Onereasonwasthatshedidn’tactuallyhavean

office,justadeskoutintheopenintheverycrowdednationalaffairssection.VisitingClairewaslikebeingonthewrongsideofthebarsatthezoo.Noprivacy.Youwereessentiallyondisplay.Theotherreasonwasthe

guysittingtwentyfeetfromherdeskwhoactuallydidhaveanoffice,aBritbythenameofSebastianCole.BeforeIfirstmetClaire,sheandSebastianhadabrief,

hush-hushofficeromancethat,accordingtoClaire,“wasthesecond-best-keptsecretafterDeepThroat.”“Youmightwanttogo

withadifferentanalogy,”Isuggestedaftershetoldmethat,ononeofourearlydates.“Atleastformybenefit.”Irememberedweboth

crackedupoverthat.Anyway,asClaire

describedit,shewasyoung

andhewasherboss,asurefirewaytojeopardizeyourcareerevenbeforeyoureallyhaveone.Afterfourmonths,sheendedit.Inthegrandtraditionofthe

Britishstiffupperlip,Sebastianhandledherbreakingupwithhimwithaplomb,sparingheranyretaliationsuchasreassigninghertotheobituarydepartment.Goodforhim.

EvenbetterforClaire.Asforme,thatwasadifferentstory.Thetrueextentof

Sebastian’scopingabilitieswasputtothetestacoupleofyearslateratcocktailpartythrownbyanothereditorinnationalaffairs.ThetestconsistedofsevensimplewordsspokenbyClaire.Sebastian,I’dlikeyoutomeetTrevor…SomuchfortheBritish

stiffupperlip.Instead,Igot

thestinkeyealongwithallthebloodyattitudethatanOxford-educated,bow-tie-wearingchaphailingfromStoked’Abernoncouldthrowmyway.SebastianhatedAmericanlawyersandhatedevenmoretheideathatClairewouldbewithone.Atleast,thatwashowsheexplaineditlater.Iwasmorepartialtotheadagethatguyswillbeguys,especiallywhenitcomestogirls.Jealousyrulestheday,

andattheendofitwe’realljustalyricinaJoeJacksonsong.Isshereallygoingoutwithhim?Butthatwasthen.Thiswas

now.Clairewassuddenlygone,andneitherofuswouldeverbewithheragain.ThatwascertainlythesubtextasIsatdownwithSebastian.Letbygonesbebygones.“I’minshock,”hesaid

frombehindhisdesk,slowlytwistingapaperclipinhis

hands.Icouldtellhe’dbeencrying,ashadeveryoneelseI’dpassedenroutetohisoffice.“Shockisagoodword,”I

said.Wediscussedthedetailsof

howhe’dheardthenews,anearly-morningphonecallathomefromtheexecutiveeditor.“Wherewasshegoing?”

Sebastianasked.“Seeingasource,”Isaid.

Iwatchedhisfacecarefully,lookingforatell.IfheknewanythingaboutOwenandhisrecordings,he’dneveradmitit.Notverbally.WhileIwas99.9percentsureClairehadn’tsaidanythingtohimoranyoneelseatthepaperyet,the.1percentchancethatshehadwouldcertainlygrowwithaslighttwitchorflinchfromSebastian.Buttherewasnothing.

Nor,Iwassure,wouldtherebeanythingtobefoundonthecomputeratherdesk.EversincesomeChinesehackersinfiltratedtheGrayLady’scomputersystemsbackinthefallof2012,Clairekeptallhersensitivefilesonherpersonallaptopandnowhereelse.Ofcourse,maybethose

“Chinesehackers”werereallyjustOwenshowingofffromanApplestorein

Beijing.Anythingwaspossibleatthispoint,Ifigured….“Idon’tmeantoberude,”

Sebastiansaidfinallyafteranawkwardsilence.Weweresimplystaringateachotheracrosshisdesk.“ButI’mfairlycertainyoudidn’tcomeherejusttocommiseratewithme,Trevor.”“You’reright,”Isaid.“I

needtoaskyoutodosomething.”

“Youmean,likeafavor?”“Sortof.Although

dependinghowthingsplayout,Imightactuallybetheonedoingyouafavor,”Isaid.“Confusedyet?”“Intriguedismorelikeit.”“That’sgood,”Isaid.

“Nowtellme,onascaleofonetoten,howstrongisyourwillpower?”“Mywillpower?Isthisa

trickquestion?”

“No,I’msimplylookingforthetruth.”“Inthatcase…nine-point-

five,”heanswered.“How’sthat?”“I’mnotsure,”Isaid.“Why?Whatnumberwere

youlookingfor?”Ifoldedmyarms.“Ona

scaleofonetoten?Eleven.”

CHAPTER37

I’DPIQUEDhisinterest.Sebastianwasanewsman,afterall.Hewasactuallyleaninginabitoverhisdesk,waitingformetoexplain.“First,canIborrowan

envelopeandapenforamoment?”Iasked.“Whatfor?”

Icockedaneyebrow.“Really?”Thecabdriveronthewayoverhere—acompletestranger—hadgivenmelessofahardtime.Sebastianrelented,

reachingbehindhimtograbanenvelopefromhiscredenzabeforescoopinguparedfelt-tippennexttohiskeyboard.“Hereyougo,”hesaid.Hecouldn’tseewhatI

begantowriteinmylap.That

wasonpurpose.WhatIdidwanthimtosee,however,wasthei-FlashDriveItookoutofmypocketwhenIwasfinished.AfterIplaceditinfrontof

meontheedgeofhisdesk,itimmediatelybecameallhecouldlookat.EvenmoresowhenIsealeditintheenvelopealongwiththenoteI’dwritteninthecabontherideover.

Ihandedhimbackthepen.Thentheenvelope.“It’sallyours,”Isaid.Sebastianadjustedhis

horn-rimmedglassesashereadthefrontoftheenvelope.Helookedatme,thenattheenvelope,andthenbackatmeagain.“You’rekidding,right?”he

asked.“Unfortunately,no,”Isaid.“What’sthisallabout?”

“It’sallinthenoteandontheflashdrive.”“No,Imeanthe

instructions.”Heflippedthefrontofthe

envelopearoundtome,butofcourseIknewwhatI’dwritten.OnlyopenintheeventofTrevorMann’sdeath.Admittedly,itwasabit

melodramaticasfarasinstructionswent,butI

couldn’thavebeenmoreconciseordirect.“AndImeanit,too,”I

said.“TheonlywayyouopenthatenvelopeisifI’mdead.”“ThishastodowithClaire,

doesn’tit?”“Ofcourse.”“Whycan’tyoushareitme

whileyou’realive?”“Goodquestion,”Isaid.

“Butthat’saflashdriveforanotherday.”

IwatchedasSebastianlookedattheenvelopeagain,staringatitnow.Heknewexactlywhatwasinhishands.Amajorstory.Frontpage,farrightcolumn,abovethefold.“Whywouldyoutrust

me?”heasked.“Becauseyouweretheone

whotaughtClaire,”Isaid.“‘Neverburnasource.’”Inthatmoment,theway

Sebastiannoddedwhile

chokingbackatear,itwasasifClaireweresuddenlyintheroom.Althoughfortheveryfirsttime,shewasnolongerstandingbetweenus.“You’reanidiot,”hesaid.

“Yourealizethat,don’tyou?”“Yes.”“Shelovedyou.”“Iknow,”Isaid.“Imean,shereallyloved

you.”“Iknow.”

Therestdidn’tneedtobesaid.IhadlovedClairejustasmuchasshehadlovedme—thatwasn’twhyIwasanidiot.IwasanidiotbecauseI

hadn’tdoneanythingaboutit.Standing,Ithanked

Sebastianforhistimeand,yes,histrust.“Keepitinasafeplace,”Ihalfjoked,referringtotheenvelope.Hesmiled,althoughIcouldtell

therewassomethingelseonhismind.Hehesitated,fallingsilent.

“Trevor,maybeyoushouldsitdownagain,”hesaid.Slowly,Idid.“Whatisit?”

Iasked.“Iwasn’tgoingtotell

you,”hebegantoexplain,almostasifheweredisappointedinhimself.“NowIrealizethatwouldbewrong.”

CHAPTER38

THEREWASN’TacloudintheskywhenIwalkedoutoftheTimesbuilding,butIwasinacompletefog.Dense.Thick.Furious.AllIcouldseewasthe

nextstepinfrontofme,nothingmore.IknewwhereIwasultimatelyheading,

exceptIcouldn’tremembermakingthedecisiontogothere.Or,forthatmatter,eitherofthetwostopsbeforehand.Itwasabitlikesleepwalking.Inthemiddleofmyworstpossiblenightmare.“CanIhelpyoufind

something?”askedthesalesclerkattheInnovationLuggagestoreattheintersectionofSixthAvenueandFifty-SeventhStreet.Hewasablurstandingrightin

frontofme.Hisvoicesoundedlikeadistantradiostation.“Ineedasmallduffelbag

thatcomeswithalock,”Isaid.“Alock,huh?”he

repeated,tappinghischininthought.“Combinationorkey?”“Itdoesn’tmatter.”“Willyoubeflyingwithit?

TheTSAfolkscan—”

“Really,”Isaid.“Itdoesn’tmatter.”Heledmeovertoawall

displayofcubbyholesthatlookedlikeatic-tac-toeboard.Beforehecouldevenmakeasuggestion,IsawwhatIneeded.“Theoneinthemiddle,”I

said.Hetookdownthebagand

Igaveitaquickonce-over.Itwasblack,medium-sized,withasmallpadlock—the

keyforit,alongwithaspare,hangingfromaziptiearoundoneofthehandles.“Yeah,I’lltakeit,”Isaid.“Doyouwantitinitsbox

orwouldyoulikethisone?”theclerkasked.Bythispoint,itwasabundantlyclearthatwhatIreallywantedwastogetthehelloutofthere.“Thisone’sfine,”Isaid,

alreadyreachingformywallet.

Hespunthepricetagaround.“You’reinluck.It’sonsale.”“Good,”Igrunted,or

somethingtothateffect,asIpulledoutmyAmex.Ididn’tcareaboutthe

price.Ialsodidn’tcareaboutusingacreditcard.Thecharge—andmylocation—couldbetracedinaninstant.Evenquickerthananinstant.Itwouldbelikedrawinga

straightlinetome,thenlightingitlikeafuse.Sobeit.Trevor,maybeyoushould

sitdownagain.There’ssomethingyouneedtoknow…“Areyouallright?”asked

theclerk.Hecertainlydidn’tthinkso.ItwasbadenoughthatIhadallthecharmandcharismaofacinderblock.NowIwasstandingtherefrozenlikeone.

“Sorry,”Isaid,handingovermycreditcard.HeranitandIsigned.Ashehandedmebackthereceipt,Inoddedattheziptieholdingthekeys.“Doyouhaveanyscissors?”Heglancedaroundunder

thecounter,findingapair.“Here,letme,”hesaid,cuttingthetie.Thenheleanedinasifhewereabouttowhispersomenuclearcodes.“Justsoyouknow,thatlockreallydoesn’toffer

muchprotection.It’ssuper-easytoopenwithoutthekey.”“Notifyou’reacop,”I

said.“Excuseme?”ButIwasalreadyhalfway

outthedoor.MeandtheFourthAmendment.Withoutjustcauseanda

warrant,mynewduffelbagmightaswellhavebeenFortKnoxwithtwosidepocketsandashoulderstrap.

Goodthing.BecauseIwasn’taboutto

fillthatduffelbagwithjellybeans.

CHAPTER39

WALKINGINTOabarwithaguntuckedunderyourshirtisonething.Doingitinabank?OneblockshyofmyChase

branchontheUpperWestSide,IdumpedtheBerettaM9inatrashcan.Ididn’tneedit.Trustme.

“Doyouhaveyourkey?”askedthesafe-depositboxattendantonthelowerlevel.Maybethewomanpicked

uponmyvibe,ormaybethiswashowsheactedwitheveryonewhocamethroughthebank,buthermonotonedeliverywasmusictomyears.Therewouldbenopolitechitchat.Nodelay.Infact,sheevenhadherguardkeyraisedinherhand,readytogo.

Quickly,Ireachedformykey—sandwichedbetweentheoneformyapartmentandtheoneformyofficeupatColumbiaLaw—andshowedittoher.Theirony.Ineverusedtokeepitonmykeychain.Then,oneday,I’daskedClaireaboutacertainkeyonhers.“ThiswayIdon’thaveto

rememberwhereIputit,”she’dtoldme.

IneverknewwhatClairekeptinhersafe-depositbox.Ineverasked.ThatwasbecauseIdidn’twantheraskingwhatIkeptinmine.Shehatedthose“damn

things”evenmorethanIdid.Standingaloneinthesmall

viewingroomwithnothingbutwhitewallsandashelf,IopenedthelidandremovedanoriginalSIGSauerP210.Steelframe,woodgrip,lockedbreech.Oldschool.

And,intherighthands,stillthemostaccuratesemiautomaticpistolintheworld.ThenoutcamemyGlock

34withaGTL22attachmentgivingitadimmablexenonwhitelightwitharedlasersight.AsaweaponsinstructorduringmyfirstyearatValleyForgeoncedeclaredwiththekindofsandpapervoicethatonlyalifetimeofsmokingunfilteredLuckyStrikeswill

giveyou,“Sometimesshithappensinthedark.”Bothgunswentintothe

duffelalongwithfourboxesofammo,oneshoulderholster,andoneshinholster,thelatterbeingcustom-madetoaccommodatethelightandlasersightontheGlock34.LikeIsaid,Ididn’tneed

theBerettaM9.Finally,thereweresome

papergoods.Twowrappedstacksofhundredstotaling

tengrand.Cashforarainyday.Or,inthiscase,whenitwaspouring.Andthatwasthat.

EverythingI’dcomefor,everythingIneeded.Beforezippingtheduffelclosed,Itookonelastlookinsideit.ThenItookonelastlookinsidethesafe-depositbox.IfonlyIhadn’t.Stickingoutfrom

underneathmybirthcertificatewasa1951

BowmanMickeyMantlerookiecard.MyfatherhadgivenittomeaftermyveryfirstLittleLeaguegame.“Takegoodcareofit,”hetoldme.“It’syourturn.”Thecardwasfarfrommint

condition.Oneofthecornerswasdog-eared,andtherewereacoupleofcreasesalongtheside.Butithadbeengiventomebymyfather,whohadgottenitfrom

hisfather,andthatmadeitabsolutelyperfect.Ipickedupthecard,

staringatitinmyhands,andsuddenlyitweighedamillionpounds.Mykneesbuckledandmylegsgaveout.Ifellbackagainstthewall,slidingslowlydowntothefloor.Icouldn’tstandup.Icouldn’tbreathe.Icouldonlycry.“Theautopsy…”

Sebastianhadbegun.

Clairewasanorgandonor,soithadalreadybeenperformed.He’dseentheresults.He’dhadto.LeaveittotheTimestoneedacorroboratingsourcebeforereportingthecauseofdeathofoneofitsown.“What?”Iasked.“Whatis

it?”Sebastianhesitated,his

eyesavoidingmine.Butitwastoolateforsecondthoughts;hehadtotellme.

“Clairewaspregnant,”hesaid.

CHAPTER40

READYORnot,yousonsofbitches,hereIcome…Itookthestairs,walking

thesixflightsuptomyapartmentonthetopfloor.TheSIGSauerwasinmyhand,myhandwashiddenintheduffel,andtheduffelwashangingoffmyshoulder.

Fogornofog,therewasasmallpartofmybrainthatknewexactlyhowstupidIwasbeing.Whateverfinelineexistedbetweenriskyandcrazy,Iwasnowherenearit.WhatIwasdoingborderedoninsane.Iwasawalkingdeathwish,andifithadn’tbeenfortherestofmybrain,Iwould’vesurelyturnedaroundandhightaileditoutofmybuilding.

Buttherestofmybrainwasconsumedbyonething,andonethingonly.Loveofjusticepervertedtorevengeandspite.ThatwashowDantedefineditduringhistourthroughHell.Vengeance.Isharedthesixthfloorwith

onlyoneothertenant,atraderatMorganStanleywholefteachmorningatthecrackofdawn.Hisapartmentfacedthebackofthebuilding;mine

facedthefront.Igotthenaturallight,hegotthequiet.Fittingly,therewasnothing

butsilenceasIpassedhisdoor,headingtowardmineattheoppositeendofthehall.OutcametheSIGSauer

fromtheduffel,leadingtheway.Allthewhile,Ikeptwaitingforasound,anoise,somethingupaheadtoletmeknowIhadcompany.Butthatwouldbetooeasy,Ithought.

Sometimesyoujusthaveafeelingyou’reabouttocatchabreak.Thiswasn’toneofthosetimes.Whichwasallthemore

reasonwhyIwasn’texpectingthedoortomyapartmenttobewideopen,orkickeddown,orhangingoffitshingeslikesomegiantcallingcard.Andsureenough,itwasn’t.Thedoorwasclosed.

Locked,too.Easingmyback

againstthewallandoutofthelineoffire,Ireachedoverfortheknob.Itbarelybudged.Maybethewhizkid,Owen,waswrong.Theynevercame.Theyweren’tinside.Maybe.Itookoutmykey—

everythingwasonekeyoranothernow—andunlockedthedoorasquietlyaspossible.Itwasalosingbattle.Therewassimplynopreventingtheaudiblesnap

ofthedeadboltretreating.Inthesilenceofthehallway,thewaythesoundechoed,itmightaswellhavebeenagiantgongannouncingmyarrival.Iwaitedforamoment,

tryingtolistenagainintomyapartmentwhilestayingclearofthedoor.Icouldheareverybeatofmyheart,everyswallow,everybreathIwastaking—butnothingmore.Eachsecondpassingwasall

themorereasontobelievenoonewaswaitingformeontheotherside.Still,thatdidn’tstopme

fromputtingtheduffeldownonthefloorandpullingouttheGlocktogowithmySIGSauer.Iwaslikethetitleofabadasswannabecountrysong.“Double-FistedwithPistols.”Ipeeledmybackoffthe

wall,myshirtdampwith

sweatandstickingtomybody.Damn,it’shot.WhetherIwassteelingmy

nerveorjuststalling,Isuddenlyfoundmyselfcountingbackfromten.That,andthinkingofDanteonceagainandthefinallineoftheinscriptionheencounteredontheGatesofHell.Abandonallhope,yewho

enterhere.

CHAPTER41

ISTEPPEDback,raisedmyrightfoot,andletitfly,myheelhittingthedoordeadcenterwithadeafeningbam!ThedoorflewopenandmyduffelbagquicklyfollowedasIkickeditintothefoyertodrawtheirfire.ButtheonlynoiseIheardwasthebag

slidingacrossmyhardwoodfloors.Myturn.Crouchedlowwithboth

gunsdrawn,Iangledaroundthedoorframe,myeyesdartingleft,right,andeverywhere.Nothingmoved.Noonewasthere.Correction.Noonewas

stillthere.Creepyisn’tburstinginto

yourapartmenttoseeitransacked.It’sburstinginto

yourapartmenttoseeeverythingasyouleftit…andstillknowingsomeone’sbeenthere.Owenwasn’twrong;I’d

hadcompany.Thevibewasimmediate.Theproofcamesoonafter.I’dalreadydoneaquick

sweepofeveryroomtoensureIwastrulyalonewhenIcircledbacktomyfoyerandtriedtothinkhowtheywouldthink.Owenhadsummedit

up.They’dwanttoknowasmuchaboutme—andwhatIknew—astheycould.Istartedinmylibraryand

theeasiestegginthehunt,mylaptoponmydesk.Gone.Nextwasthefruitbowlin

mykitchen,wheremymailpiledupinsteadoffruit.Allthemailwasthere,butatthebottomofthebowlwaswhereIkeptasparekeytotheapartment,aswellasone

formycarandmyofficeatColumbia.Allthreekeys?Gone.Bythen,theoldyew-wood

chestinmybedroomwasaforegoneconclusion.Ipulledopenthetopdrawerontheright,whichheldmypassportalongwiththeloneweaponIkeptintheapartmentforprotection,a9mmParabellum.Goneandgone.

Theyhadmyharddrive.Theyhadaccesstomyhome,myoffice,mycar.TheyhadoneofmygunsandtheonlywayIcouldleavethecountry.Maybethey’dtakenafewotherthings,butbythatpointI’dstoppedlooking.ThenIjuststopped.Ifrozeinthemiddleofmy

bedroom,tryingtolisten.I’dheardsomething.Thesoundwasfaintbutdefinitelythere,oratleastsomewhere.I

couldn’ttellwhereitwascomingfrom.Thereitwasagain.Itookafewwrongsteps

towardthedoorouttothelivingroom,onlytoturnaroundwhenIheardityetagain.Thesoundwascomingfrommybathroom.IwaspositiveI’dalreadylookedinthere.Itwouldn’thurttocheckagain,wouldit?Isureashellhopenot.

Gunsupandelbowslocked,Iputonefootinfrontoftheotherandmovedtowardthebathroom.Afterafewsteps,Ihadthesoundpegged.Itwaswater.Notrunning,butdripping.Therewasnoneedto

channelChuckNorrisagain.Thedoortomybathroomwaswideopen.TheonlykickIneededwasonetomypants.Afterafewdeepbreaths,I

slowlypeeredaroundthe

hinges…andsaweverythingI’dseenthefirsttime.Mysink.Mytoilet.Myshower.Nothingandnooneelse.Ker-plop.Immediately,myeyeswent

totheshower.Theslidingdoorsweretwo-thirdsclosed.Icouldseeenoughthroughthefrostedglasstoknowtheboogeymanwasn’tstandingbehindthem.Isimplyhadn’tturnedoffthewaterallthe

wayaftershoweringthatmorning.Ishould’veknown,though.

Thedéjàvualonewasenoughofatip-off.Thosemotherfuckers…Afterafewstepsforward

toreachfortheknob,Itookonegiantjumpback.Iwasn’tsurprisedaboutanythingthey’dtakenfrommyapartment,notatall.Itwaswhatthey’dleft

behind.

CHAPTER42

“DETECTIVELAMONT,please,”Isaid,althoughthe“please”washardlypolite.ItsoundedmorelikeRightaway,dammit!Icouldn’thelpit.Notthatitchangedthe

officer’sanswerontheotherendofthephone.“He’soff

duty,doyouwanthisvoicemail?”No,Iwanthisactualvoice.

IstareddownagainatthebusinesscardLamonthadgivenme,evenflippingitovertwice,asifsomehowthatwouldmakehiscellphonenumbermagicallyappear.Itwasn’tprintedonthecard.“Isthereawayyoucan

reachhimforme?”Iasked.“It’simportant.”

“Oh,waitaminute,”saidtheofficer,hisvoicetrailingoffasifhewerereachingforsomething.“There’sanotehere.AreyouTrevorMann?”“Yes.”“Holdonasecond.”Itwasmorelikethirty

seconds,butIhardlycaredsolongasthenextvoiceIheardwasLamont’s.Onsecondthought…“Whatthehellwereyou

thinking?”heimmediately

barked,skippingrightpastanypleasantries.Thewayhesaid“hell,”itprettymuchrhymedwith“truck.”Hewaspissed.Iknewhewasreferringto

BethesdaTerrace.Therewereafewwayshecould’vefoundoutalready,butIwasn’tinterestedinasking.Ihadmyownlineofquestioning,beginningwith“Whereareyou?”

“Athome,”heanswered.“Theypatchedthecallfromtheprecinct.Whereareyou?”“Athomeaswell.”“Itriedcalling.”“Ijustgothere,”Isaid.

“Moreimportantly,howfastcanyougethere?”“Why?”“Becauseyou’renotgoing

tobelievethis.”“Youmightbesurprised,”

hesaid.

“NotasmuchasIwas.Claire’skillerisinmybathtub.”Iwasexpectingany

numberofresponsesfromLamont,allofthemfallingundertheheadingofdisbelief.Instead,Igotsarcasm.“Istheguystilldeadoris

hedoingthebackstrokenow?”heasked.“Youthinkthisisfunny?”

“Doyouhearmelaughing?”No,Ididn’t.Thiswas

aboutmorethanBethesdaTerrace.Iwasmissingsomething.“Theymusthaveputhim

there,”Isaid.“They’retryingtoframeme.”“They,asinthetwofederal

agentswhojustleftmyapartmenttwentyminutesago?”heasked.“TheonesyoushotatinCentralPark?”

“Theyweretheretokillme.Christ,whatthehelldidtheytellyou?”“Ithinkyou’regoingto

needalawyer,Mr.Mann.”“Iamalawyer,Detective

Lamont.”“YouknowwhatImean,”

hesaid.“We’regoingtoneedaformalstatementfromyouregardingClaireParker’smurder.”“AreyousayingI’ma

suspect?”

“Morelikeapersonofinterest,”hesaid.“AndI’mhopefulyou’llcooperatewithus.”“Thisiscrazy.”“Withallduerespect,Mr.

Mann,I’mnottheonewithadeadguyinmybathtub.”“ButIcanprove—”HeshutmedownsofastI

wasactuallystartled.“You’llhaveyourchance,Iassureyou,”hesaid.

Iwasbacktomyoriginalquestion.“Fine.ThenwhencanIexpectyouhere?”“Youcan’t,”hesaid.“It’s

notmyshift.DetectivesCharringtonandGoldsteinwillbetheresoon.We’vegottodothingsbythebook,Mr.Mann.”Hepaused.“Doyouunderstand?”“Yes,”Ianswered.Ifinally

didunderstand.Or,atleast,IwasprettysureIdid.AlotofyearshadpassedsinceI’d

readthebookhewasreferringto.Itwastheonewehadincommon.Lamontwasn’ttickedoff.

Hewastippingmeoff.ThefasterIgotoffthatphone…Thebettermychancesof

stayingalive.

CHAPTER43

“STUPID,STUPID,stupid…”Imuttered,beratingmyselfasIquicklyhungupthephone.Intheheatofthemoment,

attheshockofseeingClaire’skillerinmyownbathtub,I’dgottensloppy.LeaveittoLamonttocatchmymistake.

Hewasnowtheofficialstudyguide—thehumanSparkNotes—for1984.Thetwodetectiveshetoldmewerecomingtomyapartmentinsteadofhimhadthenamesoftwoothercharactersfromthenovel.Hadhesaidonewithouttheother,Iprobablyneverwould’vemadetheconnection.Butthetwotogether?CharringtonandGoldstein?

Bythetimehetackedon,“We’vegottodothingsbythebook,”IknewwhatLamontwastryingtotellme,theclevertomystupid.BigBrotherwasmostlikelylisteningin.Myphonelinewastapped.SonowtheyknewwhereI

was.Wherearethey?Idashedfromthephoneto

mylivingroomwindow,whichfacedthestreetbelow,pressingmynoseagainstthe

glass.Therewasawindowlesswhitevandouble-parkeddirectlyinfrontofthebuilding.Theyhadn’texactlyspray-paintedBADGUYSonthehood,butIjusthadafeeling.Thiswasn’tthedrycleanersorafloristmakingadelivery.Norwasitthecableguy.Timetoparedown.Ikickedoffmyshoes,

threwthemintheduffelalongwithoneoftheguns—

theGlock—andboltedfrommyapartment.Onceinthestairwell,Isilentlysteppedalongtheconcreteinmysocksforapeekovertherailing,fiveflightsdown.OneofthetwoguysfromBethesdaTerracewasturningthecornertothesecondfloor.Itwasonlyaglimpse,butthatwasallIneeded.Where’stheotherone?Iduckedbackintothe

hallway,eyeingtheelevator.

Thefloorlightmovedfrom2to3,anditwasn’tstopping.Therewasmyanswer.Theoptionswereshrinking

fastasIruledouttheroof.TheclosestI’devergottentojumpingfromonebuildingtoanotherwaswatchingaNikeparkourcommercial.Withthealleywaysonbothsidesofmemeasuringatleasttenfeetwide,thiswasnotimeforacrashcourse,emphasisoncrash.

Theonlyremainingoptionseemedtobestandingmygroundandlettingthebulletsfly.Itwastwoagainstone—notthebestodds—butprobablymybestchance.Unless.Imademywayovertothe

middleofthehallway.Therewereonlytwoapartmentsonthesixthfloor,buttherewerethreedoors.AsfastasyoucansayMontyHall,Iwasopeningdoornumberthree.

LikeamomentstraightoutofThisIsYourLife,IwasflashingbacktooneofmyearliestcasesasaprosecutorwiththeManhattanDA’soffice.AsickohadkilledhiswifeintheirUpperEastSideapartmentandalmostgotawaywithit,thankstothewayhedisposedofherbody.Heliterallythrewherawaylikeyesterday’strash.Ofcourse,hedeniedit,so

oneofthethingsIhadto

proveduringthetrialwasthata5-foot-7-inchwomanweighing145poundscouldindeedmakeitallthewaydownagarbagechute.Icameupwiththeideatofilmacrashtestdummywiththesamedimensionsandshowittothejury.Workedlikeacharm.Butwhatabouta6-foot-1-

inchmanweighing190pounds?

Ipulledopenthechutewithmyfreehand,lookingintoablackrectanglethatmightaswellhavebeenablackhole.Therewasonlyonewayto

findout.

CHAPTER44

ZIP-ZIP.IquicklyputtheSIGback

intheduffelwiththeGlock.Tossingthebagaheadofme,Ilistenedforthesounditmadeonimpact.Ahollow,echoing,bone-crushingBANG!wouldspellcertaindoom.

Instead,whatcamebacktomyearswasmoreofamuffledthud,andwithitthedecentchancethattherewasenoughtrashintheDumpsterbelowtobreakmyfall.Callitonlypossibledoom.Ijumpedup,grabbingthe

exposedpiperunningparalleltothewall,andswungmylegsintothechute.CirqueduSoleilwouldn’tbecallingmeanytimesoon,butitgotthejobdone.Iwasin.

GravitytookoverasIbegantofree-fall,asdidthepanicofnotbeingabletoslowmyselfdown.Myhandskeptslippingagainstthemetalliningofthechute,whichfeltlikeithadbeencoatedwithgreaseorwhatevergod-awfulslimehadbuiltupafteryearsandyearsoffunnelinggarbage.Ifthefalldidn’tkillme,maybethestenchwould.Butsofar,

thesmartmoneywasonthefall.Iwasdroppingtoofast—

myhandswereuseless.Soweremyfeet,thesolesofmysneakersslidinglikeiceskates.Shit,thisisgoingtohurt….Plungingintothe

Dumpster,Ifeltmyrightkneebuckle,followedbyasharp,stabbingpaininmyleftthigh.Therewasplentyofgarbagetobreakmyfall,

allright,butnoneofmyneighborswerethrowingouttheiroldpillows.Forafewseconds,Isimply

laytheresprawledlikeafrozensnowangel,catchingmybreathwhiletakingaquickinventoryofallmymovingparts.Nothingseemedbroken,butIcouldalreadyfeelthebruisesforming.Iwantedtoscreamoutinpain.Instead,Isettledforaslightmoan.Ihadto

stayquietandlisten.Didtheyhearme?Withanyluck,thetwo

guyswerebackinmyapartmentsearchingformetoptobottomineveryroom.I’dnowhaveplentyoftimetoslipoutthebasementdoornearthestoragelockers.Somuchforluck,though.Iheardthesoundthe

secondIturnedtolookfortheduffelamidtheotherbagsofgarbage.Itwasthe

creakingofhinges,oneofthedoorstothechutesomewherehighaboveme.Damn.Therewasnothingtosee

butdarknessasIlookedupintothechute.Still,Icouldpictureoneofthempeeringdown,tryingtotellifindeedI’dbeencrazyenoughtojump.Iwantedtomoveoutofthe

way,hugthesideoftheDumpster,butevenmorethanthat,Iwantedtostay

absolutely,positivelyquiet.Ididn’tmove.Tensecondspassed.

Twenty.Everythingaroundme…everythingaboveme…wassilent.Ikeptwaitingforthesoundofthosehingesagain,thedoorclosingasoneofthemmaybeconvincedtheother.Nah,there’snowayhejumped.He’snotthatcrazy….Ifonly.

Finally,itcame.ThesoundIwanted.Unfortunately,itwasprecededbythesoundI’dneverimagined.Crazy?We’llshowyou

crazy….

CHAPTER45

LIKEAmissile,heshotintotheDumpsterheadfirst,hishandsoutstretched.HadIbeenstandingafewinchestotheleft,hewould’vecrushedmeforsure.IsupposeIshould’vefeltluckyaboutthat,butIwastoobusyfallingbackonmyassfrom

theforceofhisimpacttogiveitmuchthought.Getup!Thosewerethe

onlytwowordsIwastellingmyself.IfIdidn’t,Iwasadeadman.Getup!Getup!Getup!IpushedoffwhateverI

could,tryingtostand.Hewasdoingthesame,althoughIcouldtellhewasfeelingthepainofhislanding.Hewashobbled,favoringhisrightleg.Buthisrightarmwas

workingjustfineashedughishandintohisjacket.Hewasn’treachingforhisbusinesscard.Besides,we’dalreadymet

backatBethesdaTerrace.He’dbeenasplitsecondawayfromkillingmeuntilOwenintervened.ButOwenwasn’theretotacklehim.Itwasuptome.Ilungedforhim.Itwas

liketryingtodiveinoneofthosebirthdaybouncy

houses,myfeetallbutgivingoutunderneathme.ThebestIcoulddowaswrapuphislegsandsendhimtopplingover,buthishandwasstillonhisholster.Mygunswereinmyduffel

somewhere.Hisgunwasathisfingertips.Blindly,Ireachedforthe

nearesttrashbag,swingingitacrossmybodyintohisashardasIcould.Thegunwentflyingashefellbackintothe

pileofgarbage,hisheadbangingagainstthesteelwalloftheDumpsterwithahorrificcrack!Heshould’vebeenknockedoutcold.Instead,hewasjustgetting

warmedup.Screwthegun,saidhis

grin.He’dfinditlaterafterhebeatmetodeathwithhisbarehands.Ididn’tevenseethefirst

punch,alightning-fastroundhouse.Hehitmehigh

uponthejaw,abull’s-eyetothemolars.Theonlythingthatkeptmeuprightwasthesecondpunch,aroundhousetotheothersideofmyhead.Thatonesplitmylip,thebloodsprayingeverywherelikeanexplodingpacketofketchup.HissmilegrewwiderasI

felltomyknees.Iwaspracticallyteedupforhim,abouttobelights-out.Webothknewit.Theonlything

delayingtheinevitablewastheonethinghewantedtoknow.Hedangledthequestionasifitweremysalvation,theonlywayhe’dspareme.“Whereishe?”heasked.

“Where’sthekid?”Iwasdizzy,nauseous.My

visionwasquicklynarrowing,blurredandfuzzyaroundtheperimeter.ThatwaswhyIdidn’tseeitatfirst,eventhoughitwasonly

afewfeettotheleft.Myduffel.Thechainofthezipperwas

catchingjustenoughlightfromthenakedbulboverhead.Thepulltabwasonthenearside,withinarm’sreach.HowfastdoIneedtobe?CanIdistracthim?Theanswercamesuddenly

withthepiercinghissofhydraulicpistonsasthetrashbegantorumbleallaroundus.Itwasn’texactlydivine

intervention,butIwasn’tcomplaining.Thiswasn’tyourordinaryDumpster.Itwasalsoacompactor—clearlytriggeredbyweight—anditwasabouttodoitsjob.Foronesecond,hetookhis

eyesoffme.Itwaslikeareflexhammertotheknee.Hecouldn’thelpit.Hehadtoseewhatthehellwashappening…thatyes,thewallwasclosinginbehindhim.

AndthatwasallIneeded.Justonequicksecond.Zip.

CHAPTER46

MYHANDdoveintotheduffel,feelingforthefirstpieceofmetalIcouldfind.IpulledouttheGlockasheturnedbackaround.Surprise,buddy.Thewall’s

closinginfromthisside,too.Isqueezedofftworounds

righttohischest,hisbody

thrashingasifhe’djustbeenjoltedwithelectricpaddles.Hewasn’ttheonlyone

shaking,though.I’dnevershotanyonebefore.Thefeelingwasotherworldly,andnotinthegoodway.Tryingtoholdittogether,I

stoodoverhim.Hiseyeswereclosed,hisbodymotionless.Theonlythingmissingwasthecoffin.Still,somethingwasn’t

right.There’ssomethingelse

missing.Thereshould’vebeen

blood—lotsandlotsofit—staininghiswhiteshirt.ThemomentheopenedhiseyeswasthemomentIrealizedwhytherewasn’tany.Hewaswearingavest.Theshotswerestill

echoingintheDumpsterasthehydraulicsofthecompactorsuddenlyhissedtoastop.Anothersound,

someone’svoice,immediatelyfilledthesilence.“Gordon!”Henowhadaname.We

bothlookedupatthechute.Gordon’spartnerwascallingdowntohim.He’dundoubtedlyheardthegunfire.WithmyGlockpointedat

Gordon’shead,Iraisedafingertomylips.Don’tanswer.Ineededamomentto

think,notthatIreallyhadone.“Gordon!”camethevoice

again,evenlouder.TheonlythingIknewfor

surewasthatIdidn’twanthispartnercomingdownforavisit.“Tellhimyou’llberight

up,”Isaid.JustincaseGordonhad

thoughtsofhisown,ItightenedmygripontheGlock.AsnervousasImust

havelooked,I’dalreadypulledthetriggertwice.WhatGordonwouldn’t

havegiventoknowwherehe’ddroppedhisgun.Hecoughed,hisface

contortingwithpain.Thevesthadstoppedtheshots,butthewindhadbeenknockedclearoutofhim.Hewasstrugglingtocatchhisbreath.“Allgood,”hefinally

yelled.“I’llbeupinaminute.”

Ididn’tlookaway,notforasecond,asIleaneddowntopickuptheduffelwithmyfreehand.“Youhaveabadge?”I

asked,onlytoseehimshakehishead.“Howaboutawallet?”“No.”Strangethingwas,I

believedhim.Inhislineofworkyoudon’treallycarryIDaroundwithyou.Inany

event,Iwasn’tabouttorisksearchinghim.“Ishouldkillyou,”Isaid.“Butyouwon’t.”Hewasright.Shootinga

maninself-defensewasonething.Shootinghimincoldbloodwassomethingelseentirely.SomethingIwasn’t.“Who’sbehindallthis?”I

asked.“Whowantsthekiddead?”Hejuststaredatme.Ifhe

knew,hewasn’ttelling.

WherehadIseenthatbefore?WouldIreallybebothered

bythemoralimplicationsofaninjectionthatcouldmakehimtellmewhatIwantedtoknow?Nothingiseverblackandwhite.Noteventhetruth.

CHAPTER47

“REALSLOWLY,”Isaid,“Iwantyoutopullupyourrightpantleg.”IfIwasevergoingtoleave

thatDumpsteralive,Icouldn’triskhishavingasecondgun.Hepulleduphispantlegtoshowmetherewasnoshinholster.

“Nowyourleftone,”Isaid.Noshinholsterthere,

either.“Satisfied?”heasked.“Notyet,”Isaid.“Iwant

youtotieyourshoelacestogether.”Iwasexpectinghimtogive

mealookthatsaidYou’vegottobekiddingme.Insteadhejustsaidno.“No?”

“That’sright,”hesaid.“No.”Butitwasthewayhesaid

it.Cocksure.Asifhe’dsuddenlyregainedalltheleverage.Really?Iknewexactlywhathewas

thinking.Forgettheshoelaces,ifIcouldn’tkillhim,theonlythingsabouttobetiedweremyhands.“Fine,”Isaid.ButitwasthewayIsaidit.

Andhadhebeenpayingabit

moreattention,hewould’vestoppedsmilingwellbeforeIloweredmyaimandfiredoneshotintohisrightfoot.“Motherfucker!”he

screamedasthedime-sizedholeinhisblackwingtipgurgledbloodlikeagardenhose.HegrabbedhisfootandI

grabbedthesideoftheDumpster,climbingoutwithmyduffel.Iwalkedstraightoutthebasementdoortothe

backofmybuilding,throughthealley,andontothesidewalk.AssoonasIturnedthecorner,Ihailedacab.Onlyaftertellingthedriver

theaddressdidIleanbackintheseatandthinkaboutwhatI’ddone,ormoretothepoint,howIhadn’tthoughttwiceaboutdoingit.Mostpeoplewilllivetheir

entirelivesbelievingtheyknowexactlywhotheyareandwhatthey’recapableof.

Butthat’sonlybecausemostpeoplewillneverhavetofindoutforreal.Iranmytongueovermy

splitlip,tastingthewarmthandslightsaltinessofmyownblood.Thiswasforreal,allright.

Asrealasitgets.

CHAPTER48

“JESUSCHRIST,whathappened?”askedOwenasheopenedthedoor.“Oh,nothingreally,”I

said.“Ijustbeatupafistwithmyface,that’sall.”Heleanedtowardmefora

closerlook.Thecloserhegot,

themorehewinced.“I’llgogetsomeice.”Hebacktrackedtograbthe

icebucketnearthetelevisionandheadedoffdownthehallwaywhileIputdownmyduffelandmadeaquickturnintothebathroom.Iopenedoneeyeslowlytothemirror.Theothereyewasalreadyswollenshut.Cutme,Mick….Iwashedoffalltheblood

andgavethehandtowelsaproperburialinthegarbage

pailbelowthesink.Housekeepingcouldputthemonourtab,becausetherewasn’tenoughbleachintheworldtobringthosepuppiesbacktowhite.Thatgotmewonderingas

Owenreturnedwithafullicebucket.Ijustwantedtomakesure.“Youdidn’tcheckinunder

WinstonSmithagain,didyou?”

“Ofcoursenot,”hesaid.“Caretoguess,though?”Iwasn’treallyinthemood.

Thenagain,Iwastheonewho’dbroughtitup.“Fine,”Isaid.“I’lltakeFakeNamesforfivehundred.”Turnsout,thekiddida

prettydecentimpressionofAlexTrebek.“EricArthurBlair,”hesaid.Istaredathimblanklywith

myonegoodeye.Ihadnoclue.

“WhatisGeorgeOrwell’srealname?”heanswered.Ofcourse.Thekidwasas

consistentashewasclever.Thatmighthaveexplainedwhyhe’dchosentohideoutinanotherhotel,thistimeintwoadjoiningroomsattheStoningtondowninChelsea.Frankly,though,Ididn’tknowwhichgeniustobelieve.Ontheonehandwas

AlbertEinstein’sdefinitionof

insanity:doingthesamethingoverandoverandexpectingadifferentresult.Ontheotherhandwas

OwenchannelingtheFodor’stravelguidetoManhattan.“Thereareovertwohundredfiftyhotelsinthiscity,totalingoverseventythousandrooms,”heinformedme.“Aslongasyouweren’tfollowedhere,Ithinkwe’regood.”

Helookedatme,cockinganeyebrow.Thatwasmycuetoassurehimthatno,Ihadn’tbeenfollowedtothehotel.“Besides,”headded,

“we’rebothindesperateneedofsomesleep,aswellasshowers.”Hesniffedtheairaroundme.“Andoneofusisalittlemoredesperateforthatshowerthantheother,ifyoudon’tmindmesaying.Wherethehellwereyou?”

Afterfashioninganicepackfromthelinerbagintheicebucket,IfilledOweninonwhereI’dbeen.TheTimesBuilding.Theluggagestoreandthebank.(Hencetheduffelanditscontents.)Thenmyapartmentand…oh,yeah,didImentiontheDumpster?Iwould’vepreferredto

leaveoutthepartaboutClairebeingpregnant,butthatwould’veleftunansweredthe

onlyquestionOwencould’vehadformewhenIwasdoneexplaining.Particularlyaboutthetriptomyapartment.Areyoufreakin’nuts?MaybeIwas.Butatleast

henowknewwhy.“I’mverysorry,”hesaid.“Thankyou.”Hewasstaringatthe

carpet,afreshwaveofguiltoverClaire’sdeathcrashingdownonhim.“Ijustfeelso—”

“Iknowyoudo,”Isaid.“Butdon’t.Itoldyou,thiswillneverbeyourfault.”“It’snotfair,though,”he

said.“It’snotfair.”Ilookedathim,withhis

shaggyhairandbaggyjeans,forgettingforasecondtheincredibleintellecthepossessed.Hetrulywasjustakid,wasn’the?Nevermoresothaninthatmoment.Foreverythingheknew

abouttheworld,Owenwas

stilllearningthegreatestlessonofthemall.Life.“Yourturn,”Isaid.“Any

luckattheApplestore?”Owen’supdatewasalot

shorter,ashe’dhadnoluckidentifyingthetwoguyswhowantedusdead.ThefactthatI’dlearnedthefirstnameofoneofthemdidn’treallychangeanything.ButIhadanideawhatcould.“Ineedtogetaholdof

DetectiveLamontagain,”I

said.“Whereishe?”“Hopefullystillathome.

Hisprecinctpatchedmeinlasttime.”Itookasteptowardthehotelphonebeforestopping.Thoughtsofmyhomelinebeingtappedhadjumpedsquarelyintheway.“Isthereanychancetheywould’vebuggedLamont’sphone,too?”Owendidn’tanswer.He

wassuddenlygluedtothe

television.Ihadn’tevenrealizeditwason;thesoundwasdown.“What’sup?”Iasked,

pullingupalongsidehim.Iliterallyhadtonudgehimtorespond.“Whatareyouwatching?”“Somethingpretty

strange,”hesaid.

CHAPTER49

NEXTTOtheCNNlogowerethetwofavoritewordsofanynewsnetwork.BREAKINGNEWS.Abovethosewordswas

WolfBlitzer,presumablyelaboratingontheothertwowordsfillingthescreennexttohim.BASSOUT.

Owenquicklygrabbedtheclicker,turningupthevolume.NosoonercouldweactuallyheartheBlitzmeister,asClairegotsuchakickoutofcallinghim,didthescenecuttotheEastRoomoftheWhiteHouse.ThenameBassdidn’t

registerwithmeatfirst,butassoonasIsawhimstandingatthepodium,Iputittogether.LawrenceBasswassupposedtobethenext

directoroftheCIA.Nowherehewas—flankedbythepresidentononeside,hisfamilyontheother—announcingthathewaswithdrawinghisnamefromconsideration.“Wasn’thisconfirmation

hearingcomingupprettysoon?”Iasked.“Thatdepends,”said

Owen.“Onwhat?”

“Ifyouthinkthismorningqualifiesasprettysoon.”Owenhadpeggedit,all

right.Thatwasprettystrange.Ontheflipside,Bass’srationalecouldn’thavebeenmorecommon.NotonlywasheturningdowntheCIAdirector’spost,hesaidhewasleavinghiscurrentpositionasdirectorofintelligenceprogramswiththeNationalSecurityCouncil.Why?

Tospendmoretimewithhisfamily.“Turnitupmore,”Isaid.Owenrampedthevolume

ontheremoteaswebothsatdownontheedgeofthebedtowatch.“Somedecisionsareeasy,

othersarehard,”Bassexplained,hishandstightlygrippingthepodium.“Andthentherearetheonesthatareboth.”

Heturnedtoglanceathiswife,whowascorrallingtheiryoungtwindaughters,anarmdrapedovereachoftheirshoulders.Thegirls,wholookedtobearoundsevenoreight,weresmiling,almostpreeningforthehostofphotographersbeforethem.Asforthewife,shewaswipingawayatear.“AshonoredasIwastobe

chosenbyPresidentMorristoleadtheCentralIntelligence

Agency,Icouldn’tignorethesacrificeitwouldrequireofmyfamily,”Basscontinued.“Allmylife,I’veknownonlyonewaytoapproachajob—andthat’switheverythingIhave.That’swhatIwould’vebroughttomyjobasCIAdirector,justasIdidattheNSC.Butintheend,there’sanevenmoreimportantjobforme,andIalreadyhaveit.That’stobetheverybestfatherandhusbandIcanbe.

Soasmuchasthiswasaharddecisionforme,insomeways—threeverybeautifulways,tobeexact—itwasaneasyone.”Withthat,heletgoofthe

podium,steppedback,andhuggedhiswifeanddaughters—one,two,three.Thesoundofcamerasclickingawaywasnearlydeafening,eventhroughthetelevision.

“Verytouching,”saidOwenasthescreenswitchedbacktoWolfBlitzer.Hewasintroducingsomepunditforcomment.“Yes,itwas,”Isaid.Owenturnedtome.Each

ofusknewwhattheotherwasthinking.“Foraminutethere,Ialmostbelievedhim.”“Yeah,me,too,”Isaid.

CHAPTER50

AHOTshowerandsomesleepusedtodowondersforme.I’dwakeupwiththatcan-doattitudestraightoutofabreakfastcerealcommercialtrumpetingallthoseessentialvitaminsandnutrients.NowIwasjustwondering

ifI’dlivetoseeanother

breakfast.Nottosaythereweren’t

anysavinggraces.Forinstance,watching

OwenhackoneofthosedisgustingwebsitessellingpersonalinformationaboutpeoplewasthebestironyI’dseeninalongtime.Itlookedsimple,too.Thatis,untilIaskedOwenwhathewasactuallydoing.“It’scalledaStructured

QueryLanguageinjection,”

heexplained.“SQLforshort.Itrickthewebsiteintoincorrectlyfilteringforstringliteralescapecharacters.”Stringliteralescape

characters?StructuredQueryLanguageinjection?Carryon,Itoldhim.Theupshotwasthatwe

weren’ttakinganychancesincommunicatingwithDetectiveLamont.Thatresultedinthesecond-bestironyI’dseeninalongtime.

Wewereevadingtheprospectofthehighestofhigh-techsurveillancebygoingseriouslyoldschool.“HowdidyouknowIhad

afaxmachineathome?”askedLamontthemomentwesteppedintothebackseatofhiscarthatnightoutsidewhatusedtobetheJulietSupperClubnearTwenty-FirstStreetandTenthAvenue.Givenhowmanypeoplehadbeeneither

stabbedorshotatcomingoutoftheplace,Ifiguredhe’dknowitwell.“I’llletOwentellyou,”I

said,makingtheintroduction.NothinginmyfaxhadmentionedIwasbringingsomeonealong,andcertainlynotsomeonesoyoung.“Howoldareyou?”asked

Lamont.Hewassquinting.Partlybecausetherewasbarelyanylightinthecar,butmostlyduetodisbelief.

“Nineteen,”answeredOwen.Lamontturnedtome.“My

car’solderthanhim.”Iglancedaroundthe

interiorofhisBuickLeSabre,myeyesmovingfromthecrankhandlesforthewindowstotheashtraybelowtheradio.Anashtray.“Yourcar’solderthan

everybody,”Isaid.Withthat,theheadlightsof

anoncomingcarlitmy

banged-upface.Wewerestillparkedalongthecurb.“Shit,”saidLamont.“How

didthathappen?”Itoldhimthestory.Italso

gavemeachancetothankhimfortippingmeoffaboutmyphoneline.“Callitahunch,”said

Lamont.“ThetwoguyswhopaidmeavisitwereCIA.”Owenchimedin.“Special

ActivitiesDivision,right?”

“Howdidyouknow?”askedLamont.“Let’sjustsaywesharethe

samecompanyhealthplan.”Lamontshotmeanother

look.He’snineteenandheworksfortheCIA?“Whatothersurprisesdoyouhave?”heasked.Lamonthadhelpedmeup

untilthispointbasedonlittlemorethanhisgut.Thetimehadcometoprovehisinstinctsright.IaskedOwen

totakeouthisphoneandshowLamontsomehighlightsfromthehallwayoftheLucindaHotel.“How’sthatforaspecial

activity?”IsaidaswewatchedthebodyofClaire’skillerbeingremovedfromtheroom.Thencamethemain

attraction.Thebigpicture,ifyouwill.OwenshowedLamontthe

tworecordingshe’dplayed

formeattheOakTavern.Evenhavingseenthemalready,Igotthesameanxious,uneasy,pit-in-my-stomachfeelingI’dhadthefirsttime.Allofitwassopainfultowatch.AndyetthatwasallIcoulddo.Icouldn’ttakemyeyesoffthescreen.AsforLamont,he

remainedcompletelysilent.Infact,hebarelyevenmoved.Itriedtoimagineallthethingshe’dseenasaNew

YorkCitydetective.Muchofthat,Iwassure,wasfarmoreunsettlingfromabloodandgutsstandpoint.Butthiswasdifferent.This

hadimplications.Thelikesofwhichhemostdefinitelyhadn’tseenbefore.“Weneedafavor,”Isaid

assoonasthesecondrecordingwasfinished.IhalfexpectedLamontto

shootback,“No,whatyouneedisafederalgrandjury.”

Thiswastheguy,afterall,whohadwarnedmeabouttryingtodootherpeople’sjobs.Butthatseemedlikeavery

longtimeago.Alothadchanged.IncludingLamont.“Letmeguess,”heoffered,

noddingatOwen’sphone.“Youhavefacesbutnonames.”“Exactly,”Isaid.Lamontlookedatmeand

noddedagain.Sometimesa

man’scharacterrevealsitselfslowly.Overmonths,maybeevenyears.Othertimes,allittakesisaNewYorkminute.“Yeah,Icanhelpyou,”he

said.Ashethrewthecarinto

driveandpulledawayfromthecurb,hebegantowhistle.Itwasthefirstfewbarsof“TakeMeOuttotheBallGame.”Buymesomepeanutsand

what?

CHAPTER51

LAMONTREACHEDforhiscell,tappingaspeeddialnumberaswestoppedataredlightatthecornerofTenthAvenue.Hewaitedafewsecondswhilethelinerang.Weallwaited.Afteracouplemorerings,

someonepickedup.Itwasa

guy’svoice.Icouldjustmakeitout.“Hey,”theguysaid.“Whereareyou?”“You’reabouttogetane-

mailfromsomeoneyoudon’tknow,”Lamontsaidintothephone.“Ineedyoutodomeafavor.”“Goahead.”Hearingthevoiceforthe

secondtime,Irecognizedit.Lamontwastalkingtohispartner,DetectiveMcGeary.

“There’llbethreevideosattached,”Lamontcontinued.“LoadthemintoCrackerJackandrunthatIDfilterthingamajiggy.”IcouldhearMcGeary

chuckle.“YoumeantheISOPREPforfacialrecognition?”“Yeah,that’stheone.”“WhatamIlookingat?”

McGearyasked.“That’sthething,”said

Lamont.“Youcan’tlookat

them,notevenaglance.Atleast,notyet.”“You’rejoking,right?”“Justtrustmeonthis,

okay?”Thelinewassilentfora

fewseconds.“Yeah,sure,”McGearysaidfinally.“Whatever.”“Thanks,partner,”said

Lamont.“I’llseeyoushortly.”Hehungup,turningtous

inthebackseat.Owen’s

fingerswerealreadyhoveringoverhisphone,readytotypeinMcGeary’se-mailaddress.Lamontgaveittohim.“Ineedtosendthefiles

oneatatime,”saidOwen.“They’retoobigasagroup.”“Whateverittakes,”said

Lamont.“Asyoucouldtell,I’mnotthemosttech-savvyguyintheworld.AllIknowisthatpreppingfilesonthatdamnmachinetakesawhile.

Thisway,we’vegotaheadstart.”“Ishereallynotgoingto

watchthem?”Iasked,incredulous.“Thatwaslikeputtingabiscuitonadog’snose.”“Yeah,Iknow,”said

Lamont.“Areyoutryingtoprotect

him?”“I’mtryingtogivehimthe

option.I’llexplainittohimattheprecinct,andhe’llmake

thedecision.Thatway,heownsit,”Lamontsaid.“Youcan’tunwatchwhatyoujustshowedme.”“Done,”saidOwen,

lookingupfromhisphone.“Allthreesent.”“Good,thanks,”said

Lamontasthelightturnedgreen.HeturnedleftontoTenth

Avenue,headingtheonlywayyoucan,whichisnorth.Thetrafficwasone-way.

Apparently,though,someonedidn’tgetthememo.“Jesus,lookatthis

asshole,”saidLamont,pointingupahead.Amidallthetaillightswas

apairofheadlights,rightsmackinthemiddleofthestreetandcomingrighttowardus.Fast.Theguywaseitherdrunkoratouristorboth.

Lamontflashedhishighbeamsasdriversbeganleaningontheirhornsleftandright.Ataxififtyfeetaheadofusmissedgettinghitbyinchesastheoncomingcarswervedarounditatthelastpossiblemoment.Whoeveritwaswasn’t

stopping.Ifanything,hewaspickingupspeed.“Getover!”Iyelledat

Lamont.

Buttohiscredit,hewasn’tthinkingonlyaboutus.Everycararounduswasindanger.Lamontjammedthebrakes

andreacheddownbytheshotgunseat,grabbingacherrytop.Therewasnotimetothrowitupontheroofofhiscar.Hequicklyplunkeditonthedash,flippingiton.IshieldedmyeyesasbestI

couldtotheblindingflashesofredandbluefillingLamont’scar.Evenmore

blindingwasthewhiteofthetwoheadlightsgettingcloserandcloser.Thecarwasrightinourlaneandtherewasnothingbetweenus.Whatthehellis

happening?“Holdon!”saidLamont.

CHAPTER52

IBRACEDforthecollision.Myarmsoutstretched,thepalmsofmyhandspressedhardagainstthebackofthefrontseat.Owenwasdoingthesame.Lamont,white-knuckled,

hadthesteeringwheelgrippedattenandtwo.He

wasboundtogettheworstofit.IsthisLeSabresoolditdoesn’tevenhaveairbags?Icouldalreadyhearthe

crashinmyhead,thehorriblecrunchofmetalagainstmetal,ofglassshattering,ofNewton’sFirstLawbeingprovenat120decibels.Butthosesoundsnever

came.Itwasanentirelydifferentoneweheard,albeitjustasloud.

Atthelastpossiblesecond,theoncomingcarcametoahaltmereinchesfromourfrontgrille,thetiresscreechingasiftheywerebeingrippedfromtheirrims.Icouldn’tjustsmelltheburntrubber;Icouldtasteit.“Sonofabitch!”shouted

Lamont.Whateverreliefcamefrom

notbeinghitwasquicklyovertakenbyhisanger.Hecouldn’tunbucklehisseat

beltfastenoughtogetoutofthecarandtearthisdriveranewone.Withthecherrystill

spinningonthedash,hewasbarelymorethanasilhouetteasheopenedthedoorandswunghislegsoutallinonemove.Themomenthisheelsreachedtheasphalt,Icouldhearadooropeningontheothercar.Someonewasgettingout,anothersilhouette.

ButIstillrecognizedhim.SodidLamont.Justnotfastenough.BeforeLamontcouldeven

reachforhisgun,thesoundofshotssplittheair.Therewerefourofthemrightinarow.Pop!Pop!Pop!Pop!Instinctively,Iducked,but

notbeforeseeingLamontdroptotheground,hishandsclutchinghischest.Hewasgasping,wheezing,tryingto

catchhisbreath.Itwasthesoundofamandying.Allatonce,Iwantedto

puke,tomournhim,toclickmyheelsthreetimesandwakeupsafeinmybednexttoClaire.ButallIcouldseewasOwenrightbesideme,completelyfrozen.Hecouldn’thavebeenmoreexposedifhe’dhadaneontargetonhisface.“Getdown!”Iscreamed,

grabbinghisshoulders.

AsIpulledhimflatagainstthebackseat,thesecondwavecame,asI’dknownitwould.ThereweresomanyshotsIcouldn’tkeepcount,oneafteranotherriddlingthewindshield.I’dexpectedthesoundofshatteringglass,butnotlikethis.Notwithbulletsflyingoverus.Damn,mykingdomformy

duffel…I’dleftthebagbackatthe

hotel,notwantingtobring

whatamountedtoasmallarsenalintoLamont’sprecinct.Callmecrazy.ButIwasn’tthatcrazy.Ireacheddown,grabbing

theGlockstrappedtomyrightshin.Withthatandtwoextraclips,Ihadjustenoughforoneplan.“Getready,”Isaid.“Forwhat?”askedOwen.Iflippedthesafety.“We’re

gettingoutofhere.”

CHAPTER53

ALLIknewwasthatmyearswouldhavetobemyeyes.Thatflashingcherrymeant

Icouldn’tseeoutofthecar,butitalsomeanthecouldn’tseein—hebeingGordon’spartner.Itwashim,allright.Thegamblewaswhetheritwasonlyhim.

ThatwaswhatIwashearing,though.Shotsfromonlyonegun.Onegun,whichhewascurrentlyreloading.Theslideandclickwereunmistakable.Icouldalmosthearhis

thoughts,too.HeknewIhadaweapon.Hisbuddy,Gordon,hadaholeinhisfootthatprovedit.Sittingthisoneout,Gordo?Isureashellhopedso.

Therewasnotimeforanycountdownoramomenttosteelmynerve.Mywindowwasnow,anditlookedalotlikethespacebetweenthefrontandbackseats.Thecarwasinparkandidling,butnotforlong….GO!Ipoppeduplikea

deranged,gun-totingWhac-A-Mole,firingblindlythroughthewindshieldandintotheothercar.AsI

unloadedhalfmyclip,theonlythingIwasaimingforwastosendGordon’spartnerscramblingforcover.GO!Ilungedovertheseat,

shiftingintoreversewithmygunhandwhilepunchingthegaswiththeother.Steeringwasn’texactlyahighpriorityaswetookoffbackwardwithOwensneakingpeeksoutthebackwindow.

“Clear!”heshouted,whileIremainedonthefloorofthefrontseat.Allthesurroundingtraffic

hadbackedthehellawayassoonastheyheardthegunfire,moreofwhichwasnowsprayingthroughwhatremainedofthewindshield.Sufficeittosay,Gordon’spartnerdidn’tparticularlylikethislatestdevelopment.Meanwhile…

“Thirtyfeet!”shoutedOwenwiththeupdate,thedistancebeforewe’dhitanothercar.Oranythingelse,forthatmatter.Bynowithadstopped

rainingshardsofglassovermyhead.Wewereoutofrange.Timetogetabetterview.Ipulledmyselfupbythe

steeringwheel,immediatelyspinningusintoaone-eightythatnearlyflippedusover

andhadOwenpracticallydoingasomersaultacrossthebackseat.“Jesus!”heyelled.“Sorry!”Iyelledback.Thesecondwewereonall

fourtiresagain,Igrabbedtherearviewmirror,twistingitintomyeyelinetoseewhatGordon’spartnerwasdoingbehindus.Instead,Ishould’vebeenlookingstraightahead.“Car!”saidOwen.“Car!”

IlookedjustintimetoseeawhiteBMWswervinguponthecurbtoavoidus.Sodidthetaxibehindit.Nowweweretheassholewhodidn’tgetthememo.Weweregoingthewrongway.Thechorusofhornskicked

in,buttheonlycarthatreallymatteredwasstillbehindus.Glancingintotherearviewmirroragain,IcouldjustmakeoutGordon’spartnergettingbackbehindthe

wheel.Forthefirsttime,Icouldseewhathewasdriving.AJeepWrangler.Ikilledthecherryand

madethefirstturnpossible,ontoTwenty-FirstStreet.Wewerefinallygoingtherightway,butitwasclearwewereabouttohavecompany.JusthowfastcanaBuick

LeSabrefromtheearlyeightiesgo?

CHAPTER54

MYRIGHTfootwaslikeacinderblockonthegas,whilemyheadwaslikeabobbledoll,bouncingallaroundasItriedtoseethroughtheshot-upwindshield.Thereweresomanycracksandjaggededges,Imightaswellhavebeenlookingthroughaprism.

Iblewthroughoneredlightandthenanotherwithoutascratch,adoubledoseofluckyonourwaytotheWestSideHighway.Morelanes,lesstraffic,betterchanceoflosinghim.OrsoIwasthinking.“He’sgaining,”saidOwen,

lookingoutthebackwhileIfranticallyweavedinandoutofthecarsaroundus.“Howmanybehind?”I

asked.

“Fivecars,”hesaid.“Shit,makethatfour.”Wewereablockaway

fromthehighway,butsuddenlythatideawasn’tlookingsogood.Icouldn’tshakehim.Fourcarsbackwouldbecomethreeandthentwoandthenone,andhe’dberightonmytail,shootingoutmytires.IglancedbackatOwen.

“TimeforplanB,”Isaid.

“Ididn’tknowwehadaplanA.”“Good,thenyouwon’t

fightmeonthis.”Hefoughtmeanyway.“Hell,no,”hesaidafterI

toldhimwhatIwantedhimtodo.“It’stwoagainstone.”“Yeah,butwe’vegotonly

onegun,”Isaid.“Thatmakesitoneagainstone.”“ThenI’llbethedecoy,”

hesaid.“I’lldistracthim.”

“Yeah,rightbeforeheputsfourbulletsinyourchest.”Itwasn’tjustwhatIsaid,it

wasthewayIsaidit.Angry.Pissed.Guilty.AllIcouldseewasLamont

fallingtotheground.Itwasplayinginmyheadoverandover,aviciousloop.AndasOwenwentsilent,

itwasasifheknewexactlyhowIfelt.He’dfeltthesamethingwithClaire.

Ineedyoutorunwiththisstory,kid.Literally…“Okay,”hesaid,relenting.

“Butyoubetterknowwhatyou’redoing.”“Ido,”Iassuredhim.And

withanyluck,thatwouldn’tbealie.Flippingthecherryback

on,Ilookedupaheadtotheendoftheblockaboutfiftyyardsaway.Iwasstraddlingbothlanesasparkedcarsdottedeachsideofthestreet

likeMorsecode.WhatIneededwastwocarslinedupoppositeeachotherlikegateposts.BecauseIwasabouttoclosethegate.Thesoundofmyjamming

thebrakeswasimmediatelydrownedoutbyeveryoneelse’sbrakesbehindme.NotonlywasIstoppingonadime,Iwasstoppingonanangletoblockbothlanes.Instantchaos.

Noonewasgoinganywhere…exceptOwen.“Now!”Itoldhim.Hehesitatedforasplit

second,butthatwasit.Heburstoutofthebackseat,dashingaroundthecornerandoutofsightasfast—andaslow—ashecould.Nowitwasmyturn.Only,Iwasheadinginthe

oppositedirection.Suddenly,mylifehadbecomeanexistentialfortunecookie.

Manchasedtoolongmustfindnewpath.

CHAPTER55

WITHTHEcherrystillflashingonthedash,therecameaneeriesilenceasIallbutcrawledoutofthefrontseatonmyhandsandkneestoavoidbeingseen.NewYorkdrivershavea

well-earnedrepforimpatience,buteventhey

knowwhentolayofftheirhorns.Youhonkatacopandyou’relikelytoseesomerealimpatience,andthatoldBuickLeSabreblockingtrafficwasanunmarkedpolicecar,asfaraseveryonecouldtell.Everyone,thatis,except

theguyatthewheelfourcarsbackwhowantedmedead.Quickly,Imademyway

behindaPriusparkedalongthecurb.Theanglewas

wrong,though.Icouldn’tseewellenoughupthestreet.Somuchforthegiftof

silence,too.Thelineofcarsnowstretchedallthewaydowntheblock,wellbeyondsightoftheflashingredandblue.Anydriverbringinguptherearhadnoideawhyhewasstopped.Thehornsbegankickingin,onelouderthanthelast.Finebyme.Iwasbanking

ontheconfusion.

AsfastasIgottothecurbwashowslowlyIbeganmovingalongsidetheparkedcars,peeringoverthehoodsuntilIhadacleanline.Butitwasn’thappening.Theheadrestofaseat,aside-viewmirror—somethingwasalwaysintheway.Ishould’vebeenableto

spothimbynow.Finally,therecameagood

angle.Iwasmaybetwentyfeetaway,sidledupnextto

thebacktireofaMINICooper.Lookingthroughtheglassoftherearhatch,Ihadtheperfectview.Ofnothing.IcouldseetheJeep,butthe

driver’sseatwasempty.Theenginewasrunning,andIcouldn’tsuppresstheimmediatethoughtthatmaybeIshould’vebeen,too.Grippingmypistolwith

bothhands,Iwaswhippingitaroundlikeapointer.Where

areyou?Overhere?Overthere?Ididn’tknowwhetherto

moveorstayput.Peoplewerestartingtogetoutoftheircars.Somewereyelling,otherswalkingaheadforacloserlook.Nooneknewwhatwashappening.Includingme.Then,withoneglanceto

theleft,Isawhim.Hepokedhisheadout

frombehindthePriusback

whereI’dstarted.I’dgonetohim;he’dcometome.We’dmissedeachother.Hehadnointentionoflettingthathappenagain.Likeabulloutofthegate

hecameatme,runningwithhisarmraised.Hisfirstshotcaromedoffthesidewalkmereinchestomyleft,thesoundsettingoffscreamsupanddowntheblock.PeoplewerescatteringeverywhereasIboltedaroundthenextcarat

thecurb,justbarelyeludingthesecondshot.HadtheMINICooperbeenanylessmini,Iwould’vebeennailedinthebackforsure.Three-point-eightbillion

yearsofevolutiontuckedawayinyourDNA…Immediately,Ispunaround

withmyarmslocked,theinsideofmyindexfingerflushagainstthetrigger.Onceagain,Ihadtheperfectview.

Andonceagain,itwasofnothing.Thesidewalkwasempty.

Hewasn’tthere.Buthewasfarfromgone.

CHAPTER56

I’VENEVERcrackedthecoverofSunTzu’sTheArtofWar.It’sneverevenmadetheto-readpilenexttomybed.ButIhadtobelievethatsomewhereburiedinthebookwasarulethatsaidiftheenemyknowswhereyou

arebutyoudon’tknowwheretheenemyis…move.AsfastandlowasIcould,

Izigzaggedacrossthestreet,stoppingonlywhenIsawsomebaldguyinasuithalfwayoutofhisshinyredCadillac.Hewascrouched,lookingthroughthewindowwithhisentireheadexposedasifhe’dsomehowmissedthatphysicsclassinhighschoolexplainingtheeffectofaspeedingbulletona

pieceofglass.Thisjustin,pal,thebulletwins….“Hey,”Itriedwhispering,

whichwasprettymuchalostcausegiventhecacophonyofhornsstillblaring.Theentirestreethadbecomeaparkinglot,anexceedinglyangryoneatthat.“Hey!”Itriedagain,

louder.Finally,heturnedaround

andImotionedwithbothhandsforhimtogetdown.

ThatimmediatelygotmealooksuggestingIshouldmindmyowneffin’business.Thenhesawtheguninmyrighthand.Thatdidthetrick.Heduckedbackintohisseatsofastheliterallybangedhisbaldheadonthetopofthecar.Anyothertime,anyother

place,thatwould’vebeenfunny.Iwasn’tlaughing.

AllIcoulddowaskeeplookingleftandrightasIapproachedtheothersidewalk,myheadonaswivel.Forgetmytriggerfinger,theslightestmovementanywhereinfrontofmehadmyentirebodytwitching.Throwinsomeself-doubt,andIwasclosetodrowninginmyownsweat.DidIreallyneedtogoafteratrainedCIAfieldagenthead-on?

Toolate.Itwaslikelightningbefore

thethunder.Ifirstsawaflashinthecornerofmyeye.Iturnedquicklytolook,squintingforfocus,andheardaboomingvoicerightbehindit.Thevoicewassaying

something.Hewassayingsomething.Buthewastoofaraway;Icouldn’tmakeoutthewords.

Thevoice,though…Iknewthevoice.Itwasfamiliar.ItwasOwen.Hewassprintingtoward

meonthesidewalk,hiscellphonelitupwithoneofthoseflashlightapps.Damn,thosethingsarebright.Hewascloseenoughnow,thewordsbeginningtocometogether.“You!”hewasscreaming.

“Findyou!”Findme?No.

Behindme!Ispunaround,handsout

front,myeyesblowingupwidewithpanicasIlookedoutoverthebarrelofmypistoltoseeanothergunalreadylinedupwithmychest.Somehowhe’dgottenbehindme.Nowhewasrightinfront

ofme,deadcenter.AllGordon’spartnerhadtodowaspullthetrigger.Buthesuddenlyhadaproblem…

Hecouldn’tseeme.ThelightfromOwen’s

phonehithisfacesofastIcouldpracticallyseehispupilssnapshut.Heraisedhisarmtoshieldhiseyes,butitwastheotherarmIwaswatching.Theonewiththegun.HewasswingingitrightatOwen.Therewasnothought,no

planning,nodecision.Justinstinct.Andmaybealittletracememorythrowninfor

goodmeasureincasehewaswearingabulletproofvest.Inotherwords,Iaimeda

littlebithigher.Igotofftwoshots.I

couldn’ttellifthefirstonehithim,buttherewasnodoubtaboutthesecond.Let’sjustsayitwasgoingtobeaclosed-casketfuneral,andleaveitatthat.“C’mon,”saidOwen.

“Let’sgo.”

Thatwasallhesaid.OrmaybethatwasallIheard.Forsure,itwasmorethanI

wasabletosay,whichwasnothing.Icouldbarelybreathe,letalonetalk.ButIwaskeenlyaware.Thekidcamebackforme.Later,Iwouldthankhim.

Theheartratewouldslow;thethoughtsandwordswouldcome.I’dpointoutthatthiswasthesecondtimehe’dsavedmylife.I’devencrack

thatI’dneverbeensohappytohavesomeoneignorewhatIaskedhimtodo.IfOwenhadfledbacktothehotelfromLamont’scarasI’dasked—ashe’dtoldmehewould—Iwould’vebeentheonelyingonthepavementinapoolofblood.Buthehadn’t.SoIwasn’t.Yes.Later,Iwoulddoall

this.Whentherewastimetothinkandsortthingsout.ButthemomentafterIpulledthe

triggerwasnodifferentthanthemomentrightbefore.Nothought,noplanning,

nodecision.Justinstinct.ThesameinstinctOwenhad.Let’sgo.

CHAPTER57

IWENTtosleephavingkilledaman.IwokeupthinkingI’datleastfindoutwhohewas.Itdidn’tmatterifhewasn’t

carryingID.Therewereotherways.Somanyotherways.Fingerprints.Dentalrecords.Facialrecognitionsoftware.

IfevertherewasajobforCrackerJack…“Whattimeisit?”Iasked

Owenwithmyonegoodeyeopenoffthepillow.Myheadwaskillingme.Therestofmewasn’tfaringmuchbetter.Owenwassittingonthe

edgeoftheotherqueenbedinourtwo-roombunkerattheStoningtonstaringintentlyatthetelevisionandthestartofthelocalmorningnews.Hecould’vebeenastatueifit

hadn’tbeenforhishands.Theyweredoingthatdrywashthingagain.What’sthedealwiththat?“It’ssix,”heanswered.Thatexplainedthehintof

daylightalongtheperimeterofthedrawncurtains,nottomentionwhyIstillfeltsotired.Itwasbarelydawn,andI’donlybeenasleepforacoupleofhours.LongerthanOwen,though,apparently.

There’soneexceptiontotheage-oldmaximaboutnewsreporting—ifitbleeds,itleads—andthat’stheearly-morningbroadcast.Atthestartoftheday,onethingtrumpseverythingelse.Theweather.Shortofanapocalypse,that’swhatpeoplewanttohearaboutfirst.Theeternalquestion?It’snotthemeaningoflife.It’sWillIneedanumbrella?

Accordingtothefar-too-chipperweathermanpointingoutsomeincomingcloudsontheDopplerradar,theanswerwasadefinitemaybe.Therewasafortypercentchanceofshowersintheafternoon.Ofcourse,therewasa

hundredpercentchanceoftwoshootingdeathsovernightintheChelseasectionofManhattan.Theweatherman,still

grinning,sentitbacktothe

anchor,whodidherbesttosegueintoamoresombertoneasthewordsDETECTIVEDEATHappearedon-screen.NexttothemwasapictureofLamont.HemusthavefallentothegroundathousandtimesinmymindbeforeI’dfinallybeenabletodriftofftosleep.Nowtelluswhothe

goddamnsonofabitchwaswhokilledhim.Tellusabout“Gordon’spartner.”

Asifhecouldreadmymind,Owenstoppedrubbinghishandsandglancedbackoverhisshoulderatme.“They’renotgoingto

know,”hesaidsoftly.Thesecondhesaidit,I

knewhewasright.Evenifthepolicedidknow,theywouldn’tbequicktoreleasethenametothepress.Itwouldraisemorequestionsthananswers.

“Atthistime,theidentityofthesecondvictim,whoisbelievedtobethemanresponsibleforDetectiveLamont’smurder,isunknown,”saidtheanchor,sokeyedtoherteleprompterthatshedidn’tseemtoevengrasphowtwistedthatsounded.Evenmoresobecause

therewasn’tevenamentionoftheothertriggerman.Me.

Wastherereallynoonewhosawmeshoothim?Theanchormovedontoa

fireinaQueenstenementbuilding,promptingOwentoshutoffthetelevision.Assoonasheturnedtome,Iknewthequestioncoming,anditcertainlywasn’tabouthowI’dslept.“Howdoyouwanttodo

this?”heasked.Thatwasthepartwe

hadn’tdiscussedafter

returningtothehotel.Thehow.Ourfocushadbeenthewhat,asinWhatdowedonow?Thenighthadchangedeverything.DetectiveLamontwas

dead,andweknewwhy.Weowedittohim,hisfamily,andeveryoneheworkedwithtocomeforward.MaybeOwenwasright.Maybejusticewouldn’tbeservedintheend.Butitnolongerseemedlikeourcalltomake.

“Lamont’sprecinct,”Isaid.“Ithinkthat’swherewebegin.”Owennodded.“Doyou

wanttocallahead?”“No.Let’sjustshow—”BeforeIcouldgettheword

upoutofmymouth,Owen’sphonelitupontopofhisbackpackbytheTV.Ithoughtitwasanincomingcallatfirst,buttherewasnoring,nobuzzingorvibrating.

“That’sstrange,”saidOwen,goingovertocheckit.“Whatis?”Iasked.“It’sane-mail.”“So?”“Ishouldn’tbegetting

any,”hesaid.“TheaccountusesanentityauthenticationmechanismIdesignedmyself.It’swaybeyondtheX.509system.”Istaredathimblankly.

“Okay,nowinEnglish,”Isaid.

“Itmeansthatformetogetane-mailithastobepiggybackedononeIalreadysent.ButIonlysetuptheaccountyesterday.Ihaven’tsentane-mailtoanyone.”Nosoonerdidhesayit

thanwebothrealizedhewaswrong.Hehadsentane-mailtosomeone.FromLamont’scar.“What’sitsay?”Iasked,

watchinghimread.

OwentossedmethephonesoIcouldseeformyself.Itwasmorethanane-mail.Itwashope.Underneathascreengrab

fromoneoftheinterrogationvideoswereanameandanaddressinWashington,DC.Georgetown,tobeexact.Mypartneralways

believedinwhathewasdoing,McGearyadded.Ihopeyoudo,too.

BOOKTHREE

TRUSTNOONE,NOTEVEN

YOURSELF

CHAPTER58

ITDOESN’Tmatterifyoudon’tknowadoorcardfromarivercardorwhetherafullhousebeatsaflush,anyoneoldenoughtoseetheinsideofaLasVegascasinocanwalkrightintothepokerroomattheBellagio.

WalkingintoBobby’sRoomisadifferentstory.Bobby’sRoom—named

afterBobbyBaldwin,the1978WorldSeriesofPokerchampion—isthepokerroominsidethepokerroomattheBellagio.Itfeaturestwohigh-stakestablesthatarecompletelywalledofffromtheotherfortysome-oddtables,completewithapolished-lookinghost,amaîtred’ofsorts,whostands

guardatthedoortomakesurenoneoftheriffraffevermakeitin.Minimumbuy-inistwentygrand.Thegamesbeingplayed,however,almostalwaysrequireamuchbiggerbankroll.Muchbigger.Ontheonehand,Bobby’s

Roomcaterstoaveryprivilegedclientele.Ontheotherhand,thereremainsacertainegalitarianelement.Especiallyifthatotherhandisclutchingaboatloadof

money.Betteryet,ayachtload.Truthis,almostanyTom,

Dick,orHarryflashingalotofcashismorethanwelcometoplayinBobby’sRoom.ThatgoesforanyValerie,

too.ValerieJensen,dressedina

leatherChanelskirt,asilkValentinoblouse,andapairofredChristianLouboutinLadyPeeps,handedthehostatthedoorahousemarkerfor

twohundredthousanddollarswiththecarefreeeaseofsomeonewhohadplentymorewherethatcamefrom.Thefactthatshedidn’twasthefirstlessonherfather,aprofessionalgambler,hadtaughtherwhenshewasalittlegirlbackinSomers,NewYork.Pokerisagameoflies.If

youwanttotellthetruth,gotoconfession….

“Gentlemen,I’dlikeyoutomeetBeverlySands,”announcedthehostashepulledouttheloneemptychairatthetableforValerie.Itwasthe“threeseat,”threespotstotheleftofthedealer.Valerie,akaBeverly

Sands,satdownamidthepolitenodsfromtheotherplayers.Saveone,theywereallpros.Shelookedaroundthetable;she’dseenthemnumeroustimesbeforeon

TV,playingtournaments.Andmoretimesthannot,theywerewinningthosetournaments.ButasattractiveasValerie

was—stunning,really—notasingleproallowedhimselftheslightestgawkorogle.Thatwouldbeasignofweakness.Nevershowweaknessat

thepokertable.Thatwasthesecondlesson

Valerie’sfatherhadtaught

her.Thisonedoubledasalifelesson,hismantraallduringthebattlewiththelungcancerthatultimatelytookhislifebutneverhisspirit.Nevershowweakness…period.“Two,”saidthehost,

givingthedealerwhatwould’vebeenthepeacesignanywhereelse.InBobby’sRoom,itmeantgivetheladytwohundredthousanddollarsinchips,whichwaswhatthedealerpromptlydidafter

gatheringupthepileofcardsinfrontofhim.Ahandhadjustfinished.ThegamewasNo-Limit

TexasHold’em.Twocardsfacedowntoeachplayer,followedbyfivesharecardsinthemiddle.Bestfivefromthesevenwins.Simpleasthat.Ofcourse,ifitwerereally

thatsimple,therewouldn’tbenearlyathousandbooksouttherededicatedtoexplaining

howthegameshouldbeplayed.Giventhehighstakes,

therewerenoblindstojump-startthebetting.Instead,everyplayerhadafive-hundred-dollarante.ThismeantValeriewouldn’thavetowaitforthedealerbuttontocomearoundherway.Shecouldbedealtinimmediately.Withthespeedofarobotic

armonaDetroitassembly

line,thedealerplacedthecardsfromthelasthandintheautomaticshufflertohisrightandpulledoutthesecondofthetwodecksusedinthegame.Afteraquickcut,hebegantodeal,givingValerieafewsecondstolookaroundthetableagain.Herfather’svoicewassoclearinherhead,itwasasifhewerebackfromthegrave,sittingrighttherenexttoher.

There’safishineverypokergame.That’stheplayerwho’sinwayoverhishead.Ifyoulookaroundthetableandcan’tspothim,getthehellupimmediately.Becauseyou’rethefish.Valeriesmiledtoherself.

Shewasn’tgoinganywhere.Herfishwasseated

directlyacrossthetableintheeighthseat.Hewastheonlyothernonproatthetable,buteveryoneknewwhohewas.

That’sjustthewayitiswithmultimillionaires.WhenyoulandinVegasinyourownGulfstreamG650,it’stoughtoflyundertheradar.ShahidAlDossariwasa

SaudiArabianbankerwhowaspurportedlyanadvisortotheSaudiroyalfamily,amongotherthings.Hewashandsome,hewascharismatic,andhewascurrentlyunderinvestigation

formoneylaunderingbytheUSGovernment.IncludingSpecialAgent

ValerieJensen.“It’syouraction,Ms.

Sands,”saidthedealerwithaslightnod.Thebettinghadbeencheckedaroundtoher.Valeriereachedforthe

sunglassesthathadbeenrestinginherblondhair,droppingthemdownacrossherblueeyes.Slowly,shelifteduphertwoholecards

ontheiredges,pullingthemtowardheracrossthefeltasifsheweregivingthetableashave.Gameon.Thisone’sforyou,Dad….

CHAPTER59

VALERIEWASN’Tsurewhentheexactmomentwouldcome.Onlythatitwascoming.Itcouldtakeanhour.

Maybeupwardofthreeorfour.Ormaybeonlytwentyminutes,overanddonelickety-split.Thecardshadto

cooperate,ofcourse.ButsodidAlDossari.Andsofar,hewas.EducatedintheStates—

Yaleundergrad,WhartonMBA—AlDossariwasasAmericanizedasaSaudicouldeverbe.HelovedTennesseewhiskey,NewYorkFashionWeek,andshoot-’em-upHollywoodmovies,butmostofall,whathelovedwaswomen.Heworshippedthem.Never

mindthattheyweretreatedlikesecond-classcitizensbackinhishomeland.Thatwasthere.Hewashere.America.Wherewomenhadallthepower.Justsolongastheywerepretty.Whiletheprosatthetable

maintainedtheirwell-traineddiscipline,payingfarmoreattentiontotheactioninthemiddleofthetablethantotheeyecandyseatedatoneendofit,ShahidAlDossariwasa

mandistracted.Neveragoodthinginahigh-stakespokergame.Infact,forty-fiveminutes

aftersittingdown,Valeriewasfairlyconvincedthattheonlyreasonheflat-calledherraisefromoutofpositionwassohewouldhaveanexcusetointroducehimself.Maybeevenflirtalittle.Themomenthadcome.Valeriehadraisedthe

initialbetoftwenty-five

hundreddollars,makingittenthousand.AlDossaricalledquickly,whiletheremainingplayersallfolded,includingtheinitialbettor.ThatleftjustValerieand

AlDossariinthehand.Heads-upaction,asthesayinggoes.Thedealerpromptlyburied

acardandproceededtoturnupthreecardsinfrontofhim,otherwiseknownastheflop.7♣9♥8♥

Itwasn’tjustanyflop;itwasanactionflop.Therewerestraightpossibilities.Flushpossibilities.Infact,withtwocardsstilltocome,therewereveryfewhandsthatweren’tapossibilityatthispoint.ThebettingwasonAl

Dossari,whopromptlycheckedwithasilenttapofthefelt.Valeriehadbeentheonewho’draisedpreflop,sothiswashardlyasurprise

move.Shehadcontrolofthehand,buttheonlywaytokeepitthatwaywasforhertoincreasethepot.A“continuationbet.”“Twentythousand,”she

said,reachingforherchips.Behindhersunglasses,

though,shewasn’tlookingatherchips.HereyeswerefocusedonAlDossari,hopingtoseeareactionofsomekind—atell—that

wouldgiveawaythestrengthofhishand.Buthebarelyblinked.

Instead,hesnap-calledher,tossingtwoten-thousand-dollarchipsintothepot.Somuchfortheeasyway,

thoughtValerie.Besides,easywasboring….Again,thedealerburieda

cardbeforeflippingoverthe“turn”—thefourthcard—faceupnexttotheotherthree.Itwastheaceofdiamonds.

ThebettingopenedwithAlDossari,whocheckedashe’ddonebefore.AsmuchashewasstaringatValerie,hestillhadn’tsaidanything.Atleast,notoutloud.Thefactthathe’dcalledherlasttwobets,though,wasdefinitelytellinghersomething.Itwastimetofindoutmore.“Youwouldn’thappento

bestringingmealong,wouldyou?”askedValerie,flashing

themostdisarmingsmileshecouldmuster.AlDossarikepthisstare,

andforamomentortworemainedsilent.Butitwasnouse.BeverlySands,thebuxomblondedressedtothenines,wasexactlyhistype.ShewashisMissAmerica.“Iwasactuallythinkingthe

samethingmyself,thatyouwerestringingmealong,”hesaid,smilingbackwithperfectteeth.“I’vebeen

knowntohaveaweaknessforwomen.”Thatgotafewknowing

chucklesfromaroundthetable.AlDossari’sreputationprecededhim.“Sothataceofdiamonds

ontheturndidn’thelpyou?”askedValerie.AlDossaridroppeda

forearmonthepaddedrailofthetable,leaningforwardoverhisstackofchips.“WhosaidIneededhelp?”

Andthereitwas,anabsoluterarityatthepokertable.Someonetellingthetruth.AlDossarihadamadehand.Valeriewassureofit.Becausethat’swhatmendowhenthey’retryingtoimpressawoman.Theytalktoomuch.“Inthatcase,I’llcheckas

well,”shesaid.Withasimpletaponthe

felt,Valeriesurrenderedanyleverageshehadinthehand.

Butleveragecanbeatrickything.Andtherewasstillone

morecardtobeplayed.

CHAPTER60

THEDEALERtappedthetablewithaclosedfist,thedeckcradledtightlyinthepalmofhislefthand.Hepeeledofftheburncardbeforeturningoverthefinalcard,the“river.”Itwasajackofspades.Theboardwasnowcomplete.

7♣9♥8♥A♦J♠Gonewasthechanceofa

flushoranythinghigheronthepeckingorderofpokerhands.Still,thereremainedalotofpossibilities.Apair.Twopair.Threeofakind.Astraight.And,ofcourse,nothingatall—whichonpaperwouldbetheworsthandyoucanhave.Butpokerisn’tplayedon

paper.

Forthosewiththeballstobluff,theworsthandcaneasilyturnintothewinninghand.Thosesameballsarewhatusuallyseparatetheprofromtheamateur.Orthesharksfromthefish.AlDossari,however,

wasn’tbluffingwhenhereachedforhischipstoopenthefinalroundofbetting.Valeriehadalreadyseenthewayheglancedatherstacktoseehowmuchshehadleft.

Bet-sizingwasasmuchapartofNo-LimitHold’emasanythingelse.“Twenty-fivethousand,”

hesaid,slowlyslidingthechipsoutinfrontofhim.Theamountwasalittle

lessthanhalfthepot,notexactlysmallbuthardlybigenoughtoforceValerieoffadecenthand.AlDossariwasmakingtheclassic“valuebet.”Hewantedhertocall.

ButValeriehadnointentionofcalling.“Raise,”sheannounced.Shemadeamoveforher

chipsandthenstopped,insteadrestingherforearmsagainsttherailing.Itlookedlikeindecision.Maybeevennerves.Attheveryleast,Valeriewantedittoappearasifshewerethinking,doingthemathinherheadandthendoingitagainwhiletryingtocalculatetherightamountto

comeoverthetopofAlDossariandgethimtofold.Onceagain,mydarling

daughter,pokerisagameoflies….Therewasnomore

thinkingtobedone.Nomoremath,either.ValeriealreadyknewtherewasnochancethatAlDossariwasgoingtofold.Finally,sheliftedher

hands,gatheringthembehindherentirestackofchips.That

motionmeantthesamethingateverypokertableineverylanguage,butitwouldn’tbegambling—oranydamnfun,forthatmatter—ifyoudidn’tsaythethreewordsoutloudincrystal-clearEnglish.“I’mallin,”shedeclared.AlDossarididn’taskthe

dealerforacountofhowmuchhenowneededtomatchherbet.Nordidhegiveitmuchthought.Hesimplycontinuedstaringat

Valerieforanotherfewseconds,oblivioustotheotherwomanwho’djustsidledupnexttoher.LadyLuck.“Icall,”hesaid.Valeriewassupposedto

showhercardsfirst,butAlDossaricouldn’twait.Ifhewasn’tabouttowinthehandoutright,hethoughtforsureitwouldbeachoppedpot—thattheywouldbothhavethesamestraight.

Confidently,heturnedoverhistwoholecards.“Ifloppedit,”hesaid.Valerie,alongwiththerest

ofthetable,lookedathis6♣and10♣.Sureenough,thefirstthreecardsontheboardof7♣9♥8♥A♦J♠hadgivenhimaten-highstraight.Itwasamadehand,andthebesthand,evenaftertheaceofdiamondsontheturn.Butthencametheriver.

Sayingnothing,Valeriereachedforhercards.Everyoneelseatthetable—allthepros—knewwhatshewasabouttoturnover.Shewasnofish,andneitherwerethey.AlDossarilookedacross

thefelttoseethe10♦andQ♦staringbackathim.Valeriehadaqueen-highstraight.Itwasthenuts,thebesthandpossible.

Thepot?Overfourhundredthousanddollars.AlDossari’sexpression?

Priceless.Butnotbecausehewas

upset.Hecouldn’tcarelessaboutthemoney.Nordidhecareaboutlosingtoawoman.Infact,itwasquitethe

opposite.AndexactlywhatValeriewasbettingon.AlDossariwasmorethan

intrigued.Hewasaroused.

Thefishwasonthehook,allright.Nowitwastimetoreel

himin.

CHAPTER61

“DEALER,WHEREwouldIfindtheladies’room?”askedValerie,calmlyrakinginthepot.Thequestionwasn’t

exactlytheprototypicalreactionafterwinningabighand.Infact,afewoftheprosaroundthetableevenlet

gowithwrysmiles.Allinaday’swork,right,lady?Iftheyonlyknew.Poker

proswereawfullygoodatreadingpeople.Notthatgood,though.Valerieknewexactly

wheretofindtheladies’room.ShesimplywantedtomakesuretheSaudiknewwherehewasgoing.Afterstackingherchips,shestoodupfromthetableandwalkedaway,notoncelookingback

atAlDossaritomakesurehewaswatching.Hell,thatwould’vebeenredundant.Rightoncue,hewas

waitingforValeriewhenshesteppedoutoftheladies’roomacoupleofminuteslater.Hewaspretendingtobefinishingacallonhiscell.Shewaspretendingtobesurprisedtoseehim.“Wellplayed,”hesaid.“Therightcardfellforme,

that’sall,”sheanswered.

“Butthankyou.”Hetookasteptowardher,

extendinghishand.“Myname’sShahid,bytheway.”Valerieextendedherhand

inreturn,smilingwhenheheldontoitforasplitsecondlongeraftersheletgo.“I’mBeverly.”Hisblacksuitwasclearly

custom-made.Thewhiteshirtwassilk,andtheopencollarshowcasedagoldchainthatwasgaudybutnotquiterap

star–esque.Somemenwillneverlearnthatoutsideofaweddingband,jewelryisbestlefttothewomen.“Whereareyoufrom,

Beverly?I’massumingnotfromhere.”“Backeast,”shesaid.

“DC.”“Iknowthetownwell.I

actuallydoalittlebusinessthere.”Morethanalittle,Valerie

wasthinking.Noneofitlegal,

either.Thischarade,theentireoperation,wasallaboutprovingit.“Andwhatabouthere?”

sheasked.“IsVegasbusiness,too?”“Sometimesitis,yes,”he

said.“Thisparticulartrip,though,issimplyforpleasure.”“IhopeIdidn’tjustruinit

foryou.”Hesmiled.“Thatdepends.”“Onwhat?”

“OnwhetherornotIcanbuyyouadrink.”“IfI’mnotmistaken,we’re

inacasino,Shahid,”shesaid.“Thedrinksarefree.”Hissmilewidened.“Inthat

case,I’llbuyyoutwo.”Valerieinchedcloserto

him.Itwassubtlebutunmistakable.“You’requitethecharmer,aren’tyou?”“Isthatbad?”heasked,

playingalong.“Itmaynotbegood.”

“AccordingtoOscarWilde,itdoesn’tmatter,”saidAlDossari,flashinghisIvyLeagueeducation.“Itisabsurdtodividepeopleintogoodorbad.Peopleareeithercharmingortedious.”Valerietriedtobiteher

tongue.Thetrickiestpartofanyundercoveroperationwasforgettingwhoyouwereinlightofwhoyouweresupposedtobe.

Sheknewthequote.SheevenknewtheOscarWildeplayitcamefrom,LadyWindermere’sFan.ButbetweenherandBeverlySands,onlyoneofthemhadbeenadramamajoratNorthwestern.Still,shecouldn’thelp

herself.Besides,thegoalwastobeguileAlDossari,wasn’tit?Valerietookanotherstep

towardhim,thisonefarless

subtle.Theywereclosenow,veryclose.HaditbeenaCatholicschooldance,thenunswould’vesurelyseparatedthem.“Weareallinthegutter,”shewhispered.“Butsomeofusarelookingatthestars.”Immediately,AlDossari

tookastepback.Hewasgenuinelysurprised.“You’refamiliarwiththeplay?”Consideringshe’djust

quotedanotherlinefromit,it

wasarhetoricalquestion.ButValeriewasn’tabouttopointthatout.NeitherwasBeverlySands.“Thegirlcandomorethan

justplaypoker,”shequipped.Hesteppedtowardher

again,hiscrocodileloafersbarelytouchingtheground.“I’dliketolearnmoreaboutyou,Beverly.”Valeriesmiled,thekindof

smilethatsuggestedthefeelingwasmutual.She’d

practiceditmanytimesinfrontofamirror.Iwanttolearnmoreabout

you,too,Shahid.AndIintendto.Farmorethanyoucouldeverimagine,farmorethanyoueverthoughtpossible….

CHAPTER62

ITWASmorelikeapitinthebrain,asopposedtothestomach.I’mgoingtomissClaire’sfuneral.Thethoughthadbeen

lodgedinthebackofmyhead,ifonlybecausetherestofmewasstillgrapplingwiththefactthattherewasgoing

tobeafuneralinthefirstplace.Maybe,justmaybe,I’d

thought,thefactthatIcouldn’tbethere—oreven,forthetimebeing,explainwhytohersister—wouldgeteasiertobearasthedayspressedon.Instead,itwasonlygettingmoredifficult.EspeciallyafterOwenandIleftthecity.Everymanhashisprice.

Forthedriverofthelivery

cabwhotookOwenandmeallthewayfromManhattantoWashington,DC,itwasninehundreddollars.Theguymadeabigstinkabouthavingtogetitallincash.Littledidheknowthatwastheonlywaywecouldpayhim.Ourcreditcards,eachand

everyone,hadbeencanceledbeforeweevencrossedtheGeorgeWashingtonBridgeintoJersey.Afewattemptsatsomeonlinepurchasesinan

openWi-Fihotspotwereallittooktofindout.Presumably,ourATMcardswereshutdown,too.Sothatwasthegamenow.

They—whoever“they”were—knewtherewasnopointtryingtofinduscourtesyofAmex,Visa,orMasterCard,oranybankwithdrawal.Thatlefttheflipside,cuttingoffourfundingandhopingitwouldlimitouroptions

travel-wise.It’salwayshardertohitamovingtarget.Allthemorereasonwhy

OwenandIwereonthemove.Ourfirststopafterthefive-

and-half-hourdrivewasthepartofDCyouneverseeinthebrochure.Itwasaused-cardealershipontheAnacostiasideofthecityintheSoutheastquadrant.Theowner,wholookedlikeawalkingmugshot,didn’t

haveashowroom.Hedidn’tevenhaveanoffice.Itwasbasicallyadirtlotbehindanabandonedwarehousewithaboutadozenbeat-upcars,halfofwhichhadhadtheirVINnumbersalteredorfiledawayaltogether.“Howthehelldidyou

knowaboutthisplace?”IaskedOwen.“Ioverheardsome

GeorgetownfratboystalkingaboutitinaDean&Deluca,”

hesaid.“Apparently,drivingDaddy’sMercedesaroundcampushasfallenoutofvogue.Junkisthenewblack.”Inthatcase,OwenandI

werenowthetrendiestguysaround.WedroveawayinanoldToyotaCorollathatwasdingedupsomuchyouwould’vethoughtithadbeenparkedoutinthemiddleofagolfdrivingrange.Butitran

okayandcamewithplates,ourtworequirements.Asforthepaperwork,that

consistedonlyofthemoneythatchangedhands.Sevenhundreddollars,cash.Needlesstosay,wedidn’tasktoseetheCARFAX.“Whatasteal,”saidOwen.“Yeah,that’sbecauseit

probablywas,”Isaid.“Stolen.”FromAnacostiawedrove

intoGeorgetown,heading

straighttoBiltmoreStreetandthetownhouseofDr.DouglasWittmer,lastseen—oncamera,atleast—deepinsidetheCIAblacksiteatStareKiejkutyoutsideWarsaw.Thatwasonehellofahousecall,Doc.Caretotelluswhohiredyou?Yes?No?AccordingtoGoogle,

WittmerhadbeenathoracicsurgeonatLenoxHillHospitalinManhattanforelevenyears,followedbya

four-yearstintatCedars-SinaiMedicalCenterinLosAngeles.Thenheapparentlyquittheoperatingroom,joiningamedicalresearchcompany,BioNextLaboratories,inBethesda,Maryland,asitsCEO.Thatwasfiveyearsago.ThewebsiteforBioNext

lookedlegit,althoughthatwasn’treallysayingmuch.Atenthgraderthesedayscanbuildabelievablewebsitein

lesstimethanittakestowatcharerunofTheSimpsons.So,too,cantheCIA.“Doyouthinkit’safront?”

IaskedOwen.“Itdoesn’thavetobe,”he

said.“Theguymightsimplybepullingdoubleduty.It’smorecommonthanyou’dthinkamongcertaindoctors,whetheritbefortheFBIortheCIA.”

Forafewmoments,IthoughtaboutmyprimarycarephysicianbackinNewYork,whooncedroppedmyurinesamplealloverhissuedeshoes.Greatguyandagooddoctor,butsomehowIjustcouldn’tpicturehimdoingasecretgigforthegovernment.Dr.DouglasWittmerwasa

differentstory,andasOwenandIwalkedupthestepsof

hisfadedbricktownhouse,wecouldn’twaittohearit.Butthatwasexactlywhat

wehadtodo.Wait.Werangthebell,knocked

onthedoor,andevenpeekedthroughthewindows.Noonewashome.Wittmer’sphonenumberwasunlisted,andforallweknew,hecould’vebeenbackinPolandoratanyoneofanumberofotherblacksites.Seeingtheday’smailwaitingforhiminhis

mailbox,however,gaveussomehope.Nowallwecoulddowas

parkourshinynewCorollaalittlewaydownthestreetandkeepwatch.Ifonlywe’dknown.Wewerebeingwatchedas

well.

CHAPTER63

“GOAHEADandask,”saidOwen.“Askwhat?”Helookedatmeacrossthe

frontseatlikeIwasanidiotfortryingtoplaydumb.“YouwanttoknowwhyIkeepdoingthisthingwithmyhands,right?”

We’dbeenwaitingforWittmerforclosetoanhour,andhalfthetimethekidwasdoinghisdrywashroutine.“Sortofhardnotto

notice,”Isaid.“Youcanblamemyaunt

Eleanor.”Herestedbothpalmsonhiskneesandexplained.“Myparents,bothprofessors,weren’tterriblyreligious,buttheythoughtitwasimportantformeatayoungagetoexperience

church.SomyauntEleanorwasenlistedoneSundaytobringmetoaservice.Iwasfiveanddoingcomplexalgebra,butIalsostillbelievedinSantaClausandthetoothfairy.Sotheministerisgivingthissermonabouttemptationandsinandhe’sallfiredup,andI’msittingthereinthepewlisteningandhangingonhiseveryword.Andthat’swhenhequotesanoldproverb,

onlyIdon’tknowit’saproverb;Itakeitliterally.Idlehandsarethedevil’sworkshop.”“You’rekiddingme.”“Nope.That’showit

started,”hesaid.“Problemis,Ihaven’tbeenabletostopeversince.”Helaughed.“Youknow,I’venevertoldanyonethatbefore.”“Trustme,”Isaid.

“You’vegotfarbiggersecretsthesedays.”

Asifoncue,ablackJaguarXKCoupepulledintotheshortdrivewayatthebaseofWittmer’stownhouse.Ithadtobehim.Thewaitwasover.Quickly,OwenandI

steppedoutofourslightlylessexpensiveCorollaandapproachedhimashewasgettinghismail.Bythetimehelookedupandsawus,wewerepracticallyinhisface.Noexaggeration,hemusthavejumpedbackatleast

threefeet.We’dscaredtheshitoutofhim.Good.Nextup,withanyluck,

wasgettingthetruthoutofhim.“Dr.Wittmer?”Iasked.Hewasstillcatchinghis

breath.Whothehellwantstoknow?saidhislook.ButnonormalpersonoutsidetheBronxactuallysaysthatinreallife,andDouglasWittmerappearedasnormalastheycome.Withhis

glassesandneatlytrimmeddarkhairthatwasgrayaroundthetemples,hewasadoctorwholookedlikethestockphotoofadoctor.“Yes,that’sme,”hesaid

finally.Iintroducedmyselfand

wasabouttointroduceOwenwhenIsawWittmer’seyesbeatmetoitwithasquintofrecognition.Hisjawthenliterallydropped.

“Jesus…you’rethekid,aren’tyou?”heasked.“Aliveandintheflesh,”

saidOwen.“Ofcourse,youprobablythoughtI’dbedeadbynow.”Wittmernoddedalmost

sheepishly.“Restassured,ithasn’t

beenforlackoftrying.”Owenturnedtomeandmybeat-upface,thebruisesjustbeginningtosettleintoanice

shadeofeggplant.“Andthat’stoputitmildly.”“Wait,what’sgoingon?”I

asked.“Howdoesheknowwhoyouare?”Tosaythekidwasquick

ontheuptakedidn’tdohimjustice.“Becausehe’sbeenshownapictureofme,”saidOwen.“AndifIwereevertopayhimavisit,hewassupposedtoletthemknow.”“Iwouldn’t,though,”said

Wittmer.“Imean,Iwon’t.”

“Ofcourseyouwon’t,”saidOwenfacetiously.“Whatpossiblemotivationcouldyouhave?”NowIwasallcaughtup.If

theseweren’ttheirexactwords,theyhadtobedamnclose.Helpusfindthekidbeforehebringsusalldown,Dr.Wittmer…includingyou.“Idon’tcarethatI’minthe

recordings,”saidWittmer.“Itwasamistake,andIcanlivewiththeconsequences.”

“Actually,Idon’tcarethatyou’reintherecordings,either,”saidOwen.“AllIcareaboutiswhoputyouthere.That’swhatweneedtoknow.”Wittmer’seyesshifted

betweenOwenandmeforafewmoments,thelatestissueofCarandDriverandtherestofhismailpressedhardagainsthischest.Itwasonethingforhim

nottoratusout.Itwas

anotherforhimtoratoutwhomeverhewasworkingfor.Therewouldneedtobeareason.Adamngoodone.Wittmerlookedupatthe

sky.Wealldid.Thesunwasbeginningtosetbehindamassofcharcoal-coloredcloudsthatseemedtohavearrivedoutofnowhere.MuchlikeOwenandme.“Ithinkweshouldgo

inside,”saidthedoctor.“Itlookslikerain.”

CHAPTER64

ITWASahomeforaguywhobasicallywasn’thomeallthatmuch.That,orhejustdidn’tcare.Nottosayitwasmessy.

Rather,itwassparse.Inthefewroomswewalkedpastbeforesettlinginthekitchen,thefurnishingsconsistedof

thebareminimum,orinthecaseoftheemptydiningroom,evenless.Iwasn’tmuchfor

metaphors,butClairealwayswas.Forher,thiswould’vebeenalay-up.Dr.DouglasWittmerclearlyhadmoney,buttoseewherehelived—howhelived—wastoseeamandefinedbywhathedidn’thave.Therewerethingsmissinginhislife.

“Youwantcoffee?”heasked,pointingtotheKeurigmachineonthecounternearthestove.OwenandIbothdeclined.

Wewereanxiousenoughasitwas.Thethreeofusheaded

overtoasmallcherrywoodtableinthecornerunderneathasmallclock,thekindyou’dmorelikelyseehanginginanofficeorwaitingroom.Afterweallsatdown,Wittmer

immediatelystooduptoremovehisblueblazer,hangingitonthebackofhischair.Hewasn’tstalling,buthewasn’texactlyrushing,either.Finally,aftersittingdown

again,hetookadeepbreathandbegan.“Iwastargeted,”hesaid,

histonestraightasaruler.Tohiscredit,therewasn’tahintofhistryingtomakeanexcuseforhimself.Hewas

statingthefacts,orreallyjustonefact.“TheyknewmywifewasonFlightNinety-Three.”OwenandIbothdropped

ourheadsabit.Itspokevolumesabouttheeventsof9/11thataparticularflightnumbercouldbesoingrainedinthecollectivememoryofanation.“I’msorry,”saidOwen.“Yes,”Isaid.“I’msorry.”

“Thethingis,”Wittmercontinued,“griefandangercanhelpyourationalizealmostanybehaviorinthenameofrevenge.Iknowthat’swhathewasbankingonwithme.”Itwassoclearwhatwe

werewitnessing.Thiswasamanwhoneededtoexplainhimself.Barehissoulalittle,ifnotalot.IwassurethatOwen,evenathisrelatively

youngage,wasthinkingthesamething.Perhapsitwasthatsame

youth,though,thathadOwenwishingthedoctorwouldexplainthingsjustatadbitfaster.Fittingly,theonlysoundinthekitchenotherthanuswasthemeasuredtick…tick…tickofthewallclockaboveus.“He?”Owenasked

impatiently.Inotherwords,

Please,fortheloveofPete,startnamingnames.…“Idon’tknowifhe’sthe

onlyringmaster,butit’scertainlyhiscircus,”saidWittmer.Hedrewanotherdeepbreath.“FrankKarcheristheonewhofirstapproachedme.”Ididn’trecognizethe

name,nor,apparently,wasIsupposedto,giventhewayWittmerwaslookingdirectlyatOwen.Andgiventheway

Owenwasnoddingbackathim,Iguessitmadesense.“Thekid”absolutelyrecognizedthename.“FrankKarcheristhe

NationalClandestineServicechiefoftheCIA,”saidOwen,turningtome.“Basically,we’retalkingthekindofguywholikestokickpuppies.”“Sohumantorturewasn’t

muchofaleap,”Isaid.Itwasaquip,completely

offthecuff.Still,thesecond

thewordsleftmymouth,Iregrettedthem.Ididn’tknowKarcher,butIdidknowthatWittmerwassittingrightinfrontofme.Hewasalsoontherecordings.Atbest,thedoctorwasanaccomplice.Atworst?ThatwasbetweenhimandhisGod.Andthatwasthepoint.

OwenandIwerethereinhiskitchentogetinformation,nottopassjudgmentonhim.AndIjusthad.Abitunfairly,

noless.Iwasn’ttheonewho’dlosthiswifeon9/11.“Iapologize,”Isaidto

Wittmer.“Ididn’tmeanto—”“That’sallright,”hesaid.

Hedrewanotherdeepbreath.“Atthebeginning,IknewexactlywhatIwasdoingandwhy.Thoserecordingsyouhave?Asbadastheymaylooktoawholelotofpeople,therearejustasmanypeoplethesedays—the

Machiavelliansinourso-calledwaronterror—whowouldbelievetheendjustifiesthemeans.”“I’mconfused,then,”I

said.“Whatchanged?Whywouldyoubetalkingtous?”Wittmerleanedin,pressing

hispalmsdownonthatcherrywoodtablewithwhatmightaswellhavebeentheweightoftheworld.“Becausethoserecordingsyouhavedon’ttellthewhole

story,”hesaid.“Butminedo.”

CHAPTER65

WITTMERPUSHEDbackhischairanddisappearedfromthekitchen,returningaboutahalfminutelaterwithanoldDelllaptop.Whilehewasgone,OwenandIdidn’tutterasinglewordtoeachother.Really,whatwastheretosay?Thedoctorhad

basicallyjustpromisedtoblowourminds.Theonlythingtodowasshutupandwaitforit.Anotherhalfminutepassed

whileWittmer’slaptopbootedup.Giventheanticipation,itfeltlikeaneternity.Finally,heclickedonafileandpressedPlay,anglingthescreeninfrontofussoweallhadagoodview.Itwasshowtime.

“ThisisfromthesameblacksiteoutsideofWarsawduringthesametimeperiod,”heexplained.Indeed,fromtheget-go

everythingabouttherecordinglookedfamiliar.Thewindowlessroomshotinblack-and-white.ThelonemetalchairwithaMiddleEasternmanshackledtoit,followedbythetwomeninsuitswhorestrainedhim

whilehereceivedtheshottohiscarotidartery.Ofcourse,thedoctor

wieldingthesyringelookedfamiliaraswell.Wewereinhiskitchen.“Whatisyourname?”

askedthevoiceoffcamera.Immediately,asecond

voicetranslatedthequestionintoArabic,andaswithOwen’srecordings,theArabicwastranslatedback

intoEnglishviasubtitles.Everythingwasthesame.Except,inthiscase,the

prisoner’sresponse.“IspeakEnglish,”hesaid

softly.Thetwovoicesfrom

behindthecameracouldbeheardconversing,butevenwiththevolumemaxedoutonWittmer’slaptop,wecouldn’tunderstandwhattheyweresaying.Iassumeditwasaboutthewaythey

wantedtoproceed,althoughyouwouldn’tknowitgivenhowthefirstvoicerepeatedthequestion—“Whatisyourname?”—asifheweresomeautomatedprompt.“MynameisMakin

Pabalan,”answeredtheprisoner.Hearinghimspeakagain,it

wasclearthathewasfluentinEnglish.Hisaccentnotwithstanding,therewasnohitchfromhishavingto

translateinhisheadfromArabic.IfIhadtoguess,I’dsayhe’dbeeneducatedatsomepointintheUS.Again,therewasmore

talkingbehindthecamera.Westillcouldn’tmakeitout.Whateverwassaid,though,itresultedinadeviationfromthescript.“We’llproceedinEnglish

only,”camethevoice.“Doyouunderstand?The

questionsnowwillonlybeinEnglish.”“Yes,”saidtheprisoner.“I

understand.”“Andyouwillonlyanswer

inEnglish.Isthatunderstoodaswell?”“Yes.”“Pleasestateyourname

again.”“MynameisMakin

Pabalan.”“AreyouamemberofAl

Qaeda?”

“No,”saidtheprisoner.“Areyouawareofany

plansbyAlQaedatokillAmericancitizens?”“No.”“Areyouamemberofany

organizationthatconsiderstheUnitedStatesofAmericaanenemy?”“No.”“Areyouawareofany

organizationthatisplanningtobringharmtoany

Americancitizensanywhereintheworld?”“No.”Therewasn’ttheslightest

hesitationfromthemaninthechairasheansweredeachquestion.Helookednervous,butnottothepointoffear.Norwasthereanyangerinhiseyes.IfIhadbeencross-examininghiminacourtroom,hewould’vequalifiedasacooperatingwitness.

Moreimportantly,therewasn’ttheslightestphysicalchangeinhim.Hisjawdidn’tclench,thechairdidn’tbegintorattle.Therewasnodownwardspiralofpainfollowedbyevenmorepain.Nosignoflieandyoudie.Hewastellingthetruth.OwenandIexchanged

glances,thethoughtbeingthatthedoctorhaditwrong.Thiswasn’tthewholestory,itwasthesamestory.

Inunison,weturnedtoWittmer.Whatgives?Buthewasstillstaringat

thescreen,asubtlebutunmistakablecuethatweshouldbedoingthesame.Thedoctorknewexactly

whathewastalkingabout.

CHAPTER66

ITHAPPENEDsodamnandscaryfast.Onesecond,theprisoner

wasfine.Thenext,hewasn’t.OnlythiswasdifferentfromOwen’srecordings.Sovery,verydifferent.Thisbeganinaninstantandbarelylasted

muchlonger.Itwasaflash.No,itwasadetonation.Itwasasiftheman’sbrain

hadactuallyexplodedinsidehishead.Iwatchedashiseyesrolled

back,hisfaceconvulsinglikeitwaslodgedinapaintmixeratHomeDepot.Theforcewassostrongitliterallyliftedthemanofftheground,chairincluded.Bythetimegravityfoughtback,heandthechair

weretippedoveronthefloor,motionless.“Christ…”Owen

muttered,hisvoicetrailingoff.Wittmerreachedoutand

hitthespacebaronthekeyboard,pausingtherecording.Itwasrightthenthatthethoughtoccurredtome.Asquicklyasallhellbrokelooseinthatinterrogationroom,itwasn’t

asifthedoctorcouldn’thavetriedtointervene.Buthewasnowhereinthe

frame.Whynot?“Thatmighthavebeenthe

sickestpartofall,”Wittmersaidasifreadingmymind.“ThesecondItriedtohelp,Iwasliterallyheldback.Theydidn’twanttheguysaved.Theywantedhimdocumented.Likealabrat.”Hehitthespacebaragain

toresumetherecording.True

tohisword,Wittmerfinallysprangintotheframeasifhe’djustbrokenfreefromthetwootherguysbehindthecamera.Withinsecondsofhiskneelingdownandplacingtwofingersontheprisoner’sneck,heshookhisheadslowly.Themanwasdead.“Wasthereanautopsy

performed?”askedOwen.“Yes.Itwasananeurysmal

subarachnoidhemorrhage,”

saidWittmer.“Eachandeverytime.”Boom.“Wait…what?”Iasked.

ButI’dheardhimperfectly.SohadOwen.“Ithappenedsevenother

timesoutoftwentytrials,”saidWittmer.“Atleast,thetwentytrialsIwasoverseeing.”Owenshookhisheadin

disbelief.“Afortypercentfailrate,”hesaid.“Wasthe

prisonercooperatingeachtime?”Thedoctornodded,his

gazeretreating.Itwasasifhehadnowheretolook.“Karcherjustcallsitcollateraldamage,”hesaid,disgusted.“Icallitmurder.”Therewasnopushingthat

lastlineaside,noignoringitsimplications.Thewordssimplyhungthereatthetable,fillingthesilence.IfIhadn’tknownbetter,I

would’vesworntheclockaboveushadstoppedaswell.Icouldn’thearittick.Eventually,Owenspoke

up.“DoesKarcherknowyouhavethisrecording?”heasked.“Ifhedid,I’dprobablybe

deadrightnow,”saidWittmer.Itwashardtoarguewith

that.OwenandIwerelivingproof.

Immediately,allIcouldpictureinmyheadwasthisguy,Karcher,arrangingforClaire’sdeath.ThenOwen’s.Thenmine.Sometimestheonlything

moredangerousthanamanwithnothingtoloseisamanwitheverythingtolose.FrankKarcherwasevery

bitthatman.“Whatweneednowisthe

link,”saidOwen.“Proofthattheserumexists,thatitwas

used,andthatKarcher’sfingerprintsarealloverit.”AmImissingsomething?

“Don’twealreadyhaveanentirefilmfestivalthatprovesthefirsttwo?”Iasked.“Therecordingsprovealot

ofthings,”saidOwen.“Withoutthepersonresponsible,though,it’sjustanembarrassinghomemoviefortheentirecountry.”“Fine.Socommencewith

thecongressionalhearings,”I

said.OwenturnedtoWittmer

withanairofcertitudethatpeopleonlygrantyouwhenyoucanbackitup.“Excusetheassumption,”hesaid,“butyoudidn’tactuallydeveloptheserum,didyou?Nordoyouknowthenameofthepersonwhodid,usingmyresearch,right?”“Iwasnevertold,”saidthe

doctor.

Owenturnedbacktome,continuing.“Andthetwohenchmenintherecording,theonesrestrainingtheprisonerandultimatelyrestrainingDr.Wittmer?They’reundercoveragents.Somakingtherecording,anyoftherecordings,publicwouldexposetheiridentities.That’snevergoingtohappen.”“Inotherwords,”Isaid,

“whatweneedisproofthat

cangopublic.”“Exactly,”saidOwen.Withoutaword,Wittmer

pushedbackhischaironcemoreandleftthekitchen.ToquoteYogiBerra,itwasdéjàvualloveragain.OwenandIsimplylookedateachotherwithnothingtosay.Untilthedoctorreturned.Heplacedwhatwasinhis

handonthetable.“Thismightbeyouranswer,”hesaid.

“IsthatwhatIthinkitis?”askedOwen.“Yes,”saidWittmer.He

foldedhisarms.“Butlet’sbeveryclearaboutonething.Youdidn’tgetitfromme.”

CHAPTER67

THESMALLwhitestuccobuildingwithonlyanumbernexttothedoorandnoothersignagewasn’tquitehidinginplainsightintheheartofGeorgetown.Butitwasn’texactlyoffthebeatenpath,either.FromwhereOwenandIparked,wecouldlookover

ourshouldersandseethebackentrancetoaStarbucksoutonMStreet.Thatjustmadethiswhole

thingfeelevenweirder.Isthateventherightword?Bizarre…surreal…unnerving?Breakoutthethesaurus….Behinduswere

cappuccinos,Frappuccinos,andchaimochalatteswithpumpsofgooey,sweetsyrup.Infrontofus?Atopsecret

CIAlabproducingalethaltruthserumthatskirtstheUSConstitutionandtherightofdueprocesstotheextentthatthestateofKansasskirtstheAtlanticandPacificOceans.“Whataretheodds

someone’sinside?”Iasked,turningofftheengine.Wewereanhourpastsunset,alonefloodlightoverheadprovidingwhatlittleviewwehadoftheone-storybuilding.

Therewerenowindowsinfront.Owenshruggedhisbroad

shoulders.Wittmerhadn’tbeenabletoguaranteetheplacewouldbeempty.“Noclue,”hesaid.Itwasthewayhesaidit,

though,asifthosewordswereabitnewtohim.Icouldn’thelpaslightsmile.“Thatdoesn’thappentoyoualot,doesit?”“What’sthat?”

“Beingcluelessaboutsomething.”Hereturnedthesmile,all

modestyaside.“Nope.”Ireachedintothebackseat,

grabbingmyduffel,whichwassittingnexttohisbackpack.Thekidhadhisbagoftricks;Ihadmine.“Whataboutguns?”Iasked.“Everfireone?”Thelookhegavemewas

thepolaroppositeofclueless.

“IgrewupinNewHampshire,”heanswered.Enoughsaid.Ipulledoutthe

semiautomaticSIGSauerP210,checkedthemagazine,andhandeditover.Livefreeordie….“Youready?”Iasked.Owenunbuckledhisseat

belt,flippedthesafetyalongsidethetrigger,andwithablindhandhookedan

armthroughoneofthestrapsofhisbackpack.“Ready.”Thewalkfromthecarto

thebuilding’sentrancewasnomorethantenyards,albeitazigzaggivenallthepotholesfilledwithwaterfromtheearlierdownpour.Iledthewaywithmy

Glock,nevermorethankfulforitsxenonlightandredlasersight.WitheverymeasuredstepItooktowardtheentrance,thatformer

weaponsinstructorofminebackatValleyForge,theonewiththesandpapervoice,wasallbutechoingbetweenmyears.Aprickandaprophetallatonce.Sometimesshithappensin

thedark….

CHAPTER68

“ONEMOREforluck,”IwhisperedtoOwen,reachingoutwithmyarm.Iwasmakingafistsotighteveryfingernailwasdiggingdeepintomypalm.We’dstationedourselves

oneithersideofthewindowlessdoor,bagsatour

feetandourbackspressedhardagainstthestucco.I’dalreadyknockedonce.Thesecondknockgotthesameresult.Eithertheplacewasemptyorwhoeverwasinsidewasn’tanswering.“Myturn,”Owen

whisperedback.Intheageofretinal

scanners,digitalthumbprintreaders,andwhateverotherparanoid-inspiredgizmosexistthatmakesureonly

certainpeoplegetintocertainplaces,Wittmerhadgivenusalittlepieceofirony.Asimplekey.Actually,itmadecomplete

sense.Banksneedvaultsandguardsandsecuritycamerasbecausepeopleknowthat’swheretheykeepthemoney.This,ontheotherhand,wasfourwallsandaroofbarelybiggerthanashacktuckedbehindanalleywithallthefoottrafficofaVineyard

VinesstoreinNewark.Inotherwords…Justmakesureyoulockthe

doorbehindyou,Doc.Still,OwenandIcouldn’t

helpwonderingthesamething.Hoping,really.ThatwecouldtrustWittmer.Inaway,hewasmerelya

middleman.Thecrucialpartofhisjobwaspickinguptheserumandtransportingitoverseas,anMDashumanmule.Possessingallthe

requisitepaperworkforaninternationalhumanitarianmission,hewasabovesuspicion.Barelyaneyebrowraisedthroughinternationalcustoms.Somuchbetterthan

swallowingtwodozenlittleballoonsandapostflightmealofEx-Lax.“Okay,”Iwhisperedto

Owen.Hewasholdingupthekey,

hisanswertothequestion

thatitwould’vebeenredundantofmetoaskaloud.Whatnow?Slowly,Owenreachedout,

slidinthekey,andgaveitatwist.Webracedforeverything.

Analarm.Anattackdog.Thenightcleaningcrew.Everything.Instead,pushingthedoor

open,wegotexactlywhatwedesperatelywanted.Nothing.Justsilence.Anddarkness.

ImotionedforOwentostayput,peeringaroundthehingeslikesomeguywho’dseentoomanycopshows.Beforeturningonanylights,Iwantedtoshinemygunaroundabit,asitwere.Thegoodnewsaboutthatxenonlightattachmentwasthatbeingontheothersideofitwaslikelookingintothehighbeamsofanoncomingcar.TheflashlightapponOwen’sphonetimesten.

Basically,Iwasawalkingone-waymirror.Thefirstsurprisewasthat

therewasnoreceptionarea,justashorthallway.Afterasmallkitchentotheleftandanevensmallerbathroomdirectlyoppositeontheright,everythingwasrightthereinfrontofme,anditwasprettymuchasadvertisedbyWittmer.“Thefacility,”hecalledit.

IstaredthroughtheblastofwhitelightfunnelingoutfrommyGlock,theredstreakfromthelasersightmovingwithmyhandsfromonecorneroftheroomtothenext.Onlythefarwallhadwindows,threeacrosswithhorizontalslatblindsthatweredrawnandclosedtight.WhatIwaslookingatwas

somewherebetweenahighschoolchemistryclassroomandamethlab,notthatI’d

personallyseenalotofmethlabs.Truthbetold,everythingIknewaboutthem—aswellaspedophiles,runawaybrides,highschoolteacherswhosleepwiththeirstudents,andpeoplewhotrytohirehitmentokilltheirspouses—Iowedtoaguilty-pleasurehabitofwatchingDatelineNBC.Eveninthemoment,the

thoughtwasallbut

inescapable.Thiswouldmakeonehellofanepisode….Theroomwasmessy.

Almostchaotic,eveninitsstillness.Therewerethingseverywhereonthelargeislandinthecenter.Vialsandbeakers.AcoupleofBunsenburners.Acentrifuge,aswellasafewotherbulkymachinesthatwereacombinationofglassandstainlesssteel,includingonethatwasconnectedtoalarge

ventilatingairductthatshotupstraightthroughtheceiling.Therewasalsoaredbinderstuffedthickwithpapers.Whattherewasn’t,though,

wasanothersurprise.Wewerealone.Ilookedbackovermy

shoulder,Owen’ssilhouettepeekingoutfrombehindthedoorway.“Noonehome,”Isaid.

Andtechnically,thatwasthetruth.

CHAPTER69

THESMARTESTthingIcoulddowasgetoutofhisway.Owensteppedintothe

room,flippedonthelights,andclosedthedoorbehindhimsofastIwasoutofbreathjustwatchinghim.Thekidwasonamission.

Atfirst,Ididn’tquiteunderstandtherush.Sure,wedidn’twanttoloiter,butitwasn’tliketherewasashotclocktickingawayinthecorner.Wehadtime.ThenIsawhimreachfor

it.Thewayhereachedforit.Sidlinguptotheislandin

themiddleoftheroom,hehadoveradozenthingstochoosefrom,includingwhatappearedtobetheserumitself,containedinarackof

vials.Hebarelyevennoticedthem,though.Itwasasiftherewasonlyoneitemhecaredabout,andthatwaswhenIunderstood.Withbothhands,hepulled

theredbindertowardhim.Ofallthebaseemotions

thatmusthavebeenkickingaroundinhisheadoverthepastfewdays—anger,fear,guilt,tonameafew—theywerestillnomatchforwhat

makesageniusagenius.Curiosity.Someonehadpiggybacked

onhisbrainandtakenhisworkintounchartedterritory.Itmighthavebeenseriouslymisguidedandultimatelydoomed,butitwasalsosomethingelse,theonethingincommonwithanythingthatpushestheboundariesofinnovation.Itwasbold.AnddamnifOwendidn’t

wanttoseetheblueprint.

Silently,Iwatchedhimmakehiswaythroughthepagesinthebinder,oneafteranotherafteranother,hisindexfingertracingthewordsandformulaslikehewasinoneofthoseoldEvelynWoodspeed-readingcommercials.Ikeptwaitingforhimto

takesomesortofmentalbreather,attheveryleastasimplepause.Scratchhischin.Shifthisweightfrom

onelegtotheother.Instead,hekeptplowinghiswaythrough,barelyeventakingthetimetoblink.Then,suddenly,hefroze.I

tookthatasmycue,iftherewasevergoingtobeone.“Whatisit?”Iasked.Sillyme,thinkingIwas

abouttogetananswer.IwasprettysureOwendidn’tevenhearme.Hewastoobusynowlookingaroundtherestoftheroom,hiseyes

pinballingfromoneitemtothenext.Whateverhewassearchingfor,though,hecouldn’tfindit.Thatwaswhenhishead

snappedbackwithanidea.Hespunonhisheels,

disappearingintothesmallkitchenbythedoor.Icouldheartherefrigeratoropen,followedbytheshiftingandrattlingofmetalandglassware.Again,itwaslike

someonehadastopwatchonhim.“Youokay?”Icalledout.Owenreappeared,

clutchingalargeStyrofoamcup.Hewasstaringdownintoit.Icouldn’tseefromwhereIwasstanding,butIwasguessingitwasn’tcoffee.“N-stoff,”hesaid,finally.N-stoff?Ilookedathim

blankly.Itcertainlywasn’tmyfirstblanklooksince

we’dbeentogether.“Excuseme?”“Thatwasthecodename

ofchlorinetrifluorideattheKaiserWilhelmInstituteinNaziGermany.”Great.MoreJeopardy!I’ll

takeRandomTriviaWhenYouLeastExpectItforsixhundred,Alex….Atmycontinuedblank

stare,Owenwenton.“TheNazisexperimentedwithchlorinetrifluorideasa

combinedincendiaryweaponandpoisongas.Whatabigsurprise,right?Thingis,though,itwastoovolatile.Itwouldliterallyexplodeintheirfaces.”“Andthat’swhatyou’re

holdinginyourhand?”Iasked.“Threefeetawayfromme?”OwentiltedthecupsoI

couldseetheslightlygreen-and-yellowishliquidinsideit.“Itdoesn’treactwithclosed-

cellextrudedpolystyrenefoam,”hesaid.Ishothimadeadpanlook.

“YoumeanStyrofoam?”“Yeah,sorry,”hesaid.“Of

course,ifthisweremostanymetal,likeanaluminumcan,forinstance…thenboom.”Iswallowedhard.“Then

thankGodforStyrofoam,”Isaid.“Butwhatdoeschlorinated—”“Chlorinetrifluoride,”he

said.“CTF.”

“Yeah,whatdoesCTFhavetodowiththeserum?”Iasked.“I’mnotsureithas

anythingtodowiththeserum.”“Whyareyouholdingit,

then?”Itseemedliketheobviousquestion,asdidmyfollow-up.“Howdidyouevenknowitwashere?”“It’slistedinthebinder,”

hesaid.“Underwhat?”

“Inventory.”Howneatandorganizedof

them.“Sotheyneededitforsomething,right?Ifnottheserum,thenwhat?”IwatchedOwen.Hewas

thinking.Atleast,thatwaswhatIthought.Hisheadwascockedtotheside,hiseyesnarrowedtoasquint.Ofallthings,hebegan

removinghissneakers.Huh?Ithenwatchedashetiptoedpastmeoh-so-quietlyinhis

barefeet—hewasn’twearingsocks—andcarefullyplacedtheStyrofoamcuponthecenterislandintheroombeforepickingupmySIG,whichhe’dsetdown.What’sgoingon?Iwasabouttoaskthatvery

questionwhenhisindexfingershotupintheair,stoppingme.RightthenIknew.Hewasn’tthinking;hewaslistening.He’dheardsomething.

Andthenextsecond,Iheardit,too.

CHAPTER70

ITWASthesoundofsomeonetryingnottomakeasound,anotherwisequietsetoffootstepsbetrayedbythewetpavementoutsidethebuilding.Myguesswasrunning

shoes,maybecross-trainers.Somethingwithasoftand

forgivingsole,perfectforsneakingaround.Unless,ofcourse,it

happenedtobeafterarainstorm.Rubberandwaterdon’tplayquietlytogether.IlookedatOwen.He

lookedatme.Webothlookedatthelightswitchbythedoor.Ifthosefootstepswerecomingforus,theyalreadyknewwewereinside.Nopointmakingitanyeasiertobeseen.

Owengrabbedthebinder,stuffingitinhisbackpackbeforekillingthelights.HesettledinthedoorwayofthekitchenareabytheentrancewhileIslippedoffmyPumasandquietlyliftedmyduffelovertothedoorwayofthebathroomoppositehim.Withourshoesoffand

bagsintow,welookedlikewewereabouttogothroughairportsecurity.Ofcourse,whatwewouldn’thavegiven

foranX-raymachinetoseethroughthedooroutside.Noonecouldblameusfor

beingparanoid,andhopefullythatwasallwewerebeing.Butbettertobesafethandead.Wehadthedoorcovered.

Ourshoeswerebackonourfeet.IwasononekneewithmyGlockraised,thexenonlightturnedoffandthelasersightaimedwaisthigh.

Nexttome,Owenwasstandingwithhisstrong-sidelegslightlybacklikeaboxerandhiselbowsbentjustalittle.TheWeaverposition,asit’scommonlycalledamongpoliceandmilitary.Smallerprofile,greaterstability.Somewhereinhisnineteen

years,someonehadclearlytaughthimthat.Notsurprisingly,thekidhadpaidattention.

AminutepassedwithOwenandmehavinganentireconversationwithoutwords.Justnods,shrugs,andprolongedstares.Neitherofuscouldhear

whatwe’dfirstheard.Inaglass-half-fullworld,thatmeantitwasjustsomepasserby.Arandom.MaybesomeStarbucksemployee—excuseme,barista—takingthebackwayintowork.

Ofcourse,intheglass-half-emptyworld…Wekeptlistening,oureyes

nowtrainedonthedoor.Icouldfeelthesweatforminginmypalms,myrightcalfcramping,thestrainbuildinginmyleftshoulderfromtryingtoholdmygunsteady.Itwaslikeathousandneedlejabs.Butallinall,thefeeling

wasrelief.Thelongerwewentwithouthearing

anything,thebetter.Waybetter.Isn’tthatright,Owen?Iglancedoverathim,just

aquicksnapshotasI’ddonebefore.ItwassofastmyeyeswerealreadyturningbacktothedoorwithoutreallyfocusingonwhatIwasseeing.Afterall,Ialreadyknew

whatIwasseeing.ItwasOweninthesamestancehe’dhadfromtheget-go.

Weweremaybefourfeetfromeachother,giveortakeaninchortwo.Ofcourse,sometimesthat’sthedifferencebetweenlifeanddeath,isn’tit?Aninchortwo.

CHAPTER71

MYHEADswiveledbacktoOwensofastIcouldliterallyfeelabreezeinmyleftear.Hehadmovedeverso

slightlytohisright,justenoughthathishead—barelyhalfofit,really—wasnowpeekingoutfromthe

doorwayofthekitchenarea.Exposed.Andjustlikethat,thered

dotattheendofthelasersightfrommyGlockwastrainedonthebackofhisskull.Onlyitwasn’tmygun.It

wassomeoneelse’s.“Down!”Iyelled,diving

acrossthehallway.Thesoundsoftheshot

fired,thebrokenglass,andmyshoulderbarrelinginto

Owen’sribcageallrolledintoonepiercingcrack!asasecondbreezehitmyleftear,thisonecourtesyofthebulletthathadjustbarelymissedme.Byaninchortwo.OwenandIcrash-landed

onthelinoleumfloorofthekitchen.Immediately,hehaditfiguredout—themistakewe’dmadeignoringthewindows.Justbecausethe

blindswerecloseddidn’tmeantheshooterwasblind.Twowords.“Thermal

imaging,”hesaid.Thenextsoundwasthe

blindsbeingviolentlyyankeddown,followedbymoreglassbreaking.Wescrambledtoourfeet.“He’scomingin,”Isaid.“No,butsomethingelseis.

Infiveseconds,it’sgoingtogetrealsmokyinhere.”

Actually,itwasmoreliketwoseconds.Thecanisterlandedwitha

thud,thesoundofitrollingtoastopquicklyovertakenbythehissingoftheteargas.Icouldn’thelpstatingtheobvious.“We’vegottogetoutof

here,”Isaid.“Notquiteyet,”said

Owen.Notquiteyet?

Thegaswaspushingtowardus,fillingthehallway.Oureyesandthroatswereabouttogetscorched.AllIknewwasthatstayingputgaveusnochance.Thefactthatwewerearmedgaveusatleastafightingchance.ButOwendidn’tevenlook

attheSIGI’dgivenhim,stillgrippedinhisrighthand.Infact,heputitdown.“Whatareyoudoing?”I

asked.

Buthewastoobusydoingittoanswer.Hewassearchingthecabinetsabovethecounter,openingonedoorafteranother.Untilhefoundit.Owenturnedbacktome,

holdinganotherlargeStyrofoamcup,thisoneempty.Ihadnoideawhathewasthinking.“Pleasetellmethatcuphas

somethingtodowithourgettingoutofhere,”Isaid.

Owennodded.“Itdoes,”heanswered.“Nowtakeoffyoursocks.”Mysocks?

CHAPTER72

THEREWASnotimetoaskwhy,notwithmyeyesfeelingthefirststingfromtheteargasfilteringintothekitchen.Thefirstcoughcouldn’tbetoofarbehind.Iquicklytookoffmysocks

andgavethemtohim.Hell,ifhehadaskedmetostandon

onelegandclaplikeaseal,Iprobablywould’vedonethat,too.Anythingtospeedthingsalong.“NowIneedsomecover,”

hesaid.ButOwendidn’tpickup

hisbackpackasifwewereleaving.Andwhenhestoppedjustshyofthedoorway,waitingformetolineupbehindhimwithmyGlock,hewasn’tlookinglefttowardthedoor.Hewas

lookingright.Asin,rightintothelineoffire.ThatwaswhenIknew.He

wasgettingthatchlorinestuff,theCTF.Notthateitherofuscould

actuallyseeitbythispoint.He’dleftitontheislandinthemiddleoftheroom,butthecupholdingit—alongwiththeislanditself—haddisappearedinthecloudabovethecanister.

OwenliftedtheneckofhisT-shirtoverhisnoseforamakeshiftmask.Clearly,I’dpickedthewrongdaytowearabutton-down.“Go!”Isaid.Isqueezedoffafewrounds

throughtheshatteredwindowsasOwenflunghimselftowardtheisland.Forbetterorworse,whoeverwasoutthere,singularorplural,knewwewerearmed.

Buttherewasnoredstreamoflightaimedourway,noreturnfire.Meanwhile,thecoughing

officiallykickedin.Owenwasdoingthesame.Ontheplusside,itwastheonlywayIcouldgetareadonwherehewas.Iwaswaitingforhissignal

soIcouldsprayafewmorebulletsashecameback.Hedidn’tbother,though.NextthingIknew,hewascrawling

intothekitchenonhishandsandknees.Or,atleast,onehand.In

hisotherweremytwosocks.Ididn’tneedtoaskwhatwasinsidethem;OwenhadputacupcontainingsomeoftheCTFineachone.Infact,IwasprettysureI

haditnailed,especiallywhenthefirstthinghedidwasgrabalighterfromhisbackpack.Whathe’dcreatedwasakintoacoupleofMolotov

cocktailsstraightoutoftheMacGyverschoolofimpromptuweaponry.Lightthefuse,akamydirtysocks,andletherrip.Turnsout,Ijustgotthe

chemistrybackward.IkneltdownwithOwen,

theonlybreathingroomleftbeingafootoffthefloor.Wewerecoughingupourlungsnow,ourthroatsburning.Tearswerestreamingdownourcheeks.

Whichmadethequestionhemanagedtogetoutallthemorebizarre.“Youeverplaycornhole?”

heasked.Once,atatailgateparty

beforeaYankeesgame.ThoughInevercouldbringmyselftocallitthat.Itwasbeanbagtoss,asfarasIwasconcerned.Inodded.“Yes.”“Good.Becauseit’snotthe

fire,it’sthewater,”hesaid.

“Fire’sjusttheaccelerator.”“Whatdoyoumean?”“Imeanyou’vegottohita

puddleandyou’veonlygotoneshot.”Cornhole.“Okay,”Isaid.WhatthehellelsecouldI

say?Itwasn’texactlythebesttimetoraisemyhandandquestionhowwatercouldturnthisliquidintoasmallbomb.Sometimesyou’vejustgottogowiththeflow.

Wegrabbedourbags.“Maybethere’sonlyone

guyoutthere,butI’mguessingmore.Wedrawtheirfire,andwefireback,”hesaid.“Youthrowleft,Ithrowright,andthenwebothrunstraightasfastaswepossiblycan.”“Whataboutthecar?”I

asked.Owenlookedatme,andof

allthingscrackedasmile.Wewereatdeath’sdoor—quite

literally—andyetsomehowhemanagedtoseemmoreexcitedthanscared,likeamadscientistabouttofliptheswitch.“Dude,”hesaid.“Ifthis

works…therewon’tbeacar.”

CHAPTER73

HEREGOESeverything…Iyankedopenthedoor,

barelyjumpingbackintothebathroomintimetoevadethebarrageofbulletslitteringthehallway.Owenhaditpegged;there

wasdefinitelymorethanoneshooter.Thecrisscrossingof

alltheredlasersightslookedlikeaPinkFloydconcert,completewiththeteargasassmoke.ItwasUsandThem,all

right.Theyhadasmallarmyandautomaticweapons.Wehadpistols.Oh,yeah.Andsocks.Thesplitsecondthefirst

waveended,Icrouchedlowandpeekedoutsidewiththexenonlight,squeezingoffshotswhilelookingforthe

nearestpotholesfilledwithwater.Nottoonear,though.

Collateraldamageisnowaytodie.Ijumpedbackasthe

secondwavecame;thisonewasevenmorefuriousthanthefirst.Thedrywallwasliterallydisintegratingallaroundus,everybulletlaunchingabitofwhitechalkthroughtheair.Mixedwiththeteargas,itwaslikewe

wereinasnowglobefromHell.“Where?”yelledOwen.“Fifteenfeetatten

o’clock,”Iyelledback.“Andyours?”“Twentyfeetattwo.”Helitthebottomofhis

sockandtossedmethelighter.“I’llthrowfirst,thenyou,”hesaid.“Fine.Agebeforebeauty,

dude.”

Iflickedmythumb.Thesockcaughtfireimmediately.I’dsaythefeelingwaslikeholdingalivegrenade,butitwasn’tlikethat.Itwasthat.Spinningaroundagain,I

sprayedbulletsbackandforthlikeawindshieldwiperbeforesteppingasidesoOwencouldthrow.IwasgivinghimlightfrommyGlockthebestIcould.Assoonashereleasedhissock,heunloadedtherestofhis

magazineandpeeledtotheside.Myturn.Therewasnotimetoaim,

buttherewasalsonotimetothinkaboutitandchoke.Ijustletitfly.Itwasthesecondlittle

fireballtossedthroughtheair.Whoknowswhattheymusthavethought?Maybenothingatall.Theyweretoobusytryingtogunusdownaswe

dovebackoutofthedoorway.Itossedanothermagazine

toOwen,whoquicklyreloaded.Therewasonethinghe’dforgottentomention.WhenthisCTFstuffmixeswithwater,howlongdoesittakebefore—BOOM!Theexplosionshookand

shatteredeverythingaroundus.Everywall,everynearbywindow.Sufficeittosay,

anyonestandingoutsidewasnolongerontheirfeet.Theproverbialrugnotjustyankedoutfrombeneaththem,butincinerated.Buthowlonguntiloneof

themgotbackup?Goodquestion.Run!Rightnow!OwenandIdidourbest

ButchandSundance,launchingoutofthebuildingwithgunsblaring.Weweresprintingasfastaswecould,

hopingagainsthopethatwe’dboughtourselvesenoughtime.Thatmadeforanevenbetterquestion.Wasthatboomtheresultof

onesockortwo?ThatwaswhenIsawhim.

Lookingovermyshoulder—itwasoneoftheshooters.AcloneofthetwoguysupinNewYork.Wasthereafactorysomewhere?Dazedbutclearly

determined,hewas

staggeringtohisfeetwithhisarmraised,anditwasn’ttowavehello.ThankGoditwasonlyone

sock.BOOM!OwenandIcaughtthe

edgeofthesecondblast;itsearedourbacksandsentushurtlingforwardacrossthepavementfortheEvelKnievelofroadrashes.Ithurtlikeasonofabitch,likeIwasbeingskinnedalive.

AndI’dneverfeltluckierinmylife.Aswehelpedeachother

up,welookedbacktoseeweweretheonlyonesstillstanding.Notthatwewereabouttolinger.“I’dhigh-fiveyou,butI

havenoskinleftonmypalms,”saidOwen.“Me,neither,”Isaid.

“C’mon,Iknowadoctorweshouldsee.”

CHAPTER74

THERE’SANGRY.Thenthere’ssmoldering.Andthenthere’sliterallysmoldering.“What’sthatsmell?”asked

thecabdriver.“It’slikesomething’sburning.”“It’sjustourclothes,”I

saidmatter-of-factly.Thesmellwasalsooursinged

flesh,butIdidn’tfeeltheneedtomentionthat.Eitherway,thatlittletree-

shapedairfreshenerhangingfromtheguy’srearviewmirrordidn’tstandachance.We’dbeenburned,all

right.Setupbig-time.Andnowitwastimefora

littlefollow-upvisitwithDr.DouglasWittmer.Noappointmentnecessary.Hewassoconvincingin

hiskitchen.Ofcoursehewas.

Hewastellingusthetruth.Theonlyliewashisallegiance.Whothehelldidhecallafterwelefthim?Wehadthetaxidropusoff

oneblockdownfromhistownhouse.TherewasnotellingifWittmerwasstillalone,butfirstwehadtoseeifhewasthereatall.Maybehe’dgonetochurch

forconfession.Ifhehad,he’dwalked.His

blackJaguarwasstillthere,

parkedinthedrivewayaswhenwe’dfirstapproachedhim.Toobadhehadn’tgivenus

asecondkey,theonetohisfrontdoor.“Howsoonbeforea

neighborcallsnine-one-one?”IwhisperedtoOwen,onlyhalfjokingasIpeeredinsideoneofthewindows.Withourtattered,

bloodstainedclothesandshreddedhands,knees,and

elbows,thetwoofuslookedlikewe’djustwanderedoffthesetofTheWalkingDead.Atbest,wewereacoupleofburglars.Atworst,itwasthezombieapocalypse.IturnedbacktoOwen

whenhedidn’trespond.He’dbeenrightbehindme.Nowhewasn’tanywhere.Finally,Ifoundhimback

downbythestreet.Hewasstaringupatatelephonepole.

“Whatareyoudoing?”Iasked.“Lookingforthecamera.”“Whatcamera?”“Theywerewatchingfrom

eitherinsideoroutside.Actually,probablyboth,”hesaid.“Inside,though,gavethemaudio.”Istoodtheretryingto

reverseengineerwhathewassaying.Ifwewerebeingwatchedwhenwefirst

showeduptoseeWittmer,thenthatmeant…“Jesus,whydidn’tyousay

anything?”Iasked.“Wewerecomingheretoconfronthim;herattedusout.”“Ineversaidthat.”“Youdidn’thaveto.Itwas

agiven,”Isaid.Atleast,Ithoughtitwas.“Youmean,hedidn’ttipthemoff?”“Highlyunlikely.”“Thenwhyareweeven

here?”

Owenwasstillstaringupatthepole.“Tosearchformoreevidence,”hesaid.“Stuffhedidn’tsharewithus.”“What,youthinkhe’s

goingtoletusjustwaltzrightinandtakewhatwewant?”Finally,Owenturnedto

me.“We’rehardlygoingtoneedhispermission,”hesaid.BeforeIcouldaskwhy

not,hewasalreadyhalfway

backtoWittmer’stownhouse,headingupthesteps.Onceagain,thebestI

coulddowastrytokeepupwithhim.

CHAPTER75

THEREWASzerohesitation,nonewhatsoever.Infact,Owenhadalready

takenoffhisT-shirt—whatwasleftofit—andwrappeditaroundhishandbythetimehereachedthetopstep.Iwasonlyafewfeetbehindhim,

butIcouldseewhatwascomingnextamileaway.What’salittlebreaking

andenteringamongfriends?Withaquickrightjab,the

windowtotheleftofWittmer’sfrontdoorallbutdisappeared.Workingclockwise,Owenknockedawaythefewholdoutshardsuntilwecouldbothclimbthroughwithoutdonatinganymorebloodfortheevening.

Justaguess,butbeingtwopintsdownonacavernouslyemptystomachisprobablynotrecommendedbytheAmericanMedicalAssociation.OwenputhisT-shirtback

on,enteringfirst.Ifollowed.AndatnotimedidIbotheraskinghimwhathewasn’ttellingme.IfiguredI’dknowsoonenough.Evensooner,asitturned

out,whenourarrivalin

Wittmer’sfoyerwasgreetedwithnothingandnoone.Justadeadsilence.Theproverbial“badfeeling

aboutthis”wassuddenlyspreadingfastfrommygut.“Upstairs,”saidOwen.Hemighthavejustbeen

talkingtohimself.Icouldn’ttell.Eitherway,therewasnosignofthedoctoronthefirstfloor.If“sparselyfurnished”was

thepolitewayofdescribing

thedownstairsofWittmer’shome,theupstairsmadethefirstfloorlooklikeanepisodeofHoarders.Ofthefirstthreebedroomswelookedinto,onlyoneactuallyhadabed.Andbybed,Imeanaqueen-sizedmattressontopofaboxspringontopofaHarvardframe.Nosheets.Nopillows.AndstillnoWittmer.Whichonlymadeitworse,

thatfeelingofdread.Thetighteningofthechest

muscles.Theextrapullonthelungswitheachbreath.Theinescapabletruthof

somethinginevitable.Becauseatnotime—not

foronefractionofasecond—didIthinktherewasachancethatWittmerwasn’tthereinhishome.Theonlyquestionwaswhere.“Here,”saidOwen.Thistime,hewas

definitelytalkingtome.Pointing,too.He’dturnedthe

cornerintothemasterbedroom.Twostepspastthe

doorway,Isawhim.Wittmer,wearingthesameclothesaswhenwe’dlefthim,waslyinginthebedonhisback.IfIhadn’tknownbetter,I’dhavesaidhewassimplyasleep.ButIdidknowbetter,if

onlybecauseOwenknewbetter.

Wittmerwasneverwakingup.

CHAPTER76

MEANSANDmotivation.Thewholestorywasrightthereinfrontofus,exactlyasintended.Althoughitwasn’tintendedforus.Onthebednextto

Wittmer,wheretheghostofhiswifesurelyslept,wasalargephotoalbumopenedto

aspreadfilledwithhappy,lovingpicturesofthetwooftheminParis.TheywerekissinginfrontoftheEiffelTower,arminarmbeneaththeexternalHabitrail-likepipingoftheCentrePompidouinBeaubourg,andplayfullyleaningagainstLouisDerbré’sLeProphèteintheJardinduLuxembourg,thegoldenheadofthestatue—andtheirfaces—beaminginthesunshine.

ClaireandIusedtotalkaboutgoingtoParistogether.Butlifeisninetypercenttalk,isn’tit?Asifconnectingthedots,

myeyesmovedfromthephotoalbumovertotheemptypillbottle,theorange-brownishvarietyyougetfromyourlocalpharmacy.Only,therewasnolabelonit,noindicationofaprescription.

Ironically,thatmadethestoryevenmoreconvincing.Wittmerwasadoctor,afterall.Whatpillswouldn’thehaveaccessto?Itallmadesomuchsense.

Ofcourse,thatwaswhyitwasallbullshit.Iwascatchingonquick,all

right.Certainlyfasterthanthepolicewould,ifatall.Oddsweretheyneverwould.Thiswasnosuicide.

“Temazepam,ifIhadtoguess,”saidOwenwithanodtotheemptypillbottle.“Veryeffectiveforinsomnia,MichaelJacksonnotwithstanding.Oneinjection,probablytothecarotidartery,andthecoronerwouldneverknowthedrugwasn’tswallowed.”TheimageofWittmer

givinginjectionstotheprisonersinStareKiejkuty

flashedthroughmymind.Oh,theirony…Withouteventhinking,I

leanedin,lookingatWittmer’sneckforaneedlemark.Ididn’tknowwhy,Ijustdid.Ifeltsorryforhim.He’dmadehischoices,buthedidn’tdeservethis.“Christ,wecan’tevencall

thepolice,”Isaid.Wittmerlivedalone.There

wasnotellinghowlongitwouldbebeforehisbodywas

discovered.ThesamecouldbesaidfortheguyinmybathtubbackinManhattan,butIcouldn’tgivearat’sassabouthim.Thiswasdifferent.“Maybewecould

somehowleaveananonymoustip,”Isaid.“Whatdoyouthink?”Iwasstillstaringat

Wittmer’sneck,waitingforOwentoanswer.Whenhedidn’t,Iturnedaround.

Again,hewasgone.Icalledouttohim.“Inhere,”heresponded.Ifollowedhisvoicetothe

onlyroomleftonthesecondfloorwehadn’tsearched.Wittmer’soffice.Unlikeeveryotherroom,

though,thisonelookedthepart.Alarge,messydesk,stackedbookcases,andawell-wornleatherarmchairwithanottoman.Therewasevenarug—afadedcrimson

andgoldPersianwithtassels,someofthemfrayed,someofthemmissingaltogether.Tocallitalived-inlook

wouldbeanunderstatement.Infact,whatitreallywas,wasdepressing.Thiswasn’tWittmer’s

office.ThiswasWittmer.Period.Inthewakeofhiswife’sdeath,hislifehadbecomedefinedbyhiswork.Thiswasallhe’dhad.

“Whatareyoulookingat?”Iasked.“SomethingIshouldn’t

be,”saidOwen.“Notifthey’retryingtocovertheirtracks.”

CHAPTER77

HEWASstandingbyoneofthebookcases,staringlongandhardatapictureinadust-coveredsilverframe.ItwasanoldphotographofWittmerfromhisundergraddaysatPrinceton,agroupshotofsomemembersoftheCapandGowneatingclub.

Ofcourse,ifithadn’tbeenfortheengravingatthebottomoftheframesayingasmuch,Ineverwould’veknownthat.SowhyisOwenstaringat

itsointently?Ileanedinclose,focusing

onWittmer.Helookedsoyoung.Happy.Alive.“WhatamInotseeing?”Iasked.“Thewholepicture,”Owen

said.

IfI’dsomehowlosttheforestforthetrees,therewasstillnofindingitasIcanvassedtheotherhalfdozenfacesstaringbackatmeinthephoto.Owenallbutexpectedasmuch,givingmeahint.“Hehadalotmorehair

backthen,”hesaid.Withthat,hereachedout

withhisindexfinger,tracingalinefromWittmertotheguyontheend,whowas

lankyand,yes,hadonlyahintofarecedinghairline.ButnowIcouldpicture

himbald,andindoingso,allIcouldsee—andrecognize—wasthesamesmirkmasqueradingasasmilethathealwaysflashedininterviewsasifthereweren’taquestionintheworldthatcouldevertriphimup.Ofcourse,thatwas

accordingtoClaire,whohad,infact,interviewedhimfor

theTimes.Shesaidhereekedofcoffeeandcockiness.“ClayDobson?”“Exactly,”saidOwen.“Okay,soWittmerwentto

schoolwiththepresident’schiefofstaff,”Isaid.“Whatareyousuggesting?”“Aconnection.”“Ormaybeit’sjusta

coincidence.”“Yeah,exceptforone

thing,”hesaid.“Therearenocoincidencesinpolitics.”

ThatsoundedalotlikeanAaronSorkinline,butIwasn’tabouttodebateit.“Whatkindofconnection?”Iasked.“Doyoumean,like,orchestrated?”“Ofcoursenot,”said

Owen,asfacetiousasIwasincredulous.“NothingillegaleverhappensintheWhiteHouse.”Pointtaken.Multiple

points,actually.Armsforhostages…sexwithanintern

andthenlyingaboutitunderoath…acertainbotchedburglaryatahotelonlyahandfulofmilesfromwhereOwenandIwerestanding?Suddenly,theonlythingI

couldhearinmyheadwasthevoiceofthen-senatorHowardBakerduringtheWatergatehearings,askingoneofthemostfamous—ifnotthemostfamous—politicalquestionsofalltime.

Whatdidthepresidentknowandwhendidheknowit?Thenagain,maybewe

weregettingaweebitaheadofourselves.Ileanedinagain,staringat

theimagesofWittmerandDobson.“It’sstillonlyapicture,”Isaid.“You’reright,”Owen

replied.“It’spossiblethatit’snothing.Ofcourse,it’salsopossiblethatLawrenceBass

reallydidwanttospendmoretimewithhisfamilyinsteadofrunningtheCIA.”I’dforgottenaboutthat.

Owenhadn’t.We’dwatchedtheannouncementBasshadmadewithhiswifeandtwoyoungdaughtersintheEastRoomoftheWhiteHouse.Theguyhadbeenthepresident’spicktobecomethenextdirectoroftheCIA.Notonlywashepassingthat

up,hewasresigningfromtheNationalSecurityCouncil.Still.ForgetAaronSorkin.

ThiswasstartingtofeelmorelikeanOliverStonefeverdream.“So,now…what?Bassis

somehowconnected,too?”Iasked.Only,thistime,Icould

hearitinmyownvoice.Thatincreduloustonewasmissing.Owencouldhearit,too.

“Justforthesakeofargument,”hesaid,“whatiftherereallywasapathtotheWhiteHouse?Howwouldwefollowit?”Betweenthetwoofus,I

wastheonlyonewithalawdegree,butyoucould’vefooledme,thewayheaskedthatquestion.Becauselawyers—thegoodones,atleast—neveraskaquestiontheydon’talreadyknowtheanswerto.

Iwasn’ttheonlyonewithWatergateonthebrain.“Fortherecord,youdon’t

lookanythinglikeDustinHoffman,”Isaid.Owengavemeaquick

head-to-toe.Hesmiled.“Yeah,andyouwishyoulookedlikeRobertRedford.”

BOOKFOUR

PANTSONFIRE,

EVERYTHINGONFIRE

CHAPTER78

CLAYDOBSONgazedacrosstheclutterofhislargeoakdesk,lockingeyeswithhis9a.m.appointmentwhiledoingeverythinghecouldnottobreakintoashit-eatinggrin.Itwasn’teasy.

ThemorninghadalreadybroughtthegoodnewsfromFrankKarcherthattheirlittleprobleminNewYorkhadbeentakencareof—righthereintheirownbackyard,noless.Thekidandthereporter’sboyfriendwerebothdead.Ofcourse,sowashisold

collegechum,Wittmer,buttherewasareasonDobsonhadhadcamerasplacedinsideandoutsideWittmer’s

home.He’dneverfullytrustedtheguy.Wittmerwasweak.So,too,wasLawrence

Bass.Thatwaswhatmadethis

meetingwithhimsuchalay-up,thoughtDobson,theformersmallforwardforthePrincetonTigersbasketballteam.Darehethinkit,aslamdunk.Afterall,Basshadn’tbum-

rushedhimouton

PennsylvaniaAvenueorcorneredhimwithaclenchedfistinthemen’sroomattheBlueDuckTavern,whereallthepoliticalheavyweightsfedboththeirstomachsandtheiregos.Instead,he’dmadean

appointment.Anappointment?Thatwaslikeknockingonadoorinsteadofkickingitdown.Totalmilquetoast.Noballs.

“I’dlikeanexplanation,Clay,”saidBass,sittingwithlegscrossedontheothersideofthedesk.Eventhatwasweak,

thoughtDobson.He’dlikeanexplanation?No,youdolt,youdemandanexplanation!Yeah,thedecisionto

sandbagBass,theformerdirectorofintelligenceprogramswiththeNSC,waslookingbetterbythesecond.Hewould’vemadealousy

headoftheCIA,notthatheeverreallyhadashotatthegig.Basswassimplyadecoy,thefallguywhowouldpavethewayforFrankKarcher.“Trustme,”saidDobson,

foldinghisarms.“Karchisnottheloosecannonyouthinkheis.”“Soit’sreallygoingtobe

him?”askedBass.“Therumor’strue?”“ThisisWashington,

Larry.Whatrumorisn’t?”

Bassletgowithadefeatedsigh,slouchingabit.Dobsonwashappytohavehimventalittle,buttheybothknewBasshadnorecourse.Hewasagoodsoldier,andgoodsoldiersfallinline.Asifhavingjustreminded

himselfofthat,Bassstraightenedupinhischair.Theairreturnedtohislungs,hischestexpanding.“Iserveordon’tserveat

thepleasureofthepresident,”

hesaid.“Iunderstandthepoliticsinplay,andIappreciateyourwantingtolookoutformeandmyfamily.”“Youhavemyword,”said

Dobson.“Inafewmonths,you’llhaveyourpickofjobsandcompletefinancialsecurity.”Bassnodded.“Iknow,and

likeIsaid,Iappreciatethat.It’sjustthat…Karcher?Really?”

“Listen,Iunderstandyourfrustration,Ireallydo,”saidDobson,risingfromhischair.Hewalkedovertothecredenzaandpouredhimselfmorecoffee.Itwashisthirdrefillofthemorning.“Oh,I’msorry,”hesaid,turningbacktoBass.“Doyouwantacup?”“Actually,Ido,”Basssaid.

“Thankyou.”Dobsoncockedan

eyebrow,surprised.The

coffeeofferwasmerelyoutofpoliteness.Aperfunctorygesture.EveryoneandtheirmotherknewthatBassabstainednotonlyfromalcohol,butalsofromcaffeine.ItwastheoneandonlythingheandKarcherhadincommon.ForadevoutCatholic,Bass

wasmoreMormonthanmostMormons.Wasthisthefirstloose

thread,wonderedDobson?

ThebeginningofthecompleteunravelingofLarry“HaloHead”Bass?Coffee…thenalittle

whiskeyinthecoffee…thenholdthecoffee,justgivemethewhiskey?Inthemeantime,“Howdo

youtakeit?”askedDobson.“Cream?”“No,butthreesugars,”

Basssaid.Dobsonturnedhisback,

reachingforthesugarbowl

andspoononthecredenza.Hebeganscooping.“Youlikeitsweet,huh?”“Yes,”saidBass.“Sweet.”Likerevenge.

CHAPTER79

THEREWEREtwothingsonFrankKarcher’sto-dolistthatmorning.Bothborderedonadeathwish.ThefirstwaslyingtoClay

Dobson.Brightandearly,atoh-seven-hundredhours,hetoldthepresident’schiefofstaffthatthekidandthe

formerlawyerwereeliminated,theirbodiesdisposedofsothoroughlythatevenGodhimselfdidn’tknowwheretheywere.Howmuchtimethiswould

buyKarcher,hedidn’tknow.ButtherewasonlysomuchbadnewsandperceivedincompetencehecoulddumpinDobson’slap,andthatquotahadalreadybeenmetinspades.

SoitwastimeforplanB.Asin,bullshit.He’dplayedthegameinsidetheBeltwaylongenoughtoknowhowthingsreallyworked.Whenthetruthdoesn’tcooperate,stoptellingit.Sureenough,Dobsonwas

sorelievedtothinkthekidwasnolongerathreatthatthecollateraldamage—thestuffthatactuallywastrue—wastakeninstride.WhenhewastoldaboutWittmer,aswellas

abouthavingtoshutdownthenowbullet-riddenlabbehindMStreet,Dobson’sonlyresponse,afterapregnantpause,was“Sothekidisdefinitelygone,right?”Ofcourse,thefactthatthe

kidactuallywasn’tgonewasmerelysemantics,aminordetail,asfarasKarcherwasconcerned.Sometimesalieisjustthetruththathasn’thappenedyet.

Orsohe’dconvincedhimselfashemadehiswaytotheoutskirtsofMcLeanandtheoff-sitetraininggymoftheCIA’sSpecialActivitiesDivision,thesamedivisionhe’dheadedupyearsagobeforemovinguptheladdertobecometheNationalClandestineServicechief.Thereasonthegymwas

off-sitewasbecauseit“officially”didn’texist.Norwasitopentoalltheagents-

in-trainingoftheSpecialActivitiesDivision.Onlyaselectgroupwasinvitedtojoin,theCIA’sequivalentofGreenBerets.Accordingly,hanginga

signoutfrontthatreadMENONLYwould’vebeenredundant.Payingavisittothegym

wastheseconditemonKarcher’sto-dolist.Itpromisedtobeonetheyoungagentswouldneverforget,

althoughthatwaspreciselywhattheywererequiredtodo.Nothing“officially”

happensinaplacethatdoesn’tofficiallyexist.Bargingthroughthedoor,

hisheelsstompingthecementfloorwitheachandeverystep,Karchermarchedstraightacrossthemiddleofthewindowlessgymtowardanold-schoolboomboxonamilkcratethatwaspumping

outMetallica’s“ForWhomtheBellTolls.”Withoutbreakingstride,he

grabbedatwenty-five-poundbarbelloffarackandheaveditdeadcenterintotheboombox,aperfectstrikethatshatteredthecheapmoldedplasticintoahundredpieces.Thegymimmediatelyfellsilent,saveforthelingeringechoofLarsUlrich’sdrumbeats.

Then,aspatientlyaspossibleforamandesperatetosavehiscareer,Karcherwaiteduntileverysetofeyeswaslookingdirectlyathim.Hescratchedthechinunderneathhisoversizedheadbeforefoldinghisarms,hisdeepvoicefillingtheroomuntiltherewasnoescape,notforanyone.“Okay,hebarked.“Who’s

thetoughestmotherfuckerhere?”

CHAPTER80

THEREWEREnotakers,novolunteers.This,despitethefactthat

membershipinthisparticulargymwaspredicatedonbeingabadass,andbeingproudofit.Asmartbadass,though.

Someonenotproneto

unnecessaryriskorexposure,or,attheveryleast,someonewhoknewatrickquestionwhenheheardone.Karcherglancedaround

amidthedeafeningsilence,makingsuretolockeyeswiththedozenorsomenintheroom.Hewasgivingeachandeveryoneofthemhislive-grenadelook,thefull-oncrazy,thekindofbatshitstarethatcouldmakeCharlesMansonhimselfstepback

andsay,“Hey,man,whoa…chillout.”ButKarcherwasonly

gettingstarted.Slowlynow,hemadehis

wayovertothelargestagentintheroom,abrickwallwithabuzzcutwhowassittingonthebenchpressbetweensets.TheveinsripplingupanddowneacharmlookedlikemapsoftheDCMetrorail.“DoyouknowwhoIam?”

Karcherasked,almost

politely.Theyoungagentnodded.“Yes.”Karcher’sfaceimmediately

soured.Somuchforpolite.“ThenstandthefuckupwhenI’mtalkingtoyou.”Theagentstood.Hehad

fourinchesonKarcher,easy.Butrightthen,rightthere,hehardlyseemedtaller.“What’syourname?”

askedKarcher.“Evans,sir.”

“WasIeverheretoday,Evans?”“No,sir.”“Wereanyofushere

today?”“No,sir.”“Sononeofitever

happened,right?”Theagent,Evans,blinked

afewtimes.Confusioninhiseyes.Noneofwhat?What’sabouttohappen?Regardless,hisanswer

wasn’tabouttochange.“No,

sir,”hesaid.“Itneverhappened.”Karcherleanedin,hisbig

headgettingrightinEvans’sgrill.“I’lltellyouwhatdefinitelydidhappen,”hesaid.“Thethree-someIhadwithyourmotherandanotherwhorelastnight.”Evanscrackedaslight

smile.He’dhardlybeintheCIA,letalonetheSpecialActivitiesDivision,ifhe’dtakenthebait.

Butthisheapofchumwaspushingthings.“Yourmom’squitethe

moaner,”Karchercontinued.“Youwanttohearwhatshesoundslike?Doyou?Doyou?”Evansdroppedthesmile,

hisjawtightening,hisfistsballing.Heshiftedhisfeet,ifonlytogivehimselfsomethingelsetodobesidesdeckingKarcher,whowasfarfromfinished.

“You’rejustgoingtostandthereandtakeit,Evans?Huh?Likeyourmotherdidonherhandsandknees?Whatkindofapussyareyou,Evans?Youdon’twanttotakeaswingatme?C’mon,boy,takeaswingatme!”Asifthatinvitation

weren’topenenough,Karcherstuckouthischin.Hewaited…waited…waited…beforefinallyshakinghisheadindisgust.

“Yeah,Ididn’tthinkso,”hesaid.Neitherdidanyoneelsein

thegym.AcoupleoftheotherguysevenletoutaudiblesighsofreliefasKarcherturnedtowalkaway.Only,hewasn’twalkingaway.Hewaswindingup.Karcherspunaroundand

threwhisfirstpunchlikehewasthrowingajavelin,thrustingtheflatofhis

knucklessquareintoEvans’ssolarplexus.Thebiggertheyare…Theyoungagentfelltohis

knees,immediatelygaspingforairthathenolongerhad.HewasdefenselessandteeduplikeaTitleistasKarcherbeganswinging,hittinghimoverandoverandoverintheface,thebloodrupturingfromhisnoseandmouth.C’mon,youidiots,what

areyouwaitingfor?Stop

watchingmeanddosomething.Getinhere!Thegroupinertiafromthe

initialshockworeoff,theotheragentscollapsingonKarchertopullhimawayfromEvans.Karcherfeignedastruggle,tryingtobreakfreefromallthesetsofhandsholdinghimback.Buthewasn’tlookingfor

peacemakers.“That’sright,protectyour

boy,Evans!”Karcher

shouted.“Youprobablyallwipeeachother’sasses,too.Infact,Iwouldn’tbesurprisedif—”Pow!Thepunchcameoutof

nowhere,asdidtheguywhothrewit—aHispanicagentwithashavedheadwhocouldn’thavebeenmorethanfive-eightwhilestandingonhistoes.“Martinez,no!”someone

shouted.

AcoupleoftheotheragentsletgoofKarchersotheycouldholdbackMartinez,ortryto.Martinezpushedthemaway,oneaftertheother,andresumedgoingafterKarcher,unleashingabarrageofrightjabsuntiltheskull-and-bonestattooontheinsideofhiswristbecameablur.Everyonebackedaway

now.TherewasnostoppingMartinez.Karcherfelltoone

kneeandthenboth,hisheadwhippingbackandforthwitheachpunchuntilfinallyhecollapsed,hisblood-soakedfacehittingthegroundwithanauseatingsquish.Martinezloomedoverhim,

likeAlioverListon,daringhimtogetupformore.ButKarcherhadnosuchplans.He’dgottenwhathe’dcomefor.Martinezhadjustowned

himinafight.Butnowhe

ownedMartinezforever.Winner,winner,chicken

dinner…

CHAPTER81

“MYNAME’STrevorMann,”Itoldtheguyintheblacksuitwhoopenedthefrontdoor.Helookedfarmorebodyguardthanbutler.“IbelieveMr.Brennanisexpectingme.”“Heis,”Iwastoldwitha

nodthatsomehowmanaged

tobebothdeferentialanddisinterestedatthesametime.“He’soutback.I’lltakeyou.”Great,youdothat.Justso

longasyoudon’tfriskmefirst.AsmuchasIdidn’treally

thinkthatwasapossibility,Iwasn’tahundredpercentsureofanything.Theguy’sboss,JosiahBrennan,didn’theaduponeofthemostpowerful—andprofitable—lawfirmsinDCbasedonhisgood

looksandSoutherncharmalone,althoughthosecertainlydidn’thurthiscause.Toreadanythingaboutthis

self-described“goodol’boyfromTennessee”wastoknowthatwhenhewasdoneslappingyourback,hewasjustascapableofputtingaknifeinit.Andnotjustfigurativelyspeaking.Whichprettymuch

explainedtheGlockinmy

shinholster.HadBrennanalreadybeen

tippedoff?Didheknowthetruthaboutme?Ordidhebuythelie?Iwalkedbehindhis

henchman—allsixfootsixofhim,ifIhadtoguess—throughthefront-to-backfoyerthesizeofacathedral.Alongtheway,Ididmybesttogetthelayofthelandwithoutbeingtooobvious.Aquickpeekdownahallway

here,aslightcraneoftheneckthere.Whenthemomentwasright,Icouldillaffordtobewastingtimeinthewrongrooms.“Verycozy,”Ijoked,my

voicepracticallyechoing.Mr.Henchmansmirked,

openingapairofoversizedFrenchdoorstothebackyard.“Thisway,”hesaid.“Followme.”Trustme,Lurch,Iwas

followingyoubeforeIeven

knewwhoyouwere….Forthepastseventy-two

hours,tuckedawayintheComforterMotelnearArcolawith$9.95-a-dayWi-Fi,OwenandIhaddoneourbestWoodwardandBernstein,takingDeepThroat’sadvicefromthemomentwe’dleftthelateDr.Wittmer’shouse.Followthemoney.Notthatthetrailwaseasy.

TracingthetitleofthelabwhereWittmerpickedupthe

serumrequiredalittlemorethanafieldtriptopublicrecordsatcityhall.Whoeverowneditdidn’t

wantanyonetoknow.Checkthat…theyreallydidn’twantanyonetoknow.ThetangledweboftrustsandLLCswaschock-fullofmisdirectionandredherrings,nottomentionthekindoffirewallsdesignedtokeepthemostserioushackersonthesidelines.

Ofcourse,there’sserious…andthenthere’sOwen.Afterawhile,Isimplystoppedasking“Howdidyoudothat?”FromGeorgetownto

DelawaretotheChannelIslandstoadifferentbankintheChannelIslandsandthenbacktoDelaware,themoneymovedlikeacarousel,aroundandaround.Butonethingstayedthe

same.Brennan’slawfirm.

Whatwasmore,BrennanhadpersonallydraftedalltheLLCagreements,includingallfilingswiththestate,themostboilerplateoflegaldocuments.ThatwaslikehiringMarioBatalitoheatupsomeChefBoyardeespaghettiandmeatballsforyou.Inaword,overkill.OrmaybeforaWhite

Housechiefofstafftakingnochances,justtherightamountofkill.

Problemwas,wewerestillmissingthatproverbialsmokinggun:somethingthatdirectlylinkedBrennantoClayDobsonorwhoeverelseownedthatlabbehindMStreet.Owenhadhacked

Brennan’slawfirm’snetworktonoavail.NowthequestionwaswhetherBrennanhadapersonalcomputerathome.Goodthingmyfacehad

healed,becauseitwastime

formyclose-up.Iwason.

CHAPTER82

HEY,ROOKIE,lookoutforthelefthook!Duringmyfirstyearwith

theManhattanDA’soffice,whenIwasasgreenasaplateofpeas,thechiefassistantdistrictattorney—aformerGoldenGloveswelterweightchampionfromJerseyCity—

usedtoputuphisfistsandbarkthatatmebeforethestartofeverytrial.Inotherwords…expecttheunexpected.“Watchyourstep,”warned

Mr.Henchman.“I’msorry,what?”Theguypointedtothe

groundaswewalkedthroughtheFrenchdoors.“Thedrop-off,”heexplained.“Oh,”Isaid.That’swhat

youmeant.

Andwiththat,Isteppeddownontoamassivepatioofblueslatewithgrassedgings,immediatelywonderingifI’dperhapsstumbleduponthesetofaRalphLaurenad.Therewereaboutfifty

people,evenlysplitbetweengenders.ThemenwereallinblueblazerswithPopsicle-coloredslacks—cherry,orange,andlemon.Onthewomenweresleeveless

sundressesexposingtannedandtonedarms.Suddenly,Iwaskeenly

awareofthefactthatI’dbeenwearingthesamepairofbrownchinosforthepastthreedays.Atleastthesportcoatandwhitebutton-downwerenew,purchasedjustforthisoccasion.“He’soverhere,”saidMr.

Henchmanwithaglancebackoverhisshoulderatme.

Afteranothertwentyfeet,hepeeledoffattheexactmomentthatBrennanturnedaroundtofacemeasifhehadeyesinthebackofhishead.“Iknoweveryoneelse

here,soyoumustbeTrevorMann,”hesaid,flashinganear-blindinggrin.Hepromptlyextendedhishand.Itwashardnottonoticethatinhisotherhandwasadouble-barreledshotgun.

Atleastitwasn’tpointedatme.Notyet.NosoonerdidBrennan

shakemyhandthanhepracticallyspunmearoundsohecouldintroducemenotjusttothetwocoupleshewastalkingtobuttotheentireguestlist.“Ladiesandgentlemen,”

hebegan,playingupwhatremainedofhisSoutherndrawlafterdecadesinDC,aswellasafewyearsin

Manhattan.“IthinkitwasWillRogerswhofamouslysaidthatyounevergetasecondchancetomakeagoodfirstimpression.Withthatinmind,Ihaveafavortoaskyouall.”Hepromptlyputhisarm

aroundmeasifhe’dknownmeforyears.“ThishereisMr.Trevor

Mann,”hecontinued.“He’sanesteemedprofessorupnorthwiththeColumbiaLaw

School,which,muchtothechagrinofmyConfederateflag–wavingfather,happenstobemyalmamater.Mr.Manncalledmetwonightsagobecausehe’salsoafreelancewriterfortheNewYorkTimesandthey’relookingtodoaprofileonmefortheirSundaymagazine.Sothefavoristhis:ShouldMr.Manncorneroneofyouatanypointthisafternoonandaskforyouropinion

aboutme,here’swhatIneedyoutodo.Liewithimpunity.”Everyonelaughed,except

fortheJessicaLangelook-alikewhoweavedherwaytowardme,rollinghereyes.“You’llhavetoforgivemy

husband,there’snothinghelikesmorethanthesoundofhisownvoice,”shesaid.“Mr.Mann,mayIpresent

mybeautifulandbrutallyhonestwife,Abigail,”saidBrennan.

Thepolitesmileshegavemesouredquicklyasshecaughtsightoftheshotguninherhusband’shand.“Josiah,youpromised,”shesaid.Heturnedtomewithno

admissionofguilt.“Haveyoueverdoneanyskeetshooting,Mr.Mann?”“No,Ineverhave,”Isaid.“Terrificsport,butthewife

hatesit,I’mafraid.”“Whatthewifehatesis

havingpiecesofclaybirds

scatteredalloverherlawn,”saidAbigail.“They’recalledpigeons,

darling.ThoughwouldyouratherIshootatrealbirdsinstead?”Abigaillinkedherarmin

mine.Itwasflirtatious,butitwasalsoanact.IfIhadtobet,I’dwagershewasevensmarterthanherhusband.“Haveyouevernoticedthat,Mr.Mann?”sheaskedme.

“Thewaylawyershaveacomebackforeverything?”“Ithinkthat’swhatmakes

themlawyers,”Isaid.Brennanlikedthatanswer.

“DidyouknowthatMr.Mannhereusedtobequitethepracticingattorneyhimself?”“Usedtobe?”asked

Abigail.“Mr.Mannmadea

principledstandinarather

noteworthytrialupinNewYork,”saidBrennan.“Somesayprincipled,

otherssayboneheaded,”Ipointedout.“Indeed,”hesaid.“That’s

thedilemmaofaman’sintegrity,isn’tit?Onewayortheother,therealwaysseemstobeapricetopay.”Brennanheldmystareforafewmomentsbeforeflashingthatblindinggrinagain.“Now,

c’mon,let’sgodirtyupmywife’slawn.”

CHAPTER83

SOCIALETIQUETTEmayvaryfromcountrytocountry,butinthegoodoldUSA,whenthehostofapartyaskshisguestsifthey’dliketowatchhimshowoff,there’sreallyonlyoneanswer.Lookinglikeapreppy

parade,everyonefollowed

Brennanoffthepatiotoalongstretchofgrassthatwassomewherebetweenasixandaseveniron.Offtoeithersidewerethesmallhouses—ortraps,asthey’realsocalled—forlaunchingtheclaypigeons.Onetrapreleaseshigh,theotherlow.Okay,soIliedtoBrennan.

Itwasmorelikeafib,really.I’dbeenskeetshootingbefore.Twice,actually.Speakingofmyprincipled

stand,theheadofthehedgefundwhereI’dbeengeneralcounselwasahugefanofthesport.I’msurehemusthavemisseditterriblyduringhistwo-yearstintbehindbars.Thenagain,inthesewhite-

collar-crimeprisonsthatdoubleascountryclubs,maybetheskeetcoursewasnexttothetenniscourts.“Who’sfirst?”asked

Brennanaswegatheredinasemicirclearoundhim.

Translation?WhowantstosuckatthisfirstsoI’lllookthatmuchbetterwhenit’smyturn?Therewerenotakers,

whichhardlyseemedtodisappointBrennan.Ifanything,herelishedtheapprehensionamonghisinvitedmaleguests.Finally,hegothis

volunteer.Bychoosinghim.“Harper,”hesaid,pointing.

“Ibelieveyou’rethe

youngestofthefirm’spartners,isn’tthatright?”PoorHarper,whoeverhe

was.Theguysteppedforwardwithaforcedsmile,takingtheshotgunfromhisbosslikeavegetarianpickingupadoublecheeseburger.Clearly,hewasacityboy.Probablytheonlyhuntinghe’deverdoneinhislifewasforanapartment.Brennanprovidedhimwith

aquicktutorialbeforegiving

nodsinthedirectionofbothtraps,eachbeingmannedbyaguysportingtheuniversalhired-handpose:feetslightlyspread,armsbehindtheback,fingersclasped.Pull!Harpermissedterriblywith

bothshots.Onthebrightside,hedidn’tkillhimselforanyoftherestofus.Samefortheother“volunteers”Brennansummonedafterhim.Noonecouldshootalick.

“Yourturn,Mr.Mann,”Ikeptwaitingtohear,andtobehonest,thethoughtofshatteringatleastoneofthoselittleclaysuckers,ifnotboth,wasfeelingprettydamngood.Brennan,however,never

lookedmyway.“Perhapsit’stimeIgiveitawhirl,”heannouncedinstead.Butbeforehecouldeven

reachdownintotheboxofshellsbyhisfeet,hiswife,

Abigail,chimedinwithanodtoTitleIXandherfellowwomen.“Whataboutoneofthegirls?”sheasked.Brennandidn’tmissabeat.

“Honey,webothknowhowmuchlifeinsuranceIhave.ThelastthingI’mabouttodoishandyoualoadedgun.”“Iwasn’ttalkingabout

me,”shesaidoncethelaughtersubsided.“Perhapsoneofourfemaleguestswouldliketotry.”

“You’reright,”saidBrennan.Whatelsecouldhesay?“Howaboutit,ladies?Ididn’tmeantoexcludeyou.”Butofcoursehedid.HadI

trulybeenwritingaTimesprofileonhim,Iprobablywould’venotedthatlessthantenpercentofhisfirm’spartnerswerewomen.Still,aswiththemen,there

werenotakers.Justsilence.“C’mon,now,”he

prodded.“Ipromiseyou

won’tbreakanail.”Wow,hereallyjustsaid

that,didn’the?Noonewasgroaning,

though.Instead,theguestsweretoobusyturninginsearchofthevoicethathadsuddenlycalledoutfromthepatio.“I’llgiveitashot,”she

said.

CHAPTER84

ONAscaleofonetotenforentrances,itwaseasilyaneleven.Steppingoffthepatioand

joiningtheRalphLaurenadonthelawnwasthequintessentialBenettoncouple—astunningall-Americanblondeonthearm

ofahandsomeMiddleEasternman.Thatsaid,alleyeswereon

theblonde.She,too,waswearinga

sleevelesssundress,entirelywhitewithaplungingneckline,butamidallthetanandtonedarmsoftheotherfemaleguests,hersappearedalittletanner,alittlemoretoned.“Shahid,youmadeit!”

OursemicirclearoundBrennandidaRedSeapartsothecoupleofthemomentcouldgreetthehostandhostess.Allanyoneelsecoulddowaswatchandlistenastheman,Shahid,introducedhisplus-one,BeverlySands.“BeverlyandIonlyjust

met,soyouneedtomakemelookgood,”saidShahidwithatugonhisroyal-blueblazer.“Ithinkyoulookpretty

goodalready,”saidAbigail,

linkingherarmwithShahid’s.Thiswasclearlyhersignaturemove.“Actually,Iwasgoingto

askthesameofyou,Shahid,”saidBrennanbeforeturningtofindmeamonghisguests.Isteppedforward.“TrevorMann,I’dlikeyoutomeetaclientofmine,ShahidAlDossari,andhisfriend,BeverlySands.”“Verynicetomeetyou

both,”Isaid,shakingtheir

hands.“Soyouknow,Trevor’s

writingaprofileofmefortheNewYorkTimes,”Brennanexplained.Shahidnodded,impressed.

SodidBeverly.Butforasplitsecond,beforehernod,Icould’vesworntherewassomethingelse.Asortoflookshegaveme.Asquint.Inaword…doubt.Or,hell,maybeitwasjust

thesuninmyeyes.

Whateveritwas,itcameandwent,herattentionreturningquicklytoBrennan.Specifically,theopenshotgunnestledoverhisforearm.Playfullybutwithanedge,

sheasked,“SoamIgoingtoshootthatdamnthingornot?”“Hell,yes,”saidBrennan,

snappingto.AsAbigailsteppedback

withShahidstillloopedon

herarm,BrennanproceededtogiveBeverlythesametutorialhe’dgiventhemen,albeitwithconsiderablymorecareandattention.Themorehetalked,themoreshehungonhiseverywordlikearaptpupil.“Likethis?”sheasked,

unsure,proppingthebuttofthegunhighagainsthershoulder.“Actually,youwantto

bringitalittlelower,

sweetheart,”saidBrennan,guidingthestockdownafewinches.“AndIaimbylooking

through…?”“Youwanttolineupthe

frontandrearsights,”hesaid,pointingthemout.“Sonowwhathappens?”

sheasked,closingoneeyetoaim.“Nowyoutrytoshootone

oftheclaydisksthatwillbecomingoutofthoselittle

housestoyourleftandright,”saidBrennan.“Justone?”Hechuckled.Sodidmore

thanhalfoftheothermeninthecrowd.“Ortwo,ifyou’dlike,”saidBrennan.“Feelfreetoshootthemboth.Ain’tnothin’wrongwithalittleoptimism.”Withthat,helookedback

atShahidandgavehimawink.

“Okay,I’mready,”saidBeverly.“Great,”saidBrennan.“All

that’slefttodoissay—”ButBeverlySandsknew

exactlywhattosay.Amongotherthings.“Pull!”sheyelled.Asfastasthepigeonswere

releasedfromthetraps,theyshatteredevenfaster.Firstthelowone,thenthehighone.Twoquickblastsandthey

wereblowntopieces…alloverAbigailBrennan’slawn.Casually,Beverlyhanded

theshotgunbacktoastunnedBrennanandimmediatelylookeddownatherhand.“Whatdoyouknow?”she

saidwithaperfectshrug.“IthinkIbrokeanail.”

CHAPTER85

I’DBEENaroundalotofgooddefenseattorneys,andthebestofthemwerealwayslightningquickontheirfeetwhileoozinggraceunderpressureatalltimes.Theyalsoknewano-winsituationwhentheysawone.

Inotherwords,therewasnowayJosiahBrennanwastakinghisturnwiththatshotgun.“Allright,then,”hesaid,

turningtohisguestswiththebestself-deprecatinglaughhecouldmuster.“Ithinkit’slunchtime.”Themenubackonthe

patiowasaneclecticmixofupscaleanddown-home.NexttothegrilledNewZealandbabylambchops

werebakedbeansandcornbread.Thenapkinswerelinen,theutensilsplastic.Iftheredvelvetcakeandthetrifleweretoorichforyou,therewasatrayofRiceKrispietreatsmadebytheBrennans’nine-year-olddaughter,Rebecca,wholookedlikeamini-meofhermother.Ifiguredahalfhourtoeat

andmingleandblendinwiththecrowd.Thenitwastime

togetlost.Asformypermissiontowanderaimlesslyinsomeoneelse’shome,thatwasaseasyasthreewords.“Where’sthebathroom?”Imadesuretoposethe

questiontoMr.Henchman,sincehewastheonlyguywhosejobitwastomakesureIdidn’tdowhatIwasabouttodo.Inhismind,atleastforafewminutes,Iwas

accountedforinsidethehouse.“Downthehall,second

left,”hetoldme.Closingthedoorbehind

meinthebathroom,Icountedtothirtywhilestaringatanequestrian-patternedwallpaperthatevenAnnRomneywould’vepassedon.IncaseMr.Henchmanwasstandingwatch,Ithenflushedthetoiletandranthesinkforafewseconds.

Buthewasn’tstandingwatch.Iwasaguest,afterall.Thatwould’vebeenweird.Walkingoutofthe

bathroomfreeandclear,IimmediatelyturnedintoMontyHallonspeed.What’sbehinddoornumberone?Andtwo?Andthree?Paydirtcamewithdoor

numberfour.Themahoganybookshelves,thestuddedleathercouchandmatchingarmchairs,thepaintingover

themarblefireplacedepictingamuteofhoundsinpursuitofafox—basically,justtheoverwhelmingstenchoftestosterone—leftnodoubtthatIwasinBrennan’shomeoffice.Andsittingatopahuge

partnersdeskthesizeofapooltablewasthewholereasonformybeingthere.Quickly,Ireachedformynewprepaidcellphoneand

dialedOwen,whowaswaitingbackatthehotel.“Okay,I’mstandingin

frontofhiscomputer,”Isaid.“It’salaptop,aToshiba.”“That’llwork,”Owensaid.

“Yourememberwhattodo?”Idid.First,Ihadtoinstall

theflashdrivehe’dgivenme,onlyitwasn’taflashdrive.Itjustlookedlikeone.Owencalledita“phantom”becauseitoverrodeanyandallpasswordrequirements—

fromaccessinginternaldocumentstoe-mailaccounts—andleftnotraceoftheuser.ItwouldbeasifIhadneverevenbeenthere.Aphantom.“Okay,we’reup,”Isaid,

staringatthedesktoppage.Thankfully,itbootedupquickly.“We’reonhiswirelessnetwork.Readyonyourend?”“Ready.”

IbroughtupInternetExplorer,typingintheWebaddressOwenhadgivenme,whichwasaseriesofnumbersthatmeantnothingtomeuntilheexplainedthatitwaspimultipliedbypitothetenthdecimal.Yeah,thatfigured,too…“Doyouseeit?”heasked.“Yep.”The“it”wasasitehe’d

namedMoonshine,because,accordingtoOwen,itwas

homemadeandalwaysdidthetrick.ThekidwaslikeaVegasmagician,thewayhehadanameforeverything.Thedifferencebeing,histricksweren’tillusions.Theywerereal.“Okay,givemeabout

thirtyseconds,”hesaid.Inlayman’sterms,Owen

wasnowhijackingBrennan’sharddrive,gainingaccesstoeverydocumenthehad.Intheschemeofthings,needing

onlyahalfminutetodothatwaslikebuildingRomeinaday.ButfromwhereIwasstanding,itwasfeelinglikeforever.Ikeptlookingatthedoor,

fearingtheworst.Itwouldbethenextsecondorthenextsecondafterthatwhensomeonewouldturnthathandleandwalkinonme.Mr.Henchman,orevenworse,Brennanhimself.

Somethingsyousimplycan’ttalkyourwayoutof.“C’mon,Owen,”Isaidto

thebeatofthetick-tick-tickinmyhead.“Tellmewe’redone.”“Justalittlelonger,”he

said.“I’mstartingtogetabad

feeling.”“That’scalledparanoia.”“No,it’scalledempirical

evidence,”Isaid.“Haveyou

beenkeepingadiarythisweek,byanychance?”“Goodone,”hesaid.“Now

domeafavor,willyou?”“What’sthat?”“Gobacktotheparty.”Click.Hewasdone.Ipocketedmyphone,

exitingthebrowserandpoweringdownthelaptopasquicklyasIcould.Allthewhile,Ikeptglancingatthedoor,willingittoremainclosed.

Butitwasn’tthedoorIshould’vebeenworriedabout.Itwasthedesk.Thedesk?

CHAPTER86

ITOPPLEDtothefloorsofasttherewasn’teventimetobreakmyfall.Insteadofthrowingoutmyhands,thebestIcoulddowasleadwithmyshoulder.Betteracrackedcollarbonethanacrackedskull.

Whatthehelljusthappened?DidIreallyjustgetdeckedbythedesk?Sortof.Rightthereunderit,and

stillgrippingmyankles,wastheAnnieOakleyofskeetshootingherself,BeverlySands.WhatonearthshewasdoingthereIwascertainwe’dgettoinamoment.Butfirst,itwaspureinstinctasItriedtokickmyselffree.I

almostdid,too,untilshegrabbedbothmyshins.Uh-oh.Myshins.Thesecondshefeltthe

holsterbeneathmypantleg,outcameasnub-nosed.38thatwasstrappedtoherinnerthighcourtesyofatricked-outleathergarterbelt.VeryLaFemmeNikita.“Whoareyou?”she

demanded.“Whydoyouhaveagun?”

“Rightbackatcha,”Iwould’vesaidifithadn’tbeenforthefactthathergunwasaimedrightatmyhead.Instead,“I’mTrevor

Mann,”Ianswered,tryingtocatchmybreath.“Wemetwhenyouarrived,remember?”“Yeah,butyoudon’twrite

fortheTimes.”“Whatmakesyouso

sure?”

“Youdon’tlooksmugenough,”shesaid.“You’realsotoonervoustobelawenforcement.”“Yeah,well,sorryIcan’t

bemorecoolforyouwithaguninmyface.”Shewaslosingher

patience.“Whatthehellareyoudoinginhere?Whowasthatonthephone?AndwhatdoyouwantwithBrennan’scomputer?”

“Jesus,oneatatime,willyou?Slowdown.”Shemotionedoverher

shouldertowardthedoor.“Wedon’thavethatluxury.”“WhateverItellyou,you

won’tbelieveme,”Isaid.Shewasabouttorespond,

hermouthopentoformthefirstword.Butshesuddenlystopped,pointingatme.“TrevorMann,”shesaid,

repeatingmynameasifrunningitthroughher

memory.“Whydoesthatringabell?”“TheNYPDpension

fund?”Shenodded.Bingo.

“You’rethatlawyer.”“Yes,I’mthatlawyer.”Herfingerwasstill

pointingatme,butfortunatelythegunwasn’t.Sheloweredit.“Honesttoafault,”shesaid.“Thankyou.”

“Thatwasn’tacompliment,”sheinformedme.“Butgoahead,Imightjustbelieveyounow.”Therearetimestotalkand

therearetimestoshutup.Thentherearetimeswhenyou’reonthefloorwithawomanwearingaleathergarter-beltholsterintheprivateofficeofarichandpowerfulmanwho’dbelessthanunderstanding,toputit

mildly,shouldhewalkinonyou.Whateveryoutellher,

Mann,makeitfast….Withthat,Igavethe

quickestpossiblesummationofwhatIwasdoingandwhy.“WethinkBrennanisinvolvedwithsomethingheshouldn’tbe.”“Jointheclub,”shesaid.

“Butwho’swe?”“Meandtheguyonthe

phone.”

“WereyouhackingBrennan’se-mail?”“Somethinglikethat.”“Wasitsomethingmore

thanthat?”Thewaysheaskedthe

question,shesounded—ofallthings—hopeful.Thatwaswhenitclicked,

whatshewasdoingunderneaththegiantdesk.Icouldseethewiresrunningstraightdownfromthetop

throughagrommet-coveredhole.“Youwerebugginghis

phone,weren’tyou?AndIwalkedinonyou,”Isaid.“Somethinglikethat,”she

replied,mimickingme.“Whoareyou,then?”I

asked.Shethoughtforasecond,

weighingthetruthversusapossiblelie.Thetruthwonout.“Myname’snotBeverlySands,it’sAgentValerie

Jensen,”shesaid.“I’mwiththeNSA.”“Sincewhendoyouguys

havefieldagents?”“Wedon’t.Justlikewe

alsodon’tbugphones,”shesaid,standing.Withouttheslightesthintofmodesty,shehikedupherwhitesundress,reholsteringher.38alongherinnerthigh.“C’mon,we’vegottogetbacktotheparty.”Istoodup,fallinginline

behindher.Weweretenfeet

fromthedoorwhenshesuddenlymotionedformetostop.ThenextthingIknew,she

waskissingme.

CHAPTER87

BEFOREIcouldfigureoutwhatthehellwasgoingon,thedoorofBrennan’sofficeopened.Thehingeshadthedistinctsoundofatrainflyingoffthetracks.Immediately,Valeriebroke

awayfromme.We’dbeencaughtintheact:ourmouths

agape,eyeswidewithsurprise.Butbetweenthetwoofus,Iwastheonlyonenotacting.Valeriehadheardthe

footstepsandhadseentheturnofthedoorhandle.Talkaboutthinkingfastonyourfeet.AgentJensenwasevenfasterwithherlips.“Areyoutwocheating?”

theyounggirlasked.Staringatuswithherarms

crossed,waitingforan

answer,wastheBrennans’nine-year-olddaughter,Rebecca.“Cheating?”asked

Valerie.“Youknow,like,havingan

affair?Youcametothepartywithadifferentman,”Rebeccasaid.“Isawyou,don’tlie.”“No…no,honey,”Isaid,

shiftingquicklyintodenialmode.Itwaspurereflex.“Wewerejust—”

ValeriecutmeofffasterthanaNewYorkCitycabdriver.“Yes,youcaughtus,”shesaid.“We’rehavinganaffair.”Ilookedather,stunned.

Didyoureallyjustsaythat?Shereallydid.LittleRebeccanoddedwith

thekindofself-satisfiedgrinkidsgetwhenagrown-uptreatsthemlikeagrown-up.Shepointedatme.

“Youbetterbecareful,then,”shesaid.“IsawthismovieonTV,andwhenthehusbandfoundout,hekilledtheotherguywithasnowglobe.”“Ooh,I’veseenthatmovie,

too,”saidValerie.Sheturnedtome,raisingherhandstoactitout.“Yougethitrightintheheadwiththesnowglobe—bam!—andbloodstartsgushingdownyourforeheadand—”

“Iknow,Iknow!”saidRebeccaexcitedly.Shewasrockingfromherheelstohertiptoes.“Wasn’titgross?”“Totallygross,”said

Valerie.“Like,gagmewithagiantspoon.”Rebeccagiggled.“You’re

funny,”shesaid.“You’realsoreallypretty.”“Thankyou,”saidValerie.

“Ithinkyou’rereallypretty,too.”“Youthinkso?”

“Yes,andyourmothertellsmethatyougototheSidwellFriendsSchool,soIbetyou’rereallysmart,too.”Rebeccalikedeveryword

shewashearing.“DidyouknowthatSashaandMaliaObamagothere?”“Ididknowthat,”said

Valerie.“Haveyoumetthem?”“Yeah,they’renice,which

iscoolbecausetheyreallydon’thavetobe,Iguess.”

IkeptdoingthesmartestthingIcoulddoatthatpoint,andthatwaskeepmybigmouthshut.Brilliantly,effortlessly,ValeriewasbondingwiththisgirlquickerthanKrazyGlue.Soonerratherthanlater,though,she’dhavetoaskthesixty-four-thousand-dollarquestion.Canyoukeepasecret?Butoutofnowhere,

anotherquestionbeatustoit.

Oh,no…“Rebecca,whatareyou

doing?”heasked.

CHAPTER88

WEALLfrozeasMr.Henchmanappearedinthedoorway.AsheglaredatValerieandme,itwastheclosestI’devercometobeingabletoreadanotherman’smind.Tworandomguestswhere

theyabsolutelyshouldn’tbe.

Whatever’sgoingon,itisn’tright.“Youknowyou’renot

supposedtobeinhere,”hesaidtoRebecca.Therewaslittledoubt,though,thathewastalkingtoallthreeofus.“Youcouldreallygetintrouble.”ValerieandIlookedat

Rebecca,ourcollectivefatenowinthehandsofanine-year-oldginneduponthemovieUnfaithful.

Iwasstartingtothinkwedidn’thaveasnowglobe’schanceinHell.EspeciallywhenMr.

Henchmanappliedthefull-courtpress.“Well,Rebecca?WhatamIsupposedtotellyourfather?”Thenagain,somekidsyou

canonlypresssofar.“Geez,Walt,don’thavea

cow!”shebellowed.“Iwasjustgivingthematourofthehouse.”Bothherhandsthen

landedsquarelyonherhips.“Butifyou’resodesperatetotellmyfathersomething,maybeitshouldbehowyouliketodrinkallhisliquorwhenhe’snothome.”Oh,snap.Outofthe

mouthsofbabes…NeverhadIseenaguyso

bigbackdownsofast.Theupperhandnowworepinknailpolishwithglitter.Andonthatnote…

“Thankyouagainforthetour,Rebecca.IthinkI’llbegettingbacktothepartynow,”saidValerie.“Yes,Ireallyshouldbe

gettingback,too,”Iadded.“Butthiscertainlyhasbeenfun.”IfollowedValerieoutof

Brennan’sofficewhile“Walt”remainedbehindtochatalittlemorewithRebecca.IfIhadtoguess,I’dsayhewasnegotiatinga

keep-silentagreementwithherinordertokeephisjob.Forafewseconds,atleast,

ValerieandIwerealoneagain.“Comehere,”shesaid,

quicklypullingmeovertothewallinthehallway.NextthingIknew,shewasmovingtowardmymouthagain.“Whatareyoudoing?”“Don’tflatteryourself,

Counselor,”shesaid,herthumbremovingasmudgeof

herlipstickfrommylowerlip.Shewascleaningmeup,thatwasall.“Sometimesakissisjustakiss.”Shetookastepback,

makingsureshe’dgottenitall.Asatisfiednodtoldmeshehad.“Sonowwhat?”Iasked.“Thatdepends.”“Onwhat?”“Onwhetherwhatyou

suspectaboutBrennanistrue,”shesaid.

“Andifitis?”Shesmiled.“Thenyouand

me?Thisisthebeginningofabeautifulfriendship.”

CHAPTER89

ONEHOURlater,andfromonehotseatintoanother.Ikeptshiftingaroundin

mychair,tryingtogetcomfortable,butIknewitwasn’tthechair.Itwasme.Ihadthatuneasyfeeling,thekindyougetwhenyouthinkyou’rebeingwatched.Only,

inthiscase,IknewforsureIwasbeingwatched.Intheparkinglot.Inthe

lobby.Intheelevator.Inthehallway.Andultimately,intheconferenceroom.Therewerecameraseverywhere.Everythingwasbeingrecorded.WelcometotheNSA’s

headquartersatFortMeade,Maryland.“Whatfunhaveyou

broughtusnow,Valerie?”

askedJeffreyCrespin.Basedonhistonealone,I

wasfairlycertainthewordfuninthatquestionborelittleresemblancetotheactualdefinitionoftheword.Sufficeittosay,ValerieJensenhadneverbeenawardedEmployeeoftheMonth.Nowonder,really.When

I’daskedherbeforethemeetingwhyanagentworkingundercoverwould

riskdrawingsomuchattentiontoherselfwithherskeetshootingexhibitiononBrennan’slawn,shetoldmeshesimplycouldn’thelpit.Quote,“Ijusthatethosepenis-measuringconteststhatmenalwayshave.”Crespin,whowas

introducedtomeasadeputydirectorofsomecounterterrorismdivisionI’dneverheardof,listenedpatientlyinhissuitandtieas

Valerie—nowinsweatpants,aNorthwesternT-shirt,andaponytail—finishedbriefinghimaboutherSaturdayafternoonatBrennan’shouse,whichhadnecessitatedherdraggingCrespinawayfromacharitydinnerandintotheofficeonaSaturdaynight.Thelongandshortofit?

TheirongoinginvestigationtoproveShahidAlDossariwashelpingtolaunderSaudimoneythatwasendingupin

thehandsofAlQaedaoperativeshadsuddenlycollidedwithsomeColumbiaLawSchoolprofessorposingasawriterwiththeTimesandhisunseenpartner,whowereconductingtheirownlittleinvestigation.“Onlyit’snotsolittle,”

saidValerie.Thatwaswhensheturnedtomeandnodded.Itwasmyturntotalk.ButbeforeIcouldgettwo

wordsoutofmymouth,

Crespininterruptedme.“Where’sthispartner,theoneyouwereonthephonewithatBrennan’shouse?”heasked.“That’spartofthe

agreement,”Ianswered.Crespincockedhisheadat

Valerie.Hedefinitelydidn’tlikethesoundofthat.“Whatagreement?”“Let’sjustsaythepartner

hastrustissues,”Valerieexplained.“TheagreementI

madewithMr.Mannisthathewouldcomeherevoluntarilyinexchangeforbeingabletocomealone.”“Doyouatleastknow

wherethispersonis?”askedCrespin.“Idon’t,”sheanswered.

“ButMr.Manndoes.”Hewasstaringatmeagain.

“AndIsupposethat’sgoingtoremainyoursecret,right?Whoheis…whoheworksfor?”

“Yes,butIknowofawayyoucouldprobablygetitoutofme,”Isaid,grabbingthesegue.“Thatis,ifitdidn’tkillmefirst.”Withthat,Itookoutaflash

drivecontainingtherecordingsOwenhadfirstshownme,alongwiththeonesfromDr.Wittmer.Thestagewasmineagain.Or,atleast,Iwasmakingitmine.Valeriehadalaptopbooted

upandreadytogo.Thiswas

hersecondviewingwithinthehour.IdispensedwithanyprefaceandsimplyclickedPlay.I’donlyjustmetCrespin,

butIwashardlysurprisedtoseehimstareatthescreenstone-facedashewatched.Theguywasstoic.Likeadoctor.Ihardlyexpectedhimtorecoilatthesightoftorture.Buttherewassomething.

IthappenedatthebeginningofoneofWittmer’srecordings—thedetaineewhowascooperatingundertheinfluenceoftheserumbutwasstillkilledbyit.Theverymomenttheguy’sfacewasvisibleon-screen,CrespinglancedatValerie.AndValerieglancedback.“What?”Iasked.“Whatis

it?”“Nothing,”saidValerie.

ButIknewthesoundofthatnothing.ItwasthesamenothingI’dtoldDetectiveLamontandhispartner,McGeary,whentheywereshowingmetherecordingofClaire’smurderontheCrackerJack:themomentwhenshestuffedherphonebehindtheseat.Yeah,thatnothingfrom

Valerie?Itwasdefinitely

something.

CHAPTER90

“HOWDIDyougetthese?”Crespinaskedcalmlyafterthelastrecordingwasfinished.Itwastemptingtojoke

abouttheirony.HerewastheNSAaskingmehowI’dgotteninformationIwasn’t

supposedtohave.Yeah,that’srich.HowdidIgetthese?“The

howisn’timportant,”Isaid.“It’sthewho.”Andnotjustwhowas

responsible,butalsowhohadbeenkilledalongtheway.Crespinneededtounderstandthestakes,thepriceothershadpaid.Iexplainedeverything

OwenandIknewforsure,aswellaswhatwesuspected.

We’dbeenfollowingthemoney,butwestilldidn’tknowwhoseitwas.Brennan,throughhislawfirm,hadbeenmovingthatmoneybutnotsupplyingit.Ithadtocomefromsomewhere,though.Asfortheserumitself,Dr.

WittmerhadimplicatedFrankKarcher,theNationalClandestineServicechiefoftheCIA,asthemanwho’dfirstapproachedhimabout

transporting—andadministering—itoverseas.Finally,therewasthe

photoinWittmer’shousesuggestingthatClayDobsoncouldbeinvolved.“Couldbe,”Istressed.Iwasn’tabouttotrytosell

CrespinontheideaoftheWhiteHousebeinginvolved,asIwashardlysoldontheideamyself.Forstarters,wehadnothingthatlinkedKarchertoDobson.

Funny,though,howtheworldworkssometimes.WhenIwasdone,Crespin

flippedopenamanilafolderinfrontofhimandremovedalarge,folded-uppieceofpaper.Hesliditinfrontofme.“What’sthis?”Iasked.Goahead,saidhisnod,

openit.Iunfoldedthepaper.Itwas

acopyofthefrontpageoftheNewYorkTimes.Nottoday’s,

though.Noteventomorrow’s,whichwould’vebeentheSundayedition.No,thiswasMonday’s

paper—aneditor’smock-up,completewithmarginnotesanddummytextforacoupleofarticlesstilltobeinserted.Instinctively,Ilookedat

mywatch.IknewfromClairethatweekdayeditionsoftheTimeswenttoprintaroundteno’clockthenightbefore,withthe“firsteditionA

book,”akathefrontsection,alwaysclosinglast.Wewereafulltwenty-fourhoursbeforethat.ItfeltabitlikeaTwilight

Zoneepisode.Crespinwasshowingmethefuture.Istareddownatthepaper

again.Ididn’task,butallIcouldthinkwasHowdidhegetthis?Ifhewasn’treadingmy

face,hewasdefinitelyreadingmymind.

“Thehowisn’timportant,”hesaid.Hethenpointedtothefirst-columnstoryabovethefold,thetipofhisindexfingerlandingdirectlynexttothenameintheheadline.“It’sthewho.”

CHAPTER91

THEREITwasinboldfacetype.

PresidentSettoNominateKarcher

AsNextCIADirector

Quickly,Iscannedthefirstparagraph.Myguttoldme

there’dbenoneedtoreadthesecond.FrankKarcherwasbeing

dubbedthe“unexpectedchoice,”butan“unnamedsourcewithintheWhiteHouse”wascertainlybendingoverbackwardtodescribehimasanimpeccablecandidate.“Ithadalwaysbeenacoin

flipbetweenFrankKarcherandLawrenceBass.Headsor

tails,though,it’sournationalsecuritythatwins.”Thoseunnamedsources

surecanspin.Crespinstoodupfromthe

tableandwalkedovertothewindow.Hestaredoutside,sayingnothing.Meanwhile,Valeriehadgrabbedthelaptop,herfingersfuriouslytappingawayonthekeypad.Ididn’tknowwhatshewas

doing,butIfiguredCrespinmustbedeepinthought,

tryingtofigureoutthishugeminefieldhewassuddenlystandingin.Onapogostick,noless.Therewasnoscenariothat

didn’tentailcollateraldamage,fromthepresidencyondown.AndthatwasiftheWhiteHousewasn’tinvolved.Andifitwas?Ifthelinkto

ClayDobsonviaFrankKarcherprovedreal?

ThenCrespinwouldn’tneedthefrontpageoftheNewYorkTimesinadvancetoknowwhattheheadlineswouldbe.Independentcounsels,congressionalhearings,theentireadministrationupended,ifnottoppled.TheFourthEstatewouldhavetheultimatefieldday.Afeastfortheages.Nowkickintheforeign

policyandnationalsecurityramifications.

Thiswasn’tdronesorwaterboardingorevensomeextremelyill-advisedphotostakenbyafewguardsatGuantánamoBay.No,thiswasthecoupdegrâce,themotherlode.Thesinglegreatestterrorist

recruitingtoolofalltime.Oratleast,untilthenextonecamealong.IfI’dbeenCrespin,I

would’vebeenstaringoutthewindow,too.Hehadtobe

wonderingwhathisnextmovewas.HewastheNSA,nottheFBI.Atsomepoint,thiswasajobforlawenforcement,andIwasassumingthatpointwasnow.Onsecondthought…HewastheNSA,notthe

FBI.Crespinturnedawayfrom

thewindow.“Howmuchdoyouknowaboutthisbuilding,Mr.Mann?”

“Youmean,theactualbuilding?”Iasked.“Yes.”IlookedoveratValeriefor

somehelp.Isthisatrickquestion?Butherheadwasstillburiedinthelaptop.“Iknownothingaboutit,”

Isaid.Crespinnodded.“You’re

notalone.Andwhatlittlethepublicdoesknowaboutthisbuildingisbecausewewantthemtoknowit.Butdoesthat

makeittrue?OnWikipedia,forinstance,itsaysthateverywallinthisplaceiswrappedwithanultrathincoppershieldingthatpreventsallelectromagneticsignalsfromgettingout.”Okay,I’lltakethebait.“Is

thattrue?”Iasked.“Itmustbe,”hesaid.“I

readitontheInternet.”Valerie,stillfixatedonher

laptop,smiled.Shewaslisteningthewholetime.Note

toself:TheNSAisalwayslistening.Crespintookhisseatback

atthetable.Iwasn’tsurewhatexactlyhewastalkingabout,althoughIgotthefeelingthatwasbydesign.Hecontinued:“Yousee,

peopleliketosaythatinformationispower.Butinsidethesewalls—coppershieldedornot—weliketosaysomethingelse.Thereal

power?It’snotinformation.It’smisinformation.”Asifoncue,Valerie

leanedbackinherchair.Whatevershe’dbeendoing,shewasdone.“Unbelievable,”she

muttered.“What?”Iimmediately

asked.Itwassimplereflex.Butshewasn’ttalkingto

me.JustCrespin.Andashestaredbackather,hedid

somethingI’dyettoseehimdo.Hesmiled.“KarchertoBrennanor

BrennantoKarcher?”heasked.“Both,”saidValerie.I’dhadenoughoffeeling

liketheoddmanout.“Maybeoneofyoucantellmewhat’sgoingon?”“Sure,”saidCrespin.“But

firstIhavetoaskyousomething.Howgoodareyouatpretendingyou’redrunk?”

CHAPTER92

“WHATAREyouhaving?”askedthebartender.“Secondthoughts,”Iwas

temptedtosay.Instead,“DoubleJohnnieBlackontherocks,”Itoldhim.Thisonedrinkwouldbe

myprop,abigol’glassofwhiskeyinanunsteadyhand

tosuggestthatI’dhadplentymorewherethatcamefrom.ThefactthatIwasalreadylookingprettyraggedfromrawnervesandlackofsleepwouldonlyaddtotheeffect.WhathadBrennansaidto

hisguestsonthepatio,hisquotefromWillRogers?Younevergetasecondchancetomakeagoodfirstimpression.Itwasn’tquiteascatchy,

butJeffreyCrespinhadhisownsayingforwhatIwas

abouttodo.“Youonlygetoneshotatthis,Mann,soI’llaskyouasecondtime.Areyousureyou’reupforit?”“Absolutely,”Ilied.Frommyendseatatthe

barinaplacecalledShadowsinGeorgetown,itwasn’tBrennanIwaswaitingfor.Ashangoutsgo,thiswashardlyhisscene.Hipandchic,allright,butnotenoughpowerbrokers.Lawstudentsinsteadoflawyers,congressional

staffersinsteadofcongressmen.Plus,waytoomanyEurotrashguyswithonetoomanyshirtbuttonsundone.Maybethatwaswhy

ShahidAlDossarihadchosentheplace:theinternationalflavor.That,andthederigueur“darkandsexy”loungelighting.Shadowswasclearlysavingtheownersatonofmoneyontheirelectricbill.

Allthatmattered,though,wasthatthechoicewasAlDossari’s.He’dpickedthelocation.HemighthavegottensuspicioushadValerieledhimthere.Excuseme,had“Beverly

Sands”ledhimthere.Atthetwenty-minute

mark,IcheckedthesameprepaidcellI’dusedatBrennan’shousetoseeiftherewasanyfollow-upfrom

Valerie.Wordofadelayorevenachangeofvenue.Neither,though.Nonew

texts.Finally,aboutahalfhour

afterValeriehadfirstsentmetheaddress,Ilookeduptoseeherwalkinginwithhim.Rightaway,Icouldtellhewasreallygettingoffonwatchingtheothermenjealouslycheckingouthisdate.Yeah,that’sright,boys,she’swithme….

Tick-tock.Valerie’dhadonlyanhourafterleavingNSAheadquarterstogetdolledupagainasBeverly.This,afterinitiallytellingAlDossarithatshehadapreviousengagementafterBrennan’sparty.Nowondertheguywassmilinglikethedevil.Thissurprisenightcapwasthenext-bestthingtoabootycall.Andundoubtedly,inhiseyes,thenightwasstillyoung.

HowwasValeriehandlingthat,Iwondered?Afterall,AlDossarihadtohavecertainexpectationsbythispoint.Wouldsheevertakeonefortheteam,sotospeak,likeJoandidonMadMen?No,she’dnever.Shecouldn’t,right?ForChrist’ssake,Mann,

let’skeepthefocus….Astheypassedthebar,I

bentdowntopickupsomethingI’dpretendedto

drop.WhenIstraightenedup,Iglancedovermyshouldertoseethemgrabbingaboothintheback.Allaccordingtoplan.Givethemalittletimetosettleinwiththeirbottleofchampagne—niceandrelaxed—andthen…“Hey!”Iblurtedout,

stoppinginfrontoftheirboothwithadoubletake.“It’sAnnieOakley!”Forgoodmeasure,Iraisedmyarmsasifshootingashotgun,

spillingsomeofmydrinkintheprocess.IwatchedasValerie

pretendednottorecognizemeatfirst.AlDossari,ontheotherhand,wasn’tpretending.Allthebetter.“Remember?”Isaid.“We

metearliertodayatJosiahBrennan’slittlesoiree.TrevorMann?TheTimes?”“Oh,ofcourse,”saidAl

Dossari,slidingoutofthe

boothtoshakemyhand.“Nicetoseeyouagain.”Ifthatwereonlytrue.His

painedexpressionwaspracticallyscreaming,Ofallthedamnbarsinthistown,youhadtobeinthisone?Drunk,noless?Makethatverydrunk.IturnedbacktoValerie.

“Hey,really,niceshootingtoday.Justexcellent!”Isaid.“Wait,what’syournameagain?”

“Beverly,”shesaid.“BeverlySands.”“That’sright,ofcourse!

AndI’mTrevorMann.”“Yes,Ibelieveyousaid

thatalready.”Beverlynoddedtowardmydrinkwithapatientsmile.“Arewecelebratingsomething,Mr.Mann?”“Ha!Morelike

commiserating,I’mafraid.Problemis,I’mdownherein

DCbymyself,soIhavenoonetocommiseratewith.”“Well,I’mtoldI’magood

listener,”shesaid.God,she’sgoodatthis.

Shemakesitlooksoeffortless.“Oh,it’snothing,”Isaid

withasloppywaveofmyhand.“Imean,it’ssomething,butIreallyshouldn’tsayanything.”“Yes,that’sprobablybest,”

saidBeverly.

Withthat,Itossedbacktherestofmywhiskeyasifitwereliquidcourage.No,betteryet,atruthserum.“Onsecondthought,what

thehell.It’sgoingtobeinalltheheadlinessoonenough,”Isaid,beforeleaningintowhisper,“Canyoutwokeepasecret?”

CHAPTER93

ITWASalmosttooeasy.Likepushingabigbutton.Suddenly,ShahidAl

Dossariwasn’tsoeagerformetogetlost.“CanIbuyyouanotherround,Mr.Mann?”Andtheysaywomenare

gossips.

IhappilyslidintotheirboothwhileAlDossariflaggedthecocktailwaitress.AsIexchangedglanceswithValerie,shebrokecharacterforasplitsecondtogivemeanod.Sofar,sogood.Nowbringithome.Or,atleast,that’showItookit.“Whatwereyoudrinking?”

AlDossariaskedmeasthewaitressarrivedwithpepinherstep.Sheknewagoodtipwhenshesawone.

“DoubleJohnnieBlackontherocks,”Isaid.“Notanymore.Makeita

doubleJohnnieBlue,neat,”hesaid.Iwasfairlyconvincedthat

hiscocksuremoney-is-no-objectupgradewasmoreforBeverlySands’sbenefitthanmine,butIwasn’tabouttoobject.Allthingsconsidered,ifIwaspretendingtobeloaded,itmightaswellbe

withtop-of-the-linerealwhiskey.“Sowherewerewe?”

askedValerie.“Mr.Mannwasaboutto

takeusintohisconfidence,”saidAlDossari.“Firstofall,Mr.Mannwas

myfather.CallmeTrevor,”Isaid.“Second…”Ipausedforamomentàlaanalcohol-inducedmemorylapse.“Actually,Ican’trememberwhatnumbertwowas,butin

anyevent,here’swhyI’mstuckhereinDC.Ofcourse,itinvolvespolitics.Doyouguysfollowpolitics?”“Sure,alittle,”saidAl

Dossari.Andby“alittle”itwasclearhemeant“alot.”Iletoutadeepsigh.“Stop

meifthisboresyou,butapparentlytheCIAhasinventedsomenewinterrogationmethodthatmakeswaterboardinglooklikeadayatthebeach.

Problemis,it’skilledabunchofprisoners,hordesofthem.Evenbiggerproblem,atleastforthepresident,isthathisnewCIAdirectorisinvolved.”“Wait,”saidValerieasif

confused.“Didn’tIseeonthenewsthatthenewCIAdirectorwasn’tgoingtotakethejob?Irememberbecausehewasstandingwithhistwindaughtersandtheywereadorable.”

“That’sright,butthisisthenewnewCIAdirector,theonethepresidentisabouttoannounce,”Isaid.“That’sonthehush-hush,too.IthinkhisnameisArcher.”Itwasprobablymorefrom

wishfulthinkingthananythingelsethatIpausedforAlDossaritojumpinandsay“Karcher”tocorrectme.Thatwouldbetooeasy,though.Heremainedsilentasthe

waitressreturnedwithmytwenty-five-yearwhiskey.“Anyway,”Icontinued,

“theTimeshasthestoryandI’vebeenaskedtostaydownheretodosomeinterviewsontheHillonceitbreaksonMonday.”IgrabbedthelowballofJohnnieBlue,raisingithigh.“So,astheysayinsynchronizedswimming…bottomsup!”BeverlySandsliftedher

drinktominewithalaugh.

TrevorMann,thereporterfromtheTimeswhoverypossiblyhadadrinkingproblem,wasnonethelessentertaining.Right,Shahid?Sheturnedtohim,herlook

wonderingwhyhewasn’tjoininginthecheers.Andforthefirsttime,wegotahintofsomething.Helookeddistracted.Downrightuncomfortable.“Areyouokay?”askeda

concernedBeverlySands.

“Shahid?”“Huh?”Hesnappedoutof

it,raisinghischampagne.“Oh,I’msorry…cheers.”Weclinkedglasses,andI

waitedforsomekindoffollow-upquestionfromAlDossari.Valeriewaswaiting,too.Maybeheneededacommandperformancefrommetobesureofwhathe’dheard.Ormaybethiswasallfor

naught.Thelinkwasonly

betweenKarcherandBrennan,andasforAlDossari,hewassimplytheCIA’spatsy.Asortofpost-9/11LeeHarveyOswald.Only,inthiscase,forreal.Suddenly,AlDossari

beganslidingoutofthebooth.“Willyoutwoexcusemeforamoment?”

CHAPTER94

VALERIEANDIbothwatchedashewalkedtowardthemen’sroominthebackofthebar.Wewereseeingthesamething.Iassumedwewerethinkingit,too.“He’snotgoingtothe

bathroom,ishe?He’scallingBrennan,”Isaid.“Ormaybe

evenKarcher.Oneofthem,right?”Valeriegrimaced,atwinge

ofguilt.“No,hereallyisgoingtothebathroom,”shesaid.“Infact,he’sgoingtobeinthereforawhile.”“Howwouldyouknow?”Shenoddedfirstathis

champagneglassandthenatherpurse.“Whenhestoodtoshakeyourhand,”shesaid.“It’slikeliquidEx-Lax,only

ahellofalotstrongerandquicker.”“Why?”Iasked.Why

wouldshespikehisdrink?“Technically,it’sourthird

date,”shesaid.“InShahid’smind,itdoesn’tendwithusplayingBoggle.Thisway,hewon’tevenwantapeckonthecheek.”“Iwaswonderingabout

that,”Isaid.“Youknow…”Upshotoneofher

eyebrows.“WhetherI’dever

havesexwithamark?”“Doyouguysreallycall

themmarks?”“Yeah,strange,right?

Targetsofanundercoverstingoperationnevercaughton.”“Soyoureallyhaven’t—”“Isthatreallyonlyyour

secondwhiskey?”“Sorry,Iwasjustcurious.”“Fortherecord,the

answer’sno,”shesaid.“Nottosayhedidn’ttryondates

oneandtwo.Butloveofmycountryonlygoessofar.”Thecocktailwaitress

returnedtopoursomemorechampagne.ValeriequicklyplacedherhandoverAlDossari’sglass.“Ithinkhe’sdoneforthenight,”shesaidpolitely.Iglancedtowardtheback

ofthebarasthewaitresswalkedaway.“Whathappensnow?”Iasked.Theplanshe

andCrespinhadconcoctedonlygotmetothetable.“Whathappensnowisthat

youtellmewhoyoursilentpartneris,”shesaid.“Imeant—”“Iknowwhatyoumeant.I

alsoknowthatwhoeverthisguyis,he’sCIA,orperhapsex-CIAatthispoint.There’snootherwayyoucouldhavethoserecordings.”“Nootherway?”“Provemewrong.”

“Ifyouknowhe’sCIA,whatdifferencedoeshisnamemakerightnow?”Valerieeyedmefora

moment.We’dknowneachotherforlessthanaday,butitwashardtoignoreacertainfoxholementality.Likeitornot,wewereinthistogether.“Youwanttrust?I’llgive

youtrust,”shesaid.“RememberwhenCrespinandIlookedateachother

duringoneofyourrecordings?”“Yes.Youtriedtopretend

itwasnothing—”“Butitwasobviously

something,you’reright,”shesaid.“Thingis,itwasKarcherwhoinitiallytippedusoffaboutourmanonthetoiletrightnow,thathewasfundingaknownterrorist.SoIbecameBeverlySandstocozyuptoShahidAlDossari,and—loandbehold—wejust

confirmedit.Shahid’smoneyhasbeenmovinginandoutofanAlQaedaoperative’saccountasrecentlyaslastweek.Bingo,right?Exceptforoneproblem.Accordingtooneofyourvideosandthedatestampedonthebottomofthescreen,thatoperativehasbeendeadforoverayear.”Sometimesyoujustsaythe

firstwordsthatcometoyour

mindnomatterhowtrite.“Holyshit.”“That’sright,holyshit,”

shesaid.“Prettygoddamnbrilliant,too.Developingthattruthserumtakesbigbucks,andit’snotliketheCIAcangotoCongressforit.SowhatdoesKarcherdo?Heusesthehotshotlawyer,Brennan,tomakeitlooklikeoneofhisclientsisfundingaterroristwithSaudimoney.Instead,

whatKarcher’sreallydoingisfundinghimself.”“ButAlDossariwould

havetoknow,right?”“Itwouldseemthatway.”“That’sthepartIdon’tget,

then,”Isaid.“Wouldn’tKarcherbethrowingAlDossariunderthebus?Withouttherecordingsfromtheblacksite,youguyswouldstillhaveAlDossarionfundingterrorism.”

“Yeah,that’sthebrilliantpart.AlltheNSAdoesisprovidetheproof.Thenwehandeverything—includingAlDossari—backovertoKarcher,”shesaid.“TheCIAwilltakeitfromhere,he’lltellus,andthenit’soutofourhands.”“Thenwhat,though?”I

asked.“It’snotlikeKarchercan’tdroptheball.”“No,ofcoursenot.Afew

monthsfromnowwe’d

probablyhearthatAlDossarihasflippedandisnowKarcher’snewestmoleintheMiddleEast,orsomethinglikethat.Andwe’dbelieveit,too,becausewe’dhavenoreasonnotto.”“Butnowyoudo.”“Whichbringsmebackto

yourfriend,”shesaid.“Asmuchasyouneedtotrustme,Ineedtotrusthim.AndIcan’tdothatifIdon’tmeethim.Sotonight,literally…I

needyoutobringmebacktoyourfriend.”“Whataboutyourdate?”I

asked.“Wejustcan’tleavehim.”“Oh,no?”Alreadyshewas

halfwayoutthebooth.“Whenhe’sfinallyabletoleavethebathroom,thelastthinghe’llwanttodoisexplainwhattookhimsolong.Trustme,”shesaid.“We’redoinghimafavor.”

CHAPTER95

INTWOminutesflat,wewereinthebackseatofaDCcabheadingofftheBeltwaypastDullesAirportandouttoArcola.Ireallyshould’vegottenato-gocupforthatJohnnieWalkerBlue.Thedriver,whose

dispositionmostclosely

resembledaningrowntoenail,initiallytoldusthatArcolawasoutofhisterritory,especiallyaftermidnight.AcrispBenFranklinlater,hesuddenlyhadabrand-newterritory.Moneyisthebiggestbuttonofthemall.“Insideoroutsidedoors?”

askedValerie.Iturnedtoher.“Insideor

outside?”

“MymotherwasafraidtoflywhenIwasakid,sowedroveeverywhereforvacation.Shehadthisthing,though.Wecouldneverstayinahotelwithdoorsthatfacedoutside,”shesaid.“Toodangerous.”“Byanychance,doesyour

motherknowwhatyoucurrentlydoforaliving?”Iasked.“Ifshewerestillalive,she

wouldn’tlikeit.”

“I’msorry,Ididn’trealize.”“Cervicalcancer.WhenI

wasinhighschool,”sheexplained.“Andsincewe’reinthesympathycardaisle,myfatherthendiedoflungcancerduringmysenioryearincollege.”“Jesus.”“Tellmeaboutit.Of

course,iftheywerebothstillalive,it’snotlikeIcouldactuallytellthemwhatIdo.”

“Andwhatisthat,exactly?Imean,ofalltheNSAsecretsthatEdwardSnowdenleaked,Ididn’thearanythingaboutagentslikeyou.”“Yeah,littleEddiereally

complicatedthings,didn’the?”IwaitedforValerietokeep

talkingandperhapsanswermyquestion.Shedidneither.“You’renotgoingtotell

me,areyou?”

Shesmiled.“Wehavetokeepsomemysterybetweenus,don’twe?”Ipracticallyfroze.That

wasexactlywhatClairehadsaidtomethenightshewaskilled.“What?”askedValerie.

“WhatdidIsay?”“Nothing,”Ifinally

answered.Butshe,too,knewthe

soundofthatnothing.Thelookshegaveme.Still,she

letitgo.Atouchofwoman’sintuition,perhaps.Regardless,thenextfew

minutesformewereinevitable.MemoriesofClairecamelikeclicksonthemeterinthetaxi,oneafteranother,especiallyfromourlastmomentstogether.It’softenasked,ifyou

knewthiswasyourlastnightonearth,whatwouldyoudo?HadthatnightwithClairebeenmylastnight,though,

therewasnothingIwould’vechanged.Well,almostnothing.Iwould’veneverletClairego.“Frontorback?”askedthe

driver.Thequestionsnappedme

outofitasIlookeduptoseehimpullingintotheComforterMotel.Staringatthenearlyemptyparkinglot,itwaseasytowonderiftheNOintheNOVACANCYsignhadeverbeenilluminated.

“Theback,”Isaid.Ashepulledaround,I

wentoverthegroundruleswithValerieagainregardingOwen.We’dgottenprettygoodatcuttingdealsonthefly.“Igoupandexplainthe

situation,tellhimyou’reherewaitinginthetaxi,”Isaid.“ThenIwaveyouup,okay?”“Whoa,excuseme?”

blurtedoutthedriver.

I’dforgottenabouttheotherdealmakeramongus.Hewasn’tlikingthewayhisendwasshakingout.“Isthereaproblem?”Iasked.“You’reonlypayingmeto

driveyouhere,”hesaid.“That’stheproblem.”Ireachedintomypocket

againformorecash,butValeriestoppedme,reachingintoherownpocket.She’dhadenoughofthisguy.

Moneymaytalk,butabadgeshutsthemupeverytime.“Let’strythisagain,”she

said.“Isthereaproblem?”Shewasholdingherbadge

soclosetohiseyesshewaspracticallyslappinghisfacewithit.Withaslowshakeofhis

head,hegotwiththeprogram.Noproblem.“Youcanparkoveratthe

endthere,”Isaid,pointingtoanareanearasetofstairs.

TherewasnoothersoundbeyondtheengineidlingasIsteppedouttothebacklotandmademywayuptothesecondfloor,orthepenthouse,asOwenjokinglycalledit.Wehadthefirstroomoffthestairs,aswellastheonenexttoitwithaconnectingdoor.Onceagain,thetworoomstrategy.Ifitain’tbroke,don’tfixit.Keycardinhand,Ieyed

thelipstickcameraOwenhad

tapedabovethesignforthevendingmachinesabouttwentyfeetaway.Thencamethelast

safeguard—theknockingsequencetoensureweweretrulyalone.IsupposeIwasfudgingthatoneabit.Twoknocksfollowedby

onefollowedbytwo.TheareacodeofManhattan.There’snoplacelikehome.Lessthanaminutelater,

though,Iwasbackdownat

thetaxi.Fromthelookonmyfacealone,Valerieknewwehadproblem.Itwasthekindnobadgecouldsolve.“Whatisit?”sheasked.Thatwaspartofthe

problem.Iwasn’tsure.

CHAPTER96

OWENWASGONE.ThatwastheonlythingI

knewforsure.Bothourroomswereempty.Emptyofhim,atleast.Gone,too,washisbackpack,hisbagoftricks.Butmyduffelwasright

whereI’dleftitinoneofthe

closets,everythingstillinside.Myguns,theextracash.Infact,everythingelseintheroomlookednormal.“Didtheykidnapthemaid,

too?”askedValerie,standinginthedoorway.Okay,Isaidnormal,not

clean.Youputtwoguysinahotelonthelamforafewdaysanditisn’tgoingtobepretty.Butthatwasthequestion,

wasn’tit?HadOwenbeen

takenorhadheleftonhisown?TherewasaMobilstationwithaconveniencemartahalfmiledowntheroadwherewe’dbeenpickingupsomesnacks,butthechancesofhistakingthewalkatoneo’clockinthemorningseemedremote.“Whereareyougoing?”I

askedValerie.Shewasheadedbackoutthedoor,hergundrawn.

“Westartwiththeperimeter,”shesaid.Iunderstood.Standard

policeprocedure.Startfromtheoutside—inthiscase,literally—andworkyourwayin.“Hisname’sOwen,”Isaid.“Whataboutalastname?”Imusthavelookedlikea

stumpedcontestantonagameshow.AllthistimetogetherandI’dneverfoundouthis

lastname.“Huh”wasallImanaged.“Don’tworryaboutit,”she

said,turningagaintoleave.“Wait,don’tyouwantto

knowwhathelookslike?”Shestoppedjustlong

enoughtomakemerealizethatwhiletrustwasonething,thewholetruthwasanother.“He’stall,slender,with

brownhair,shaggy.Doesthiswithhishandsfromtimetotime,”shesaid,doinga

perfectimitationofhisdrywashroutine.“Oh,andfortherecord,hislastnameisLewis.”Shewalkedout.Istoodthereinshock,

wonderinghowValerieknewallthat,andequallyconfounding,whyshehadn’tjusttoldmeinthefirstplace.Therewerenoquickanswers.Whattherewas,though,wassomethinginmyeyeline.Owen’slaptop.

Hehaditlinkedtothelipstickcameraoutside,ourmakeshiftsurveillancesystem.Sincethemomenthe’dfirsthookeditup,ithadbeensittingatopthecrappy-lookingcredenzafeaturingtheTV,plasticicebucket,andtheYellowPages.Nowthelaptopwasinthe

middleofthequeenbedclosertothebathroom.Imean,rightinthemiddle.Asifthebedwereitspedestal.

Theonlythingmissingwastheneonsignoveritthatwasblinking,Lookatme,Trevor!Iwalkedoverandtapped

thespacebar,wakingupthescreen.Iexpectedtoseethesamerunningimagethathadbeentherefordays,thewalkwayoutsidebothourrooms.Only,nowtherewassomethinginfrontofit.Apicture.No,makethatamessage.

Butonlyforme.

Inapop-upwindowwasanillustrationoffGoogleImages,oneofthosegoofyclip-artsignsthatreadGONEFISHING.NowIjusthadtofigure

outwhatitwassupposedtomean.Fishingforwhat?“Whatareyoulookingat?”

cameValerie’svoicebythedoor.Shewasback.Ihadasplitsecondto

makeadecision.Givenourtrackrecord,tellingheritwas

nothingwasoffthetable.Ithadtobesomething.Butdidithavetobethewholetruth?Thistrustthingwasgetting

abittricky.“Behindyou,”Isaid.

“That’swhatI’mlookingat.”Ispunthelaptoparound,

butnotbeforeclickingtheillustrationclosed.Whatremainedwasthefeedfromtheoutsidecamera.“Clever,”shesaid,tracing

theangletothesignforthe

vendingmachines.“Owen’sdoing,Iassume?”“Itseemsyou’dknowthat

evenbetterthanme,”Isaid.Thatgotmeasmirkbut

nothingmore.Shewasfarmoreconcernedwithtakingonemorelaparoundbothroomstoseeiftherewassomethingshe’dmissedthefirsttime.Therewasn’t.“Allright,grabyourstuff,”

shesaid.“Let’sgetgoing.”“Going?”

“Youdidn’tstillthinkyou’dbestayinghere,didyou?”Actually,Ihadn’tthought

anything.ButValerieobviouslyhad.“Wherearewegoing?”I

asked.“Someplacewithinside

doors,”shesaid.

CHAPTER97

“GOODMORNING,Mr.Mann,howdidyousleep?”askedJeffreyCrespin,myhumanalarmclock.He’dtakenituponhimselftoshakemeawakeatsixa.m.HowdidIsleep?It’sthe

crackofdawn.

“Sparingly,”Iwastemptedtoanswer.ButitwastooearlyandIwastootiredforglibness.“Fine,”Isaidinstead.Hewassittingonafolding

metalchairattheendofmycot,wearingablueblazerandjeans.IguessthejeanswerehowheunwoundonaSunday.“Wouldyoulikesomecoffee?”heasked.Ilookedoverhisshoulder

toseeValerieinthedoorway,

takingasipfromamug,thestringfromateabaghangingovertheedge.ShewaswearingthesameBeverlySandsoutfitshe’dhadonfourhoursago,whichansweredthequestionofwhereshe’dspentthenight.Itwashere.Whereverthehellthat

mightbe.Notonlydidn’tIknow,I

wasneversupposedtoknow.HencetheBruceWayneandBatcaveroutineafterleaving

themotelinArcola.Valerie’dhadthetaxitakeustoanundergroundparkinggarageinFortMeade,wherewegotintoanunmarkedvan,butonlyaftersheputasackovermyhead.Forreal.Thenagain,Iguessthat’s

whytheycallitasafehouse.“Yeah,somecoffeewould

begood,”Isaid.“Cream,ifyouhaveit.Nosugar.”“I’llseewhattheyhave,”

saidValeriebefore

disappearingintothehallway.Crespinleanedbackinhis

chair,crossinghislegs.“Isupposethere’salsotea,butIfiguredyoumoreforcoffee,”hesaid.“Youfiguredright.”“Funnything,though.Do

youknowwhoneverdrinkscoffee?”“Igiveup.”“FrankKarcher.”Iimmediatelylikedwhere

thiswasgoing,andCrespin

couldtell.Foronlythesecondtime,Isawhimsmile.“AlDossaricalledhim?”“Latelastnight,”hesaid.

“Whenhewasfinallyfeelingbetter,Ipresume.”“Whatdidhesay?”“Everythingyoutoldhim

atthebar.”“Butassoonasheheard

myname…”“Thatwasthebestpart.

You’dthinkKarcherwould’vetoldAlDossari

he’dbeenplayedbyyou,buthedidn’t.Hejustthankedhimfortheheads-up.”“Itactuallymakessense,”I

said.“KarcherknowsIdon’tworkfortheTimes.Thepaperdoesn’thavethestory.”“Andspeakingofstories

thataren’treal…”Ofcourse.“AlDossari

musthavetoldKarcherhowhefirstmetme.”“Exactly,”hesaid.“After

KarcherhungupfromAl

Dossari,heimmediatelywokeupBrennan.Naturally,Brennanmadesuretocallhimrightbackfromthesecurelineinhisstudy.”Only,thankstoValerie’s

handiwork,theNSAcouldlisteninonthatconversation,too.“Icanonlyimagine

Brennan’sreaction,”Isaid.“Totellyouthetruth,I

thinkhewasmoreupsetaboutnotactuallybeing

interviewedfortheTimesthanhewasattheprospectofspendingthenexttentofifteenyearsfoldinglaundry.”“That’salawyerforyou,”

Isaid.“Prisoniswhathappenstootherpeople.”“We’llsee.Inthe

meantime,niceworklastnight.Valerietellsmeyouplayanexcellentdrunk.”“I’vehadsomepractice.”

“ShealsotoldmeaboutOwen,thathe’ssuddenlygonemissing.”“Firstthingsfirst,ifyou

don’tmind.Whydidn’tyouguysjusttellmeyouknewwhohewas?”Crespindidn’thesitate.

“Whengauginganasset,it’salwaysgoodtoknowupfrontifwhathe’stellingyouistrue.”“ItakeitI’mtheso-called

assetinthatsentence?”

“It’sjustthewaywedothings.”“Soyoucanprobably

guessmynextquestion.”“Yes,”hesaid.“Butthe

answertothatonemakesthingsalittletrickier.”

CHAPTER98

ALITTLEtrickier?Didhereallyjustsaythat?I’dspentthenight,what

wasleftofit,sleepingintheNSA’sversionofinsidedoors.IwasinasafehousesomewhereinDContheheelsofaroadtriptakenwithaboygeniusfromtheCIA

whothoughthewascuringAlzheimer’s,onlytodiscoverhewasreallyhelpingtocreatewhatwould’vebeentheultimateinterrogationtoolifitweren’tforthefactthatithappenedtohaveafailrateoffortypercent.Andbyfail,Imeanfatally.Whichwouldexplainwhy

themenresponsibleforallthisweregoingtosuchextremelengthstoensuretheywereneverfoundout.

Andbyextreme,Ialsomeanfatally.Butnow,soIwasbeing

told,thingswereabouttoget…waitforit…alittletrickier.IstaredbackatCrespin.

“No,it’sactuallysimple,”Isaid.“Youeithercanorcan’ttellmehowyouknowaboutOwen.”“Iadmirethat,Ireallydo,”

hesaid,onceagainwithoutanyhesitation.“Despite

everythingyou’vebeenthrough,you’restillcapableofseeingtheworldinblackandwhite.”“Noteverythingisgray.”Hecockedhishead.“Look

aroundyou,Mr.Mann.”Iwassurroundedby

cinder-blockwallsandconcretefloors.TherewasthemetalchairCrespinwassittingin,aswellasmymetalcot.EventheblanketI’dbeengiven.Allgray.

AndCrespinwasn’tevenbeingliteral.“Areyoutryingtochange

thesubject?”Iasked.“No,I’monlygivingit

perspective,”hesaid.“IknowaboutOwenLewisbecauseofyourfriendClaireParker.”Helookedatmeasifhe’d

justthrownaverbalgrenadeintoourconversation.ButIwasn’tsurewhy.Afterall,“IalsoknowaboutOwenLewis

becauseofClaireParker,”Isaid.“Yes,Irealizethat.Sonow

comesthattrickierpartIpromisedyou.”Heuncrossedhislegs,hisbackstraightening.“ClaireworkedfortheNSA.”Ka-boom.Itwasasifalltheblood

hadbeensuddenlyflushedfrommyhead.Ifeltdizzy,theroomspinning.Abig,grayblur.

“Excuseme?”Isaid.“Idon’tthinkIneedtosay

itagain.”No,hedidn’t.“Tobeveryclear,Clairewaseverythingyouthoughtshewas,anationalaffairsreporterfortheNewYorkTimes.Shewasagiftedjournalistwhoonlywrotethetruth.ButasI’msureyou’reaware,doingthat—especiallydoingitatherlevel—takessources.”

“Youwereoneofhersources?”“No,notmepersonally.

SomeoneelsewithintheNSA.ThedivisioniscalledTailoredAccessOperations,ifthatmeansanything.”“Andinreturn?”“Youmean,whatdidshe

doforthem?”“Givesomething,get

something…right?”“Notexactly,”hesaid.“At

least,notinthewayyou’re

worriedabout.IthinkyouknowthatClairewouldneverburnanyofhersources.That’snotwhatshedidforus.”“Thenwhatexactlydidshe

do?”BeforeCrespincould

answer,though,wewerebothlookingatValerieleaningagainstthedoorwayagain.Shewasback.Inonehandwasapieceof

paper,intheotheralaptop.

Somuchforacupofcoffee.“Youneedtosee

something,”shesaid.

CHAPTER99

IASSUMEDshewastalkingonlytoCrespin,especiallywhenshewalkedrightpastmetohandhimthepieceofpaper.Hereadit,glancedupatValerie,andreaditagain.Insteadofhandingitback

toher,however,hehandedittome.

Thereasonwasasclearasthee-mailaddressintheupperleft-handcorner.Itwasmine.Iwaslookingataprintoutofane-mailsenttomebyBrennan,exceptI’dneverseenitbefore.ThatwaswhenInoticed

thetimestamp:5:34a.m.Brennanhadonlysentitahalfhourearlier.

Trevor,changeofvenueforourinterviewtodayif

that’sok.Toomanydistractionshereathouse.MallardCaféat33rdandProspectat11?TheydoameanSunbrunch.—JB

“There’syouranswer,bytheway,”saidCrespin.Answertowhat?“What

wasthequestion?”Iasked.“WhatClairedidforus,”

hesaid.“You’relookingatit.”

Thathardlyclearedupanything,andheknewit.Theguyhadcoydowntoascience.Valerietotherescue.

“JosiahBrennandidn’tsendthee-mail,”sheexplained.Ilookeddownagainatthe

paper.TherewasBrennan’se-mailaddressunderneathmine,thesameaddresshe’dbeenusingsincefirstconfirmingoursupposedinterview.

“Ifhedidn’tsendit,whodid?”Iasked.ButIalreadyknewtheanswerbeforethewordshadevenleftmymouth.“Karcher?”“Yes,”saidCrespin.“And

Brennanhasnoidea.”“Howdoyouknow?”“Karcherusedacertain

spywarevirus.Assoonasyoureadane-mailfromhim,hecanthenassumeyouridentity,basicallycontrollingyourentiree-mailaccount.

Thereasonweknowthisisbecauseweusethesamevirus.”“Istilldon’tgetthe

connectiontoClaire,”Isaid.Valerielookedoverat

CrespinasiftosayGoahead,boss,you’retheonewhobroughtitup.Crespinthoughtfora

moment.Finally,“Imagineyou’reinLondontointerviewacertainclericbeforehe’sdeportedfromtheUKto

Jordan,”hesaid.“TheclerichaslittletrustinanAmericanjournalist—oranyAmerican,forthatmatter—buthe’seagertospeakhismind.Theinternationalstagecanbeintoxicating,andnooneservesupthelimelightbetterthantheNewYorkTimes.Aneutrallocationisagreedupon,almostalwaysahotel,andtheclerichasoneofhisbodymensearchyoueventhoughthey’renotquitesure

whatthey’relookingfor.Arecordingdevice?It’saninterview.Ofcourseyouhavearecorder.Andasfarastheycantell,itlooksexactlylikeanyotherrecorderthey’veeverseen.”“Butit’snot,”Isaid.“No,insteadithacksthe

hotel’sInternetserviceandthenhacksthecleric’scellphone.And,here’sthekey,itdoesallofitwirelessly.

WhichmeansClairedidn’treallyhavetodoathing.”“Exceptgiveherconsent,”

Isaid,unabletoholdbackmysmirk.Crespinnodded.“Butthis

wasn’tjustanycleric,wasit?”No,itwasn’t.Thiswasa

guywho’dbeenjailedrepeatedlyinLondonwithouteverreceivingatrial.OverabottleofBrunelloonenight,Clairehadarguedwithme

thathedeservedone,andI’darguedbackthataccordingtotheantiterrorismlawspassedinBritainafter9/11,hedidn’t.ThiswasthenightbeforesheflewtoLondontointerviewhim.“Here,”saidValerie,

givingmethelaptopinherotherhand.“Youneedtologontoyoure-mailandcancelonBrennan.”“Cancel?”

“Unless,ofcourse,you’dpreferyourlastmealtobeeggsBenedict.ThisisKarchersettingyouup,”shesaid.“Yes,thesameKarcher

responsibleforClaire’sdeath,”Ishotback.Forgivemeforsoundingalittletesty.“Listen,Igetit,”said

Valerie.“Youwantrevenge,whowouldn’t?Butthisisn’tyoupretendingtobedrunkwithsomejet-set,skirt-

chasinginternationalplayboy.Thisisaguywhowantstokillyou.”“WhichisexactlywhyI’ll

beattheMallardCaféateleveno’clock,”Isaid,assureasI’deverbeenaboutanythinginmylife.“Karcherwantstokillme,allright,buthecan’t.Hewon’t.Atleast,notrightaway.Andthat’sanopportunitywecan’tpassup.”

Iwasreadytoexplain,toarguemycase.Yellandscream,ifIhadto.ButIdidn’thaveto.

ValerieandCrespinbothhadthatlookontheirfaces,thekindIusedtoseeonjuriesduringtheclosingargumentofeverycaseI’deverwon.ItwasasifIknewexactlywhattheywerethinking.Thisguymightactually

haveapoint.

Nowallweneededwasaplan.

CHAPTER100

“CANIgetyouanythingwhileyou’rewaiting?”askedthewaitress,aquicktiltofherheadacknowledgingtheemptychairacrossfromme.HernametagreadBETSY.Iftherehadbeenmore

time,moreoptions,moreeverything,thisyoung

womanwithrolled-upsleeveswould’vebeenClaireundercover,andinadditiontohavingherhairtuckedintoaponytail,shewould’vehadaBerettatuckedbehindthewhiteapronwiththebiggreenMthatalltheserversattheMallardCaféwore.Butsometimesyoujust

havetomakedo.“I’mgoodfornow,”Isaid.

“Thanks,though.”

ThiswasclearlymusictoBetsy’sears.Onelessthingshehadtodo.Myveryrealwaitresshadthatharriedlookofhavingafewtoomanytablesinhersection.AsfarasIcouldtell,shewastheonlyonetendingtoalltheoutdoorseatingthatlinedthefrontofthecafé.Betsyshuffledoff,whileI

keptwaiting,notthatI’dexpectedtobedoinganythingdifferent.Karcherwould

absolutelymakesureIarrivedfirst.Afterthat,itwasanyone’sguess.IncludingwhetheritwouldevenbeKarcherwhoshowed.Theguyhadahistoryoflettingothersdohisdirtywork.“Stopfidgeting,”camea

voiceinmyear.Imean,literallyinmyear.

Crespinhadoutfittedmewithwhathadtobetheworld’stiniesttransmitter.Smallerthantheheadofatack,itwas

fullyoutofsightinsidemyearcanal.“Sorry,”Isaid,onlyto

realizethatI’djustbrokenoneofhistworules.“WhatdidItellyouabout

talkingtome?”camehisvoiceagain.“Anddon’tanswerthat.”Rule#1?Don’ttalkinto

themike,otherwiseknownasthethirdbuttondownonmynewNSA-brandshirt.Fiftypercentcotton/polyblend

withafive-hundred-footrange.IfKarcher—orwhoeverhemightsend—wasscoutingme,Icouldillaffordtobeseentalkingtomyself.ThewirewassoCrespincouldhearwhatIheard.“It’sgoingtobefine,

Mann,”hewasnowassuringme.“Everything’sgoingtobe—”Thewayhisvoice

suddenlycutout,myfirstthoughtwasthatthe

transmitterinmyearhadfailed.ButCrespinwasjustseeingwhatIcouldn’t.“Don’tturnaround,don’t

evenflinch,”hesaid.“He’sapproachingyoufrombehindattwentyfeet…fifteen…ten…”Avoiceboomedovermy

shoulder.“Isthisseattaken?”Itwasnow.FrankKarchersatdown

beforeIcouldevenlookup.

Jesus,hehadabighead.Itwasevenbiggerinperson.IfeignedsurpriseasbestI

could.IwassupposedtobewaitingforBrennan,afterall.“Excuseme,Ithinkyou

havethewrongtable,”Isaid.Karcherbrokeintoawide

grin.“No,thisisdefinitelytherighttable.Youjustpickedthewrongfight,”hesaid,glancingathiswatch.“Theonlyquestionnowishowlongyou’llpretendyou

don’tknowwhatI’mtalkingabout.”Saidquestionhunginthe

airasIpretendedtobethinkingitover.ButIalreadyknewmyanswer.Sofar,wewererightonscript.“Iknowexactlywhat

you’retalkingabout,”Isaidfinally.“Iknowwhoyouareandwhatyou’vedone.Ialsoknowit’sallabouttoend.”Againwiththegrin.Those

hadtobeveneers.

“Interestingchoiceofwords,”hesaid.“Domeafavor,though,willyou,Mr.Mann?Takeagoodlookunderthetable.”“Idon’tneedto,”Isaid.

“You’renotthefirstpersonthisweektopointagunatme.”“You’reright,”hesaid.

“ButIamthelast.”

CHAPTER101

ITWASmyturntosmile,forcedandshort-livedasthesmilewas.Youcanonlypretendforsolongthatyoudon’thaveagunaimedatyourcrotch.“Iftheonlythingyou

wantedwasmedead,you

would’vekilledmebynow,”Isaid.“Webothknowthat.”Andthereitwas,theonly

wayI’dbeenabletoconvinceValerieandCrespinthatIwouldn’tbeacompletesittingduck,ifyouwill,attheMallardCafé.KarcherdesperatelywantedOwen—“thekid”—andIpresumablyknewwherehewas.FittingironythatIactually

didn’t.

NotthatKarcherwasabouttobetoldthat.AslongashethoughtIknewOwen’swhereabouts,hebelievedtherewasthechancehecouldgetitoutofme.That’sthefollyofarrogant

men,isn’tit?Theyalwaysoverestimatetheirtalents.“Areyoureallythatmuch

ofahero,Mr.Mann?”heasked.“Idon’tknowwhatthekidtoldyou,butit’snotwhatyouthink.”

“No,it’sexactlywhatIthink,”Isaid.“Somewherealongtheline,youconvincedyourselfthatyou’reabovethelaw,thatyougettodecidewholivesandwhodies.Butthebiggestlieofthemall?It’swhenyouclaimyou’resimplyprotectingfreedom.”“Freedom?Justwherethe

hellhaveyoubeenthiscentury?Weshouldbesodamnlucky,”hesaid.“That’swhatyouself-righteous

prickshaveneverunderstood,notever.”“Thenwhydon’tyou

enlightenme?”“Whydon’tyoushutthe

fuckup?”“Easynow…”came

Crespin’svoiceinmyear.Crespinwasright.Ona

riskscaleofonetoten,Iwasalreadypushingeleven.MylettingKarcherlosehistemperwasupwardofjustplaindumb.Sure,maybehe’d

slipupandadmiteverything.Ormaybehe’djustgetpissedoffandkillmerightthereatthetable.Ileanedbackinmychair,

hopingtoletalittleairoutofthemoment.Diffusethetension.Butitwastoolate.Karcherwasrevvedup,andlikeapitbull,hewasn’tabouttoletthepointgo.“DoyouknowwhatI

remembermostaboutthatday?It’snottheimageofthe

towerscomingdown.Notevenclose.What’ssearedintomybrain,whatwillstickforever,arethepeopleonthestreetwatchingithappen,”hesaid.“Anddoyouknowwhattheywerealldoingastheywerelookingupinhorror?Theywereallmouthingthesamethreewords.Oh,myGod.”“Iwasoneofthose

people,”Isaid.“Iwasthere.”

Itwasasifhedidn’thearme.“Now,I’madevoutChristian,butIknowforafactthattheGodtheywereallinvokingthatdaywasn’tthere.Andforthosewhosayhewas,andthathisjobisnottointervene,Iask…whosejobisit?IfGodwon’tpreventthenexttime,whowill?Andtrustme,therewillbeanexttime.”“Sothat’sit,then?”Isaid.

“You’renowGod’s

understudy?Itdoesn’tmatterwhoyoukill—areporterfortheTimes,adoctorwithaguiltyconscience,orevenotherpeoplefromyourcompanypicnic—becauseit’sallpartofabiggerplan,onethattherestofuscouldn’tpossiblyunderstand?”“Everywarhascasualties,

Mr.Mann.ButI’mguessingyou’veneverfoughtinone,haveyou?”

“Thatmakesmelucky,notbrain-dead,”Isaid.“What’syourexcuse?”Damn.Wrongbutton.Karcher’sfaceflushedred

inaninstant,theveinsinhisstumplikeneckbulgingoutabovehiscollar.“Youknowwhat?Fuckthe

kid,”hesaid.“Idon’tcareifyouknowwhereheis,youcantakethattoyourgoddamngrave.”

ButallIreallyheardwasCrespin’spanickedvoiceinmyear.“Quick,tellhimyouknowwhereOwenis!”Crespindidn’tneedtosee

thederangedlookinKarcher’seyes.Hecouldhearthecrazinessinhisvoice,thewayhereferredtomygraveasifitwereimminent.Ineededtostall.Butagain,itwastoolate.

Withtheslightestflinch—smallbuttelling—I’djust

brokenCrespin’ssecondrule.Whateveryoudo,don’tlooklikeyou’vegotsomeonetalkinginyourear.“JesusChrist,”said

Karcher.“You’renotalone,areyou?”

CHAPTER102

“NO,HE’Sdefinitelynotalone,”shesaid.IturnedtoseeValerie

pullingupachairtoourtable.Shecouldn’tplaythewaitress,butherbeingseatednearbywasthenextbestthing.Andwithhermirroredsunglassesandjet-blackwig,

therewasnowayKarcherwould’verecognizedher.Hestilldidn’t.TheBerettainherlap,

however,hespottedinstantly,anditsureashellwasn’tpointedatme.Givethepricksomecredit,

though.Karcherbarelyblinked.“Friendofyours,Mr.Mann?”heaskedcoolly.“Oneofmany,”said

Valerie.“Whichiswhyyouneedtowrapyourweaponin

thatnapkinandplaceitslowlyonthetable.”Karcherlookeddownat

thenapkininfrontofhimlikeitwasapieceofenrichedplutonium.Hehadnointentionoftouchingit.“Thankyouforthe

suggestion,younglady,butIthinkI’llpass,”hesaid.“Itmightbeagoodideaforyoutodoit,though.”Thoseshould’vebeenthe

wordsofamadman,alast-

ditchefforttobuysometimeinthischessmatch,usinglittlemorethanmisdirectionandatouchofoutrightconfusion.CallitKarcher’sGambit.Butthetonewasmore

cockythanconfused.Hewastoosureofhimself.Heknewsomethingwedidn’t,andIcouldn’tstopthefeelingofpuredreadthatwassuddenlyspreadingfromthepitofmystomach.

IlookedatValerie,andforthefirsttime,shetookhereyesoffKarchertolookbackatme,ifonlyforasplitsecond.Butthatwasallthetimeittook.“Shit,”shemuttered.Karchersmiled.“Looks

likeI’vegotsomefriends,too,”hesaid.“Showhim,”came

Crespin’svoiceinmyear,onlyhewasn’ttalkingtome.Valeriewaswearingthesame

transmitter.WithhereyeslockedbackonKarcher,sheremovedhersunglassessoIcouldseewhatthehellwasgoingon.“Shit,”Imuttered.Staringbackatmeinthe

mirroredlenseswasanewadditiontomyforehead.Thesmallreddotofalasersight.Iwasonesqueezeofatriggerawayfromhavingmybrainsblownout,whichsomehowmanagedtotrumpgetting

shotinthecrotch.Eitherway,itwassuddenlyalose-lose.Weweredefinitelyoff

scriptnow….“Iknowyou,don’tI?”

askedKarcher,staringstraightbackintoValerie’snakedeyes.“Maybe,”sheanswered.

“Ormaybenot.ButIdefinitelyknowyou.”“WhataboutMr.Mann

here?”hesaid.“Howmuch

doyoureallyknowabouthim?”“Enoughtobesitting

here,”shesaid.“Keepstallinghim,”came

Crespin’svoiceinourears.“Isupposeyouknowmore,

though?”Valerietackedon.“Heshotafederalagentin

Manhattan,forstarters,andgotadetectiveuptherekilledaswell.”Karcherlookedatmeto

seeifI’dtakethebaitandtry

toargueotherwise.Allalong,he’dbeendefendinghimselfwithoutadmittingtoanything.NowhewashopingI’dtripmyselfupintheheatofthemomentsohecouldbuildsomesemblanceofreasonabledoubt.ButIgavehimthebest

comebackIcould.Silence.NotValerie,though.“Whataboutoutstanding

parkingtickets?”she

deadpanned.“Doeshehaveanyofthoseaswell?”“No,buthedoeshavea

deadguyinhisbathtub.Iforgottomentionthat,”Karchersaid,hisvoicetingedwithwhatcouldonlybedescribedasglee.Extracreepyonaguyhissize.“Thepolicesearchedhisapartmentyesterday.”“Youknow,iftherewas

onlysomewayIknewyouweretellingthetruth,some

typeofmethod,”shesaid.“Wouldn’tthatbesomething?Imean,whatwouldn’tweallgiveforthat?”Karcherdeflectedherwith

achuckle,butitwasquicklydrownedoutbysomethingelseIwashearing.Myheadwassuddenly

filledwithfootsteps,onlytheyweremorethansteps.Theywerestrides.Crespinwasrunning,hisbreathingheavyasifhewereinafull

sprint.IknewValeriecouldhearit,too,butshekeptrightontalkingtoKarcher.Stallinghim.Then,outofthecornerof

myeye,IsawsomethingthatIreally,trulywishedIhadn’t.

CHAPTER103

NO!NO!NO!Iwantedsodesperatelyto

signalhersomehow,wavemyhandsandtellhershehadtostop.ButIwashelpless;IknewIcouldn’t.Itwouldbelikeyankingthepinonagrenade.

Thewaitress.Betsy.Ponytailandrolled-upsleeves.Shewasheadingtoourtable.“Huh,lookslikewehavea

partyofthree,”shesaid,pullingupbetweenKarcherandValerie.Shewashalfdistracted,clutchingherorderpadwhilesearchingforapeninthedeeppocketofherapron.“Ifyou’dlike,Icanmoveyoualltoanothertable.”

“No,that’sokay,Iwasjustsayinghellototheseguys,”saidValerie,flashingapolitesmile.“I’llbegettingupinfewseconds.”ButfromthemomentIfelt

thetaponmyfootunderneaththetable,Irealizedthiswasn’tjustafigureofspeech.Valeriewasgivingmeasignal.Inafewseconds,shereallywasgettingup,andthereasonwasrightinfrontofme.Literally.

Ourwaitress,Betsy,wasdirectlyinthelineoffire.IstoleapeekatValerie’s

sunglassesnowfoldedonthetable,thelensesangleduptowardmyface.Theonlyquestionwas

whetherornotKarcherhadnoticed,too.Askedandanswered.Karcher’seyeslitupashe

glancedatme.Hesawit.Or,rather,hedidn’tseeit.Thereddotonmefromthelaser

sightwasgone,blockedbythe—“Now!”yelledValerie.ShehadKarcherinno-

man’s-land,hishandswinging.Forafractionofasecond,hewasundecidedwheretoaimhisgun.Ahellofalotcanhappen

inafractionofasecond.ValerielungedforKarcher

asIsprangfrommychair,thesoundofCrespininmyear,

stillsprinting,matchingthepoundingofmyheart.Betsyhadnoideawhat

washappening;sheimmediatelyjumpedbackbasedonnothingbutreflexandfearoftheunknown.Iwasheadingrightforher,nostopping,theMonherapronthetargetofmydive.Icouldfeelthewindbeing

knockedoutofherasItackledhertotheground,thecrackofarifleshotfrom

only-God-knows-wheresplittingtheairaboveus.Butnothingmore.Smallcomfort.Oswald’s

firstshotinDealeyPlazamissed,too.Iturnedmyhead,looking

uptoseeValeriestillstrugglingwithKarcher,eachwithahandontheother’sgun.Heoutweighedherbynearlyahundredpounds,butshe’dgottentoherfeetfirst

andhadtheleverage.Forhowlong,though?“Staydown!”Ibarkedat

Betsy,asiftherewereachanceintheworldshewasabouttogetup.No,thatwasmyjobnow.Palmsdown,Ibeganto

pushofftheground,myeyestrainedonKarcher.Hisfaceandneckwereamishmashofmuscleandtendonstrainingforallthestrengthhehad.Slowly,hisgunwasmoving

backtowardValerie.Shehadaboutsixinchestolive.ThatwaswhenIsawit.

Theonlythingthatcouldmakethingsworse.Andonlyonewordcametomindtowarnher.“Red!”Iyelled.Idon’tknowwhatcame

next,whatIheardorwhatIsaw.ButValerieknewwhatImeantandknewhergeometry,andasthesecondshotechoedinmyearsIsaw

herstepbackandtakeKarcherwithher,thedotjumpingfromherback…Tohis.Theonlyrednowwas

blood.Lotsandlotsofit.KarcherfelltothegroundfaceupandonlyinchesfromBetsy,whoshriekedinhorrorasshecaughtsightofthegapingholeinhisbarrelchestfromtheexitwound.“Dropit!Dropyour

weaponrightnow!”

ValerieandIturnedtoeachotherandthenuptotherooftopdownthestreet.ItwasCrespininourears.Hewasdonerunning.Idon’tknowifGodactuallyknewwheretheshotswerecomingfrom.ButnowCrespindid.He’dreachedKarcher’ssniper.“Igothim…it’sover,”he

said,catchinghisbreath.“It’sover.”

Ofcourse,ifthatwereonlytrue…

BOOKFIVE

TRUTHORDIE

CHAPTER104

FRANKKARCHERhadbeenthemasterofmakingallsortsofthingsdisappear.People.Problems.Hismoralcompass.Buttheonethinghecouldn’tcoverupwashisowndeath.Instead,othersweregoing

todoitforhim.Atleast,that

wasthewayitwasplayingout.Therewereadozen

witnessestowhathappenedoutsidetheMallardCafé,andtheyallknewwhatthey’dseen.Whenthepolicearrivedandacoupleofdetectivesfannedouttoaskwhathadhappened,eachandeveryonehadananswer.Butnoneofthemknew

whyithadhappened.Sameforeverynewsoutletthat

rushedtothescene.Karcher’sdeathwasthestuffofheadlinesandleadstories,butthewholetruthhadn’tgonepublicyet.Thequestionnowwas

whetheriteverwould.“Ifeellikeakidwaiting

outsidetheprincipal’soffice,”Isaid.Valerieleanedforward,

glancingatthecloseddoortoourright.“Yeah,andyourparentsarealreadyinthere

havingtheadults-onlytalk,right?”“Exactly.”Shenodded.“Parforthe

course,I’mafraid.Theonlywaytoknowyourworthinthistownisthelevelofclassifiedinfoyou’reallowedtohear.Thewholeloaforjustaslice.”“Orinmycase,onlyafew

crumbs,”Isaid.“Hey,I’mnotinthere,

either.Thatmakesusbotha

coupleofmuzjiks,”shesaid.“Muz-whats?”“Peasants.Thewordfor

Russianpeasants,actually.”“Ofcourse.”“Also,oneofthehighest-

scoringwordsinScrabble.”“Nowyou’rejustshowing

off,”Isaid.“Scrabblewasbiginour

housegrowingup.MyfatherplayediteverySundaywithmysisterandmetobuildourvocabularies,”shesaid.

“That’sonereasonwhyIknowtheword.”“Muzjiks,huh?”“Yep.Useitonyourfirst

turnandit’sworthahundredandtwenty-eightpoints.”Iwaitedforherto

continue.Shedidn’t.“Andasecondreason?”I

asked.She’dsaidthatwasonereasonwhysheknewtheword.Withthelookshegaveme,

Isuddenlyrealizedthis

wasn’tmereidlechitchat.ValeriewasfinallyansweringthequestionI’daskedwhenwefirstmet.Whoareyou?Therewasnoonearound

usinthehallway.Still,shelookedbothwaysasifcrossingthestreet.“IwasstationedinMoscow,”shesaid.Butthewayshesaidit,I

knew.“CIA?”Shenodded.“Howlongago?”Iasked.

“Itfeelslikeforever.”“Whathappened?”“Someonedecidedtotell

theworldourdeepest,darkestsecretsbecausehedidn’tlikethewaywegotthem.Consequencesbedamned.”Sothatwaswhoshewas.

ValerieJensenhadbeenanundercoverCIAagent.“Andyouwereexposed….”“Hundredswere,allover

theworld,”shesaid.“Morethanafewwerekilled,too.

Notthatitevermadethenews.Iwaslucky.Itwasn’tlikeawomancouldeverbeinTehranorKabul.”“Still,”Isaid.“Moscow.”

Putinhadneverstruckmeastheforgivingtype.“Thankfully,moneywill

prettymuchgetyouanythingyouneedthere,includingawayoutthroughFinlandinthemiddleofthenight,”shesaid.“Funny,though.Afterallthat,wheredoesour

whistle-blowerfirstgainasylum?”Russia.“Sohowdidyouendup

withtheNSA?”“ItwasabitliketheIsland

ofMisfitToys.Nooneelsehadanyuseforus.Allthecoverttrainingandnowheretouseit,”shesaid.“Excepthereathome,ofcourse.”“Anotherthingthatwill

nevermakethenews,”Isaid.“Thatdepends,Isuppose.”

“Onwhat?”“Onhowwellyoucan

keepasecret.”Ihadtolaugh.“Imagine

that,”Isaid.“You’renoteventhebestsecretI’vegotgoingrightnow.”“Allthemorereasonwhy

we’resittinghere.”“Yep.Acoupleof

muzjiks.”Valerielaughedback,and

foraminute,itwasasifwe

wereabletoforgetwherewewereandwhy.Actually,itwasonlylike

tenseconds.Rightupuntilthedooropenednexttousandanolderwomanwithgrayhairsteppedoutandpeeredoverherhorn-rimmedglasseswithaperfunctorysmile.ShewasClayDobson’sassistant.“Youtwocancomein

now,”sheannounced.

CHAPTER105

THEONLYwayIeverthoughtI’dsetfootintheWhiteHousewasonaguidedtourwithabunchofpeoplewearingfannypacks.Shufflingalongthevelvetropes,I’dstareintoallthecapitalRrooms.TheEastRoom.TheStateDining

Room.TheBlue,Red,andGreenRoomsdecoratedbyJackieKennedy.Still,whenthetourwas

over,theclosestI’devergettotheOvalOfficewasapostcardinthegiftshop.NowIwasliterallyafew

feetawayfromitintheWestWing—theofficerightnextdoor.Theofficeofthepresident’schiefofstaff.AndifOwenwasright,the

manultimatelyresponsible

forthedeathsofClaireandourunbornchild,aswellascountlessothers.Butthatwasabigif.Asin,

ifonlythereweresomeactualevidence.“Ian,domeafavorand

scootoveronthecouchthereforMr.Mann,”saidDobson,orchestratingfrombehindhishugedesk.Makenomistake.Thiswashisoffice,hismeeting,hisseatingchart.He’dalreadymotionedfor

ValerietotaketheotherarmchairnexttoCrespin.Ian—asinIanLandry,the

president’spresssecretary—promptlyscootedoveronthecouchtomakeroomforme.“Thereyougo,”hesaid.

“Bestseatinthehouse.”Itwasalittlestrangetosee

LandryoutfrombehindthepodiumoftheBradyRoom.Towatchhimtakequestionsfromthepresswastoknowtherewasn’tanythinghe

couldn’tspin.Itwasatalentallthemoreremarkablegiventhat,unlikepreviouspresssecretaries,Landrydidn’thidebehindthefaçadeofplausibledeniability.Rather,he’dclaimedfromdayonethathekneweverythingthathappenedintheWhiteHouse.Afterall,PresidentBretton

MorrishadwonelectionbypromisingtolevelwithAmericaatalltimes.“Hardtruths,andnoeasyfixes,”he

wasfondofsayinginhiscampaigncommercials.Andwithnearlyabilliondollarsspentonadvertising,he’dsaiditanawfullot.“Wouldeitherofyoulike

anycoffee?”askedDobson.“Nothanks,”ValerieandI

answeredinunison.“Allright,then.Letme

startbytellingyouwhatItoldJeffrey,”Dobsonsaid,pointingtoCrespininhischarcoal-graysuit.“The

presidenthasnoknowledgeofthismeeting.Ifhedid,itwouldneverbehappening.Instead,IanwouldbeinthepressroomtellingtheworldeverythingaboutOperationTruthseeker,orwhateverstupidnamethisdamnthingprobablyhad.”Seamlessly,IanLandry

chimedin.“Thepresidentwouldsoonersacrificeasecondtermthantrytosweep

somethinglikethisundertherug.”“Andtrustme,that’snot

hyperbole,”saidDobson.“Unfortunately,though,thisisaboutmorethanjustfavorabilityratingsandpolitics.Thisisaboutnationalsecurity.AndFrankKarcherhasseriouslythreatenedit.”Ilistenedverycarefullyto

whatcamenext.Dobsonexplainedthe

protocolofwhathappens

afterthedeathofactiveCIApersonnel,especiallysomeoneonKarcher’slevelastheNationalClandestineServicechief.Basically,anythingandeverythinghavingtodowithhislifegetssearched,reviewed,rakedover,andthenrakedoveragain.“Theprobleminthiscase,”

saidDobson,“isthatit’slikehavingthefoxguardthehenhouse.Wedon’tknow

howdeepthisrunsattheCIA—whowasinvolvedandhowmany—butiftheguyshootingatyoufromthatrooftopyesterdayisanyindication,itdoesn’tbodewell.”“He’sanagentwiththe

SpecialActivitiesDivision,Karcher’sformerunitwithintheCIA,”explainedCrespin.“Then,ofcourse,there’s

theyoungmanatthecenterofallthis.”Dobsonlooked

downatanopenfileasifsearchinghisnotesforOwen’sname.“Yes,OwenLewis,”hesaid.“Who,asofrightnow,isnowheretobefound.”Damn,Skippy,nowhereto

befound.Wherethehellareyou,Owen,andwhat’swiththesecretfishingexpedition?You’reuptosomething,butwhat?IwaitedforDobsontolook

atmeinlightofhis

mentioningOwen,buthedidn’t.Instead,hereachedforanotherfileonhisdesk,thisonefeaturingabrightredstripeacrossit.“ButbacktoKarcherand

theissueofnationalsecurity,”hecontinued.“I’mprettysureIcouldlosemyjob,ifnotworse,forwhatI’mabouttosharewithyou,butsincethat’stheleastofmyproblemsthismorning,we’llbemakingan

exception.”Hepausedtotakeasipofcoffee,staringatusoverthelipofthemug.FirstatValerie.Thenatme.“Besides,accordingtoCrespinhere,ifitweren’tforthetwoofyou,thingscould’vebeenalotworse.”Andwiththat,Dobson

openedthefile.

CHAPTER106

THEFIRSTthingheheldupwasacolorphotograph,measuringroughlyeightbyten.Itcould’vebeenaheadshotforaleadingman,albeitonemoresuitedforBollywoodthanHollywood.“ThisisDr.Prajeet

Sengupta,”saidDobson,his

exaggerateddictionsuggestingjustatraceofxenophobia.Hethenreadfromthefileinbullet-pointfashion.“BorninIndia,educatedhereintheStates.Stanfordundergrad,HarvardMedicalSchool.CurrentlyastaffneuroscientistwiththeNewFrontierMedicalInstituteinBethesda,specializinginionotropicandmetabotropicreceptormanipulationinthehuman

brain.”Dobsonpaused,lookedup.“Ifanyoneknowswhatthatactuallymeans,bemyguest.”Ididn’t.Notexactly.Still,

itwasn’thardtoseewherethiswasheading.Sureenough,accordingto

Dobson,PrajeetSenguptawasthemissinglinktotheserum,theguyKarcherhadusedtoturnOwen’sresearchintoaninjectablepolygraphmachine.Onequestion,

though,andIdidn’thesitatewithit.“Howdoyouknowthis?”I

interrupted.Dobsonnoddedslightlyas

ifhe’dexpectedmetoaskthat.“Again,thisisn’tforbroadcast,butbeforetheCIAcoulddoitsreconnaissanceonKarcher’sapartment,includinghisharddrive,Igotintherefirst.”Hecorrectedhimselfwitharaisedpalm.“Notmepersonally,buta

specialinvestigatorwiththeFBI.Workingunofficially,ofcourse.”Allthewhile,Dobsonwas

stillholdingupthepictureofSengupta.Itwasaposedphotograph,mostlikelytakenonbehalfofthemedicalinstitutewherethedoctorworked.Icouldpicturethewebsite,completewithaglowingbiounderneathhisgoodlooksandwarmsmile.Nowherewouldhis

moonlightingeffortsbementioned.Then—poof!—hewas

gone.Dobsonloweredthephoto,

onlytoliftanotheronefromthefile.ExhibitB,apparently.“NowmeetArash

Ghasemi,”hesaid.Theonlythingthetwo

pictureshadincommonwasthesize.Insteadofaposedheadshot,thisonewas

courtesyofazoomlensfromananglethatsuggestedthephotographerwassomewhereintheMiddleEasthereallyshouldn’thavebeen.Black-and-whiteandabitgrainy,itwasstillclearenoughtotellthatGhasemiwastheoppositeofSenguptainthelooksdepartment.Moretothepoint,Ghasemihadprettymuchbeenhitbytheuglystick.Repeatedly.

Again,Dobsonreadfromthefile.“BorninIran,educatedintheStates.Stanfordundergrad;MITgraduateprogram,nuclearscienceandengineering.Then,daysafteracceptingajobwithGeneralAtomicsinSanDiego,hesuddenlysplittownandreturnedtoIran.”Thesubtextofthatlast

sentencewascrystalclear.ArashGhasemiwasnow

workingfortheIraniannuclearprogram.Lessclearwaswhetherit

wasbychoice.AndevenlessclearthanthatwaswhatthisIraniannuclearengineerhadtodowithSengupta,theIndianneuroscientist.UntilIreplayedDobson’s

descriptionsofthetwoinmyhead.Wordforword.Andtheoneword—theoneschool—he’dmentionedtwice.“Stanford,”Isaid.

“Verygood,Mr.Mann.YouwintheSamsoniteluggage,”saidDobson.“Yousee,thisisataleoftworoommates.”

CHAPTER107

HEHADitallrightthereinthefile,rightdowntotheactualdormwheretheyfirstmetfreshmanyear.ArroyoHouseinWilburHall.PrajeetSenguptaandArash

GhasemihadbecomefastfriendsatStanford.Putthemmostanywhereelseinthe

worldandtheyhadlittleincommon.UnderthebrightglareofaCaliforniasun,however,theymightaswellhavebeenbrothers.Twostrangersthrowntogetherinastrangeland.Bysophomoreyearthey

hadbecomeroommates,allbutinseparable,includingrushingSigmaChitogether.“Andifyou’relookingfor

areasonwhyGhasemitrustedSenguptasomuch—even

twentyyearslater—looknofurtherthanthatfraternity,”saidDobson.Thehandsomeandmore

gregariousSenguptahadbeentappedtopledge.ButGhasemihadbeenpassedover.Thatis,untilSenguptamadeitveryclearthattheywereapackagedeal.SigmaChicouldn’tgetonewithouttheother.Ofcourse,whothehell

wassomepledgetobe

makingademandlikethat?“Aprettydamnclever

one,”saidDobson.“Intruefrat-boyfashion,Senguptachallengedtherushchairtoadrinkingcontest—shotforshot,lastmanstanding.IfSenguptawon,Ghasemicouldbecomeabrother.Andifhelost?Thatwasthecleverpart.TherushchairoutweighedtheskinnykidfromBangalorebynearlyahundredpounds.Itwasn’ta

fairfight.Howcouldheeverlose?”Buthedid.Dobsonsmiled.“LikeI

said,itwasn’tafairfight.Sengupta,whowaspremedatthetime,hadinjectedhimselfwithaderivativeofadrugcallediomazenil.Apparently,itbindsthealcoholreceptorsinthebrain.Inotherwords,it’sabingedrinker’sdreamcometrue.”Dobsonpointedatme.“Okay,nowthisis

whereyouaskmethatquestionagain,Mr.Mann.HowdoIknowthis?”Forsure,Iwasaboutto.

NotValerie,though.She’dbeenaroundtheblockafewtimesintheworldofintelligencegathering.Allshecoulddowassighinawaythathadonlyonetranslation.Weliveinaverycomplicatedworld.“CIAorNIA?”sheasked

Dobson.

“Both,”heanswered.Thenheexplained.NotlongafterGhasemi

returnedtoIran—againsthiswill—toworkfortheIraniannuclearprogram,SenguptawasrecruitedbytheNationalInvestigationAgencyofIndia,theNIA.ThiswasattheurgingoftheCIAbasedonthegreatestsharedinteresttheUSandIndiahaveastwonuclearpowers:makingsure

Irandoesn’tbecomeoneaswell.“Senguptaknewthathis

goodfriendGhasemiwasmiserablebackinhishomelandofIran,”Dobsoncontinued.“IraniansmightdespisewhattheyseeasUShegemony,buttheydosohavingneverspenttimeinthiscountry.ButGhasemihad.Weweren’ttheenemy.”IlistenedtoDobson,

almostdizzy.Itwashard

enoughtokeeptrackofthenames,letalonethemotivesandinferences.Valeriemighthavehadthe

poleposition,butIwasfinallyuptospeed.Ghasemiwasgiving

Sengupta,hisgoodfriendandformerroommate,Iraniannuclearsecrets.Dobsontookanothersipof

coffeebeforeleaningforward,hiswordscomingslowly.“Iunderstandyou’ve

lostsomeoneveryclosetoyou,Mr.Mann,andthatundoubtedlyyouwantjustice.Isurewould.ButI’mafraidjusticemeansexposingSengupta,andthatwouldmeannomoreconnectionwithGhasemi.Thankstothatrelationship,ourgovernmentcurrentlyknowsmoreabouttheIraniannuclearprogramthantheSupremeLeaderhimself.AndIwishitwerehyperbolewhenIsaythatthe

fateoftheworldcouldverywelldependonthatrelationshipcontinuing.”Yes,indeed.Weliveina

verycomplicatedworld.Iwasn’tsurewhatIwas

goingtosay,onlythatitwassomething.Perhapsafeebleattempttostrikesomesortof“justicebargain,”thewayIusedtowithprosecutorsafterIwenttothedarkside,asClairelikedtocallit,andbecameadefenseattorney.

ButbeforeIcouldevenpushoutthefirstword,thedoorofDobson’sofficeopened.Itwashissecretary.“I’msorrytointerrupt,but

there’s—”Dobsoncutheroff.“Isaid

nocalls,Marcy.”“Iknow,butit’snotfor

you.It’sforMr.Mann,”shesaid.“Apparently,it’sanemergency.SomeonenamedWinstonSmith?”

Thatgoteveryonestaringatme.Although,withDobson,itwasmorelikeglaring.Iflookscouldkill.“Nooneoutsidethisroomissupposedtoknowyou’rehere,Mr.Mann,”hesaid.Immediately,Crespin

clearedhisthroat.Maybehecouldjustsenseit,thatsomethingwasupandIdesperatelyneededalifeline.Ormaybeitwasmorethana

sense.Perhapshe,too,hadread1984.“Sorry,Clay,mybad,”said

Crespin.“Mr.Mann’ssisterisbeingoperatedonthismorning,andthat’shisnephewcallingtolethimknowhowitwent.Forobviousreasons,Mr.Mannditchedhiscellphoneoncethiswholeordealstarted.”Iwatchedandlistenedto

Crespinwithnothingshortofamazement.Hewassocalm,

soconvincing.Theguycouldprobablyfoolapolygraph,ifhehadto.HehadtobethebestliarI’devermet.Actually,makethatthe

secondbest.Dobsonnoddedtohis

secretary.“Putitthrough.”Asshedisappearedbackto

herdesk,hehandedmehisphone.ThelongesttwosecondsofmylifefollowedasIwaitedforthecalltobetransferred.

Click.“Winston,isthatyou?”I

asked.“Yes,it’sme,”saidOwen.

“AndwhatDobsonjusttoldyouisbullshit.”

CHAPTER108

THEQUESTIONSwerebouncingaroundinmyheadsofastanddeliriouslyIcouldfeelmybrainsmushedupagainstmyskulljusttryingtocontainthemall.WherehasOwenbeen?

HowdidheknowIwasinDobson’soffice,letalone

whatwasbeingsaid?Andwho’sthe“newfriend”hewentontomention,theonehewantsmetomeet?Theonlythingclosetoan

answer—or,betteryet,whatwouldgetmeclosertoalltheanswers—wastheaddressOwengavemebeforehangingup.ButnotbeforefirsttellingmeIhadtocomealone.“Forreal,Trevor.Imeanit.Justyou.”

Ofcourse,thatwentoverlikeafartinanelevatorwithValerieandCrespin.EspeciallyCrespin.HeandhisSpideysensehadbailedmeoutinDobson’soffice,andthiswashowIrepaidhim?I’mofftogomeetthekid,butyoucan’tcome?“I’llbeback,Ipromise,”I

said.“AndI’lldoeverythingIcantohaveOwenwithme.”Itwaseitherdetainmeor

letmego.Theyletmego.

Almostonehourtothedotaftersayinggood-byeonthephoneinDobson’sofficetomynephew,WinstonSmith,IarrivedatFifteenthStreetNWandMadisonDrive.IftheJeopardy!categoryis

Well-KnownWashingtonAddresses,I’lladmitthatItapoutwith1600PennsylvaniaAvenue.Besides,whoreallyneedstoknowtheaddressoftheWashingtonMonument?All

youhavetodoislookup,right?“Father,Icannottellalie,”

cameavoiceovermyshoulder.IturnedtoseeOwen,

smilingathisownclevernessaboutthelineandourlocation,althoughIknewhehadn’tchosenitfortheirony.JustbecauseIthoughtI’dcomealonedidn’tmeanIactuallyhad.Theflat,sprawlinggroundsofthe

WashingtonMonument,withnothingbutacircleofskinnyflagpolesforcover,werehiswayofmakingsurethatevenifIhadbeenfollowed,noonewaswithinearshot.Speakingofhearingthings

onthesly…Owenpivotedtohisright.

“Trevor,I’dlikeyoutomeetLawrenceBass,”hesaid.Ipushedasidewhatwas

nowthelatestquestioninthelongqueue—Howthehelldid

thesetwoevermeetup?—andshooktheman’shand.IknewexactlywhoBass

was.Namelybecauseofwhathewasn’t—thenextdirectoroftheCIA.OwenandIhadwatchedhimwithdrawhisnameontelevision,standingintheEastRoom,flankedlovinglybyhiswifeandtwoyoungdaughters.We’dlistenedtohimexplainthathewantedtospendmoretime

withhisfamily.Andwe’dbothknownhewaslying.“Waitaminute,”Isaid,

turningbacktoOwen.Gonefishing?LawrenceBass?“Thisiswhereyouwent?”“Noonejustwalksaway

frombeingnamedCIAdirector,”Owensaid.“Therehadtobemoretoit,notthatIwasreallyexpectingLawrencetodivulgeanything.Butasitturnsout,

hewasdoingsomefishingofhisown.”Truetohismilitary

background,Basstookthecueanddidn’tdillydally.Norwastheremuchemotion.Theguyseemedtohaveeverythingwrappedinablanketofcalmandmeasured.“Lastweek,Ipaidavisitto

ClayDobsoninhisoffice,”hesaid.“AndIneverreallyleft.”

Withthat,BassreachedintohispocketandheldoutaniPhone.Irecognizedtheapphetapped;itwasthesameoneClairealwaysusedtoeditandorganizeherinterviews.VoiceRecorderHD.Lettheanswersbegin.

CHAPTER109

OWENDIDN’Tbothersayingtheactualwords.Thatwould’vebeenredundant.Oneglanceathim,thelookonhisface,wasallittook.WhatdidItellyou,dude?AllIcouldseeinmymind

wasthepictureofDr.Wittmerandhisgoodol’

collegechum,ClayDobson.AndallIcouldhearnowwasDobson’svoicetellingsomeoneinhisofficethatWittmershould’vebeenkilledsooner.Ofcourse,thatsomeone

wasFrankKarcher—orKarch,asDobsonkeptcallinghiminbetweenroundsofcursinghimout.Fortwoguysincahootswitheachother,theysureweren’tseeingeye

toeyeonmuch.Cover-upsareabitch.“Jesus,”Isaid.“How…?”“Well,Iwasthedirectorof

intelligenceprogramswiththeNSC,”saidBass,whosomehowmanagedtoconveythatwithoutahintofbravado.Itwasmerelyfact.Sameforthewayheclaimedhe’dbeenabletohidethebuginDobson’soffice.“Ijustdroppeditinhispencilholderwhenhewasn’tlooking.”

BassfellsilentagainsoIcouldkeeplistening,butallIhadweremoreandmorequestions.“WhataboutLandry?”I

asked.Wasthepresssecretaryinvolvedaswell?“Bestwecantell,no,”said

Owen.“There’satleastahalfdozentimeswhenthetwoarealoneinDobson’sofficetogetherandnothingevercomesup.”“Anybodyelse?”

“JustPrajeetSengupta,”saidOwen.TheIndiandoctor?“I

thoughtyoutoldmethatwasallbullshit.”“Notallofit.Likewith

anygoodlie,there’salwaysabitoftruth.Senguptaexists,he’sarealperson,”saidOwen.“Cometothinkofit,theIranianguyfromStanfordisreal,too.”Iclearlydidn’tfollow.

Basspausedtherecording,

histhumbshiftingtoanotherfile.HepressedPlay.Forthenextminute,with

theflagsaroundthemonumentwhippinginthewindaboveus,IlistenedtoDobsononthephonewithSenguptaaskingabouthisfriendsincollege,specificallyiftherewasanyonefromtheMiddleEast.“SenguptawasDobson’s

manfortheserum,botchedasitwas,”saidOwen.“Turns

out,SenguptahasabrotherbackinIndiadoingtwentyyearsfordrugtrafficking.Oratleast,hewasuntilDobsonintervenedwithIndianintelligenceofficials.Theseruminexchangefortimeserved.Thebrother’snowafreeman.”“SoDobsondiscoversan

Iranianroommateandinventsthestoryabouthim,”Isaid.“Yeah,andofallthings,

theguy—Ghasemi—actually

didgobacktoIran.AccordingtoStanfordalumnirecords,heownsasoftwarecompanyinTehran—butofcourse,thatwouldn’tpreventhimfrommoonlightingforthenuclearprogram,right?Dobsonhadalltheanglescovered,”saidOwen.HethenturnedtoBass.“Exceptone.”Bassraisedhispalmsasif

todeflectthecredit.“Iknewnothingaboutthisserum,butIcouldn’tshakethefeeling

thatsomethingwasup.EspeciallywhenIheardKarcher’snametoreplaceme.”“Youwereright.Hell,you

werebothright,”Isaid,givingOwenhisdue.Sowhydidn’ttheylook

happieraboutit?Orevenhappyatall?ThatwaswhenIrealized

whattheyhadalreadyfiguredout.Andtothink,Iwastheonlyonewiththelawdegree.

CHAPTER110

“DAMN,”Imuttered.Owennodded.“Yep.”Therecordings.“They’re

inadmissible.Notonlythat,they’reillegal,”Isaid.Owennoddedagain.

“Yep.”“Idon’tcare,”saidBass.

“Hereallydoesn’t,”saidOwen.“Believeme,I’vetriedtotalkhimoutofit.”“Outofwhat?”Iasked.Bassshrugged.“Somaybe

Iriskdoingalittletime.ItwillbeworthittoimplicateDobson.Andoncetheinvestigationstarts,somethingelsewillhavetoturnup,”hesaid.“Thetruthwillcomeout.”Ihadeveryintentionof

makingagreat

counterargument,beginningwiththereasonwhyOwenhadn’twantedtogopublicinthefirstplace.HewantedDobsondeadtorights.Webothdidnow.ButI’djustcomefromtheguy’soffice,whereI’dseenupcloseandpersonalDobson’sabilitytoconstructanalternatereality.Dobsonwasgoodatit.Toogood.Withouttherecordingsfromhisoffice,theoddsofhisseeingtheinsideofajail

cellwereanythingbutasurething.He’dberuinedpolitically,buthe’dprobablystillgofree.Yeah,thatwasthe

argumentIwasabouttomake.Pointbypoint.Instead,allIcoulddowas

listentotheechoofBass’slastsentenceinmyhead.Thetruthwillcomeout,hesaid.Thetruthwillcomeout.IturnedtoOwen.“You

stillhavethenotebookfrom

thelab,right?”Ittookhimasecondto

figureoutwhatIwasasking,butonlyasecond.Thekidwasagenius,afterall.AndwhenIsawhimsmile,itwassuddenlyasifhecouldhearthesameecho.“I’dsaythreedays.Two,if

Idon’tsleep,”heanswered.“Butthenwhat?How?”Ireachedintomypocket.

Neverhadaprepaidcellphonebeenputtobetteruse.

“Yes,Operator,couldIpleasehavethemainnumberfortheNewYorkTimes?”SebastianColecouldn’t

takemycallfastenough.“JesusChrist,you’re

alive!”hesaid.“Iwasstartingtowonder.”“Youandmeboth,”Isaid.

“Butyes,I’malive.Verymuchso.Now,doyourememberthatenvelopeIgaveyou?Theoneyouwere

onlysupposedtoopenifIwasn’t?”“Areyoukiddingme?”

saidSebastian.“I’vebeenstaringatiteverydaysinceyouleft.IwasplanningtokillyoumyselfjustsoIcouldopenit.”“I’llsaveyouthetime,”I

said.“Goahead…openit.”“Areyouserious?”“AstheQueenMother,”I

said.“Andasyoureadwhat’s

inside,Iwantyoutokeeponethinginmind.”“What’sthat?”“Youain’tseennothing

yet.”

CHAPTER111

INSIDETHEWhiteHouse,deadpresidentsarenothingmorethanoldpaintings.Therealcurrencyisthealmightyfavor,andI’djustdoneabigonefortheMorrisadministration.“Thankyouagain,Trevor,

formakingthishappen,”said

Dobson.HehadlefttheWestWing

fortheWestinandSebastianCole’scornersuite,whereIgreetedhimatthedoorwithafirmhandshakeandtheassurancethat“this”—asin,thismeetingandwhatitwasinexchangefor—wasineveryone’sbestinterests.ThedealI’dbrokeredwas

simple.ItoldDobsonthatI’dalreadygonetoSebastianattheNewYorkTimeswiththe

recordingsoftheserumbeingusedattheblacksiteinStareKiejkuty.Butalothadchangedsincethatvisit,mostofalltherevelationbyDobsonthattheCIAhadamoleintheIraniannuclearprogramwhostoodtobeexposed.WithKarchernowdeadandhisdraconianoperationdisbanded,therewasachoicetobemade.AbombshellofastoryfortheTimesversusourcountry

knowingwhetherIranhadthebomb.WhatwasanAmerican

patriottodo?ConvincetheTimeseditor

tostanddown,thatwaswhat.Andinreturn,Sebastiangotunfetteredaccesstothepresidentandhisfullcooperationforanunprecedentedseriesofin-depthinterviewsculminatinginabookdetailinghisfirstterminoffice.Guaranteed

bestsellerontheTimeslistitself.Numberonewithabullet.Thismeetingwassimplyto

ironoutthedetails.“CanIgetyousomething

todrink?”Iasked.Ipointedoveratacredenza.“Theyjustbroughtupsomefreshcoffee,ifyouwant.”Ofcoursehewantedit.

Death,taxes,andDobsonchuggingcaffeine.“Sure,”hesaid.“Black,nosugar.”

Rightoncue,Sebastiancameovertoshakehands,launchingimmediatelyintoaconversationwithDobsonaboutthelasttimethey’dseeneachother.Itwaslastyear’sWhiteHouseCorrespondents’Dinner,justafewmonthsafterPresidentMorristookoffice.JimmyFallonwashilarious.“Ithoughtthepresident

wasingoodform,too,”saidSebastian,orsomethinglike

that.WhateverittooktokeepDobsonoccupied.“Hereyougo,”Isaid,

returningmomentslaterwiththecoffee.“Black,nosugar.”Dobsontookasip.Heshot

aglanceatthemug.“Iknow,it’salittlestrong,

isn’tit?”Isaid.“Toostrong?”Whichwaslikeaskinga

guyifyourhandshakewastoostrong.What’shegoingtosay?

“No,notatall,”hesaid.“It’sgood.”“Good,”saidSebastian.

“Shallwesitdown?”Heledthewayovertothe

hotel’smodernisttakeonalivingroomarea—onecouchoppositetwoarmchairs,ablacklacqueredtableinthemiddle.Therewerenoplacecards,butonceSebastiansatdowninoneofthearmchairs,itwasonlynaturalthatDobsonwouldtakethe

couch.Betteryet,hesatrightinthecenter.Centerstage,ifyouwill.“Niceroom,”saidDobson,

lookingaround.Youshouldseetheother

one,dude.Or,atleast,thatwaswhatI

picturedOwensayingthroughthewallwhilewatchingonhislaptop.Thekidreallyhadathing

foradjoiningrooms.

CHAPTER112

FROMTHEotherarmchair,IwatchedandlistenedasDobsonlaidoutindetailthewaysinwhichSebastianwouldbeablenotonlytoconducttheone-on-oneinterviewswiththepresidentbutalsototravelwithhim

oncehebeganhisreelectioncampaign.“Notthepressbus,Cole,”

saidDobson.“Imeanshotgun,righttherenexttotheman.We’retalkingthekindofaccessthatwouldmakeBobWoodwardshithispantswithjealousy.”Sebastiansmiledand

nodded.Infact,thatwasprettymuchallheallowedhimselfashedeftlyusedthecoverofhisproperBritish

upbringingtocomeoffasagreeableaspossible.Owenhadmadeitveryclear.Fasterthanaspirinbut

slowerthaneyedrops.“Clay,doyouwantsome

morecoffee?”Iasked.FiveminutesinandI’dalreadypouredhimonerefill.Dobsonshookmeoff.“No,

I’mallset,”hesaid.We’llseeaboutthat,Iso

wantedtosay.

Instead,IsimplypeekedatmywatchandshotaglanceoveratSebastian.Finally,andonceandforall.Itwastimetohearthe

truth.“So,anyquestionssofar?”

Dobsonsoonasked.Itwasclearhewasonlybeingpolite.Thiswashisendofthebargain,thequidtoSebastian’squo,andhewassurehe’ddeliveredinspades.

And,infact,hehad.Desperatemenknownoboundaries.Sebastiansatbackinhis

armchair,foldedhislegs,andusedthefewsecondsofcompletesilencethatfollowedtomakeitveryclearthat,yes,heactuallydidhavesomequestions.“Haveyouevertoldalie?”

heasked.Dobson’sreactionwasas

expected,hiseyesnarrowing

toanincreduloussquint.“Whatkindofaquestionisthat?”“Arathersimpleone,”said

Sebastian.Dobsonlookedatmefor

helpwiththissuddenlycrazyBritishjournalistfortheNewYorkTimes.Iwasthebrokerofthisdeal,afterall.ButIwasalsoaformer

prosecutor.“HadyouevermetClaire

Parker?”Iasked.

“What?”saidDobson.“Who?”“Didyounothearmeordo

younotknowthename?”“Iknowthe…Imean,I

knowwhosheis.”“Youmeanwas,right?

You’reawarethatshewasmurderedinManhattanalittleoveraweekago,aren’tyou?”IwatchedasDobson

lookedovermyshoulderatthedoor.Itwashiswayout.

Escape.Freedom.Fromwhatexactly,hewasn’tsureyet.Butitcouldn’tbegood.Thatis,foralesserman.Andinthatmoment,right

there,alifetimeofegoandarrogance—ofDobsonalwaysthinkinghewasthesmartestguyintheroom—didexactlywhatwethoughtitwould.Itkepthisassseatedsquareonthatcouch.Completeandutterinertia.

“Yes,itwasalloverthenews,”hesaidcalmly.“ClaireParker,thewriterfortheTimes,wasshottodeathinthebackofataxi.”“Doyouknowwhyshe

wasmurdered?”Iasked.“Itwasreportedasa

robbery,”saidDobson.“Doyouthinkthat’swhat

itwas?”“Whywouldn’titbe?”Thesmugexpression,the

self-satisfaction…helooked

likeakidwho’djustfiguredoutaboardgamewithoutreadingtherules.“Idon’tknow,youtell

me,”Isaid.“Doyouknowwhyshewasreallymurdered?”Dobsonopenedhismouth

toanswer,butitwasasifthehingesofhisjawhadsuddenlyjammed.Everymuscleinhisfaceandnecksnappedtoattentionasifsomewhereinhisbraina

switchhadbeenflipped.Andindeedithad.“No,”hemanagedtopush

pasthislips,butassoonashedid,itwasasifthewordhadturnedaroundandpunchedhislightsout,hisheadjoltingbackandhislegsshakingasifthecouchhadjustbecomeanelectricchair.Hiseyesdartedtothetable

infrontofhim,thecoffeetable.Hestaredathiscup,therealizationsinkingin.He

couldn’tbelieveit.Hedidn’twanttobelieveit.Buthehadnochoice.Hewasgettingtheultimatetasteofhisownmedicine,anditwasgoingdownhard.Sowashe.

CHAPTER113

“DIDYOUinstructFrankKarchertohaveClaireParkerkilled?”Iasked,andimmediatelyrepeatedthequestion,full-throated,overthesoundofDobsondesperatelytryingtofightagainstthepain.“Didyou.

Instruct.FrankKarcher.TohaveClaireParkerkilled?”Evenifhewantedtoleave

now,hecouldn’t.Hisbodywouldn’tlethim.Buthealsohadno

intentionofanswering.Forgeteveryword,itwaseverysyllablethathadbecomeastruggle—andyethesomehowmanagedtostringtwotogetheraftersuckinginagaspofair.“Fuckyou!”hebellowed.

Fromthecornerofmyeye,Isawtheflat-screenagainstthewalllightup.Dobsonturnedtolook,onlytorealizehewaslookingatalivefeedofhimself.Feelingpainwasonething,watchingyourselffeelingitaddedawholenewcomponent.Owenwasplayingforkeeps.Weallwere.Fuckyouback,Dobson.

Haveyouforgottenhowyourserumworks?

Onlythiswasn’thisserum.Thiswastheonehe’d

wishedhehadfromthestart.Theonethatdidn’tkillpeopleeveniftheywerebeinghonest.Betteryet,itdidn’tneedtobeinjected.Itcouldbeabsorbedintothebloodstreamwithoutbeingcompromisedbystomachacids.TheonlythingOwen

couldn’tdowasmakeittasteless.Butstrongblack

coffeewasaprettygoodmaskingagent.Ileanedforward,staring

intoDobson’seyes,whichhadturnedredfromburstbloodvessels.Helookedlikeademon.“Theonlythingthatwill

stopthepainistellingthetruth,”Isaid.ButasIlookedathim,his

bodyconvulsingsoviolentlyitfeltasiftheentireroomwereshaking,Irealizedwe

bothknewthatwasn’ttrue.Therewassomethingelsethatcouldstopthepain.Sebastianlookedoverat

me,worried.Icouldreadhisface.IsDobsonthatderanged?Ishecrazyenoughtodoit?Ishookmyhead,butitwas

toolate.DobsonhadseenSebastian.Andofallthings—ashiseyesbegantoleakwithredtears,hisfistsballedsotightIthoughttheywould

bothsnapoffatthewrists—hedidsomethingthatforthefirsttimemademethinkthat,yeah,maybehewasthatsickinthehead.Hesmiled.Iturnedaway,onlytosee

himagainonthetelevision,thesmileseeminglywider.Hewantedustoknow.IfI’mgoingdown,I’mtakingyouallwithme.No.Hewasbluffing,Iwas

sureofit.Sebastian,onthe

otherhand,wasn’t.Hewasmorethanlookingatmenow.Hewaspleading.“Doit,”hesaid.“Please.”Iputmyhandinmy

pocket,feelingforthecylinder.Iknewitwasthere;ImusthavecheckedittwentytimesbeforeDobsonarrived.ButIhadnointentionoftakingitout,letaloneusingit.“Doit!”Sebastian

repeated.Hewasscaredto

death.Or,morespecifically,scaredofthemurderchargethatwouldbeslappedonallofus.Inthecylinderwasthe

antidote.Asmallsyringewithaspring-loadedneedleandtheabilitytonegatetheeffectsoftheseruminamatterofseconds.“Justincase,”Owenhadsaid.Asin,justincaseDobson

wouldsoonerdiethanconfess.

ButIwasn’thavingit.OrmaybeIwassimplytooangry,tooconsumedbythedesiretoseehimownuptowhathe’ddone.Suddenly,Iheardthedoor

flungopenbehindme,thesoundofOwenburstingintotheroom.Asfastashewasmoving,hemanagedtokeephisvoicecalm.“Trevor,”hesaid.Justmy

name.That,andallthesubtextthatwentwithit.Are

yousureyouknowwhatyou’redoing?Andforthefirsttimesince

thiswholenightmarehadstarted,Iwas.Istoodandwalkedslowly

overtoDobson,sittingonthecoffeetabledirectlyinfrontofhim.Therewouldbenomoreyellingfromme,nomoredemandingthathecomeclean.Hesimplyneededtoknow

thatIwasfinewithhis

decisioneitherway.Hehadeverythingtolose,andIhadnothing.“Shewaspregnant,”Itold

him.“Shewaspregnantwithmychild.”Andwiththat,Istoodup

andwalkedoutofframe.Thechoicewashisnow,andonlyhis.Truthordie?

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER114

INTHEworldofnewspapers,thetermisshirttail,ashortandrelatedstorythat’saddedtotheendofalongerone.Ofcourse,Ionlyknowthat

becauseofClaire.Shewasmygo-toforjournalisticlingo,andIwashersforallthingslegal.Betweenthetwo

ofus,wealwayshadalegupontheSundaycrossword.Sufficeittosay,Dobson’s

confessionwasalltherageforacoupleofweeks.Allthemoresogivenhowitwasobtained.Butthatwasthewholepoint,wasn’tit?Owenneverdeniedthattheserumhadthepotentialtofoilaterroristplotthatcouldkillhundreds,ifnotthousandsormore.Thequestionwas,whogottodecidewhetherornot

weusedit?Soletthepublicdebatebegin,becausethat’showademocracyissupposedtowork.InthewordsofLincolnatGettysburg,“governmentofthepeople,bythepeople,forthepeople.”Itwasonlyfitting,then,

thatOwengavetherecordingofDobsontotheDCpolice,theFBI,andtheentireworld,viatheInternet,allatthesametime.First,though,he

gaveaprivatescreeningtoAgentValerieJensenandJeffreyCrespin.ThatwasthefirstofafewdealsInegotiated.Ethicsandmoralityexist

onanever-shiftingscale.Thetrick,Ithought,waskeepingperspective.Somewherealongtheline,therealwaysneededtobeaclearlyestablisheddefinitionofrightandwrong.Blackandwhite.Aslongasyouhadthat,you

couldproceedtodealwiththegrayareas.Atleast,thatwaswhatI

usedtoteachmystudentsatColumbiaLaw.Butthenthispastsummerhappened.Idon’tteachthemthatanymore.“Lookaroundyou,Mr.

Mann,”saidCrespin.It’sallgray.Whichwouldexplainwhy

hewasultimatelyfinewith

myothertwodeals.Theyneededhisapproval.OnewasregardingJosiah

Brennan.Jesushimselfcould’ve

returnedtodefendBrennanincourtformoneylaundering,buttherewasstillnowayhecouldavoidjailtimeentirely.Thatis,iftheNSAchosetocooperatewithlawenforcementandpursuechargesagainsthim.

AllIcouldpicture,though,wasBrennan’snine-year-olddaughter,Rebecca,gettingfriskedeverytimeshewenttovisithimbehindbars.ThesameRebeccawhocould’veeasilyrattedoutValerieandmeinherfather’soffice.SoIhadadifferentsuggestion,andCrespinwentforit.ItwastimeforBrennanto

laundersomeofhisownmoney.

DetectiveDaveLamontdidn’thaveanine-year-olddaughter,buthedidhavethreeteenagesonswithhiswife,Joanie.Theyalsohadamortgage,schooltuitions,andorthodontistbills.NYPDdeathbenefitsonlygosofar.Hisadditionallifeinsurancepolicy,evenlessfar.SoBrennanwascharged

withsomethingelseinstead:lookingaftertheLamontfamilyfinancially.Also,

settingupaspecialIRAforLamont’spartner,McGeary.Wasitarichmanbuyinghisfreedom?Maybeifhe’dthoughtofitfirst.Buthedidn’t.Moneydoesn’talwayshavetobetherootofallevil.Whichwasthesame

rationaleIusedregardingShahidAlDossari,theotherdealthatneededCrespin’sconsent.Personally,Ididn’tcare

onewayortheotherwhatthe

NSAwantedtodowithhim.HehadskedaddledbacktoSaudiArabiathesplitsecondDobsonwasarrested,andthefactthathewasn’taUScitizenpresentedafarmorecomplicatedlegalchallenge,especiallygivenhiswealthandinfluence.Butthereitwasagain.

Wealthandinfluence.“Mightaswellputitto

gooduse,”ItoldCrespin.

“Justwhatdoyouhaveinmind?”heasked.ItwasactuallywhatOwen

hadoriginallyhadinmind.

CHAPTER115

ITHOUGHTIwascuringAlzheimer’s….Thatwaswhathe’dtold

mefromthestart.Nowmaybehewill.Ofcourse,Icouldn’treally

blameAlDossariformakingacounteroffertothe“strongly”suggested

contributiontoOwen’snewlyfoundedresearchfacility.Twentymilliondollarsisalotofmoney,afterall.EvenforaSaudibanker.Thenagain,everythingis

relative.AssuminghewasabletofightextraditionandavoidtrialintheStates,he’dstillbetheRomanPolanskiofpokerandgamblinghere.NomoretripstoVegas.NomoretripsanywhereintheUnited

States,hisfavoriteplacetobe.Intheend,AlDossari

figuredthatwasanevengreaterpricetopay.GodblessAmerica.AndGodspeedtoOwen.

“I’vegotmyworkcutoutforme,”hesaidwhenthefacilityofficiallyopenedinthefall.“Well,then,”Isaid.“You

bettergetbusy…dude.”Forgoodmeasure,Irubbedmy

handstogetherasifdoingabitofhisdrywashroutine.Youmeetalotofpeoplein

yourlifetime,manyofwhomwillhaveanimmeasurableimpactonyou.Thentherearethosewholiterallychangewhoyouare.Youcangenerallycountthosepeopleononehand.Andfittingly,OwenLewiswillalwaysbeoneofthem.Inthewakeofeverythingthathappened,allthesadnessanddespairand

mayhem,hemanagedtogivemesomethingIwould’veneverthoughtpossible.Optimism.Crazytothink…Istill

can’tevenbuythekidadrink.Sothatwasthat.Allthe

dealsI’dcutafterDobson’sconfession.Asfortheonemadebeforeit,I’mfairlycertainSebastianhasnoregrets.Infact,I’mpositiveofit.

SebastianColemaybethelastjournalistonearthwhomPresidentMorris—withhistwenty-one-percentapprovalrating—willactuallygrantaninterviewto,butSebastian’sfirsthandaccountofwhathappenedinthathotelroom,includingaveryrevealingQ&AwithDobsonwhilehewasundertheinfluenceoftheserum,gavehimthescoopofalifetime.

ThrowintheexclusiveinterviewsOwenandIguaranteedhiminreturnforhiscooperation,andSebastianallbutownedthefrontpageoftheTimesforanentiremonth.Butthebestpart—atleast

forme—wastheclasshedisplayedthroughoutitall.Thebylineofeveryarticlehewrotecoveringthestoryreadthesame.ByClaireParkerandSebastianCole.

“You’reafarbettermanthanIfirstgaveyoucreditfor,”Itoldhim.“Likewise,”hesaid.It’sbeenmomentslikethat

whenI’vemissedClairethemost.That’swhenIusuallyhopinmycarandmakethedriveuptoWellesley,westofBoston,andtheWoodlawnCemetery,whereallParkershavebeenburiedforoveracentury.Onlyonce,though,haveIfallenintotheclichéof

talkingtohertombstone.Shewould’velaughedatthesightofthat.Andwhoknows?Maybesomewheresheislaughing,anddoingthatlittlecrinklethingwithhernosethat,inaweirdandwonderfulway,alwaysmadeherlookevenprettier.Iknowthatastimegoes

on,thosetripstohergravesitewillhappenlessoften.ButnotbecauseI’llmissherless.No,eventuallywhatwill

happen,maybeamidagustofwindthroughthebranchesofanearbynorthernredoak,isthatI’llhearthattombstoneofherstalkbacktome.“It’sokay,Trevor,”she’ll

say.“Nowgetonwithit,willyou?MaybeevenaskoutthatgorgeousagentfromtheNSA.Thoughbetweenyouandme,shemightbealittleoutofyourleague.”Clairealwaystolditlikeit

was.

Though,fortherecord,ValerieJensenandIdidmanagetohavedinnertogetherwhenshewasinManhattanbeforetheholidays.Weevenwentbacktoherhotelafterward.“Yourmove,”shetoldme.Ofcourse,thatwasduring

thegameofScrabbleweplayedinthebaroffthelobby.She’dbroughtthegameallthewayupfromDC.Andofcourse,she

kickedmyassbutgood.Herfatheralsotaughtherpoker,shesaid.“Maybewe’llplayafterthetrial.”Whichbringsusfullyupto

date.Dobson’strial.Andmesittinginthefirstrowwaitingmyturn.Itcouldn’tcomesoonenough.“TheprosecutioncallsMr.

TrevorMann.”Itfeltstrangetobebackin

acourtroomafteralltheseyears,andevenstrangertobe

takingthewitnessstand.I’dalwaysbeeninfront,askingthequestions,notactuallysittinginthestand.Placeyourlefthandonthe

Bible,raiseyourrighthand…Noserumneededhere.We

werekickin’itoldschool.“Doyousolemnlyswearor

affirmthatyouwilltellthetruth,thewholetruth,andnothingbutthetruth,sohelpyouGod?”

Youbetterbelieveit.

“THISISNOTATEST”—

EVERYNEWYORKER’SWORST

NIGHTMARE

ISABOUTTOBECOMEAREALITY.

ALERT

FORANEXCERPT,TURNTHEPAGE.

AT3:23A.M.,thetwoSupervactrucksturnedofftheirheadlightsandpulledoffthenorthboundFDRintoajunk-strewnabandonedlotbesidetheHarlemRiveracrossfromtheBronx.Afterheputthefirsttruck

intopark,TonytookaquartoforangeGatoradefromthecoolerthey’dbrought,

crackeditslid,andcommencedgulping.Hisstubbledfacewasfilthy,andhewassweatingexuberantly,hadinfactsweatedthroughthebackofhisheavycoveralls.“Hey,youwantsomeof

this,Mr.Joyce?”saidTony,comingupforair.“No.Allyours,Tony.

Truly,youbrokeyourbuttdowninthehole.I’mproudofyou,”Mr.Joycesaid.

Itwastrue.Tonyhadsomeheftonhimandcoulduseafewhygienesuggestions,butnoonecouldsayhewasn’taworker.He’dbeengoingatithardforthelastthreehoursbetweenthetwomanholes,reallyhustling.He’dbeenJohnny-on-the-spotforeverytaskwiththeequipmentwithoutawordofcomplaint.Theywerefinallydone

now.Atleastwiththeprepwork.Ithadgoneoffwithout

ahitch.Thetrucktankswereemptynow,andthemanholeswereclosed.Everythingwassetupandreadytogo.“How’sthelink?”Mr.

Joycecalledintotheradiohetookfromhispocket.“Crystalclear,”Mr.

Beckettintheothertruckreplied.Theyhadhackedintothe

MTAinternalsubwayvideofeed,andMr.Beckettwasnowmonitoringthesecurity

camerasatevery1LinestationfromHarlemtoInwood.“OK,Iseeit,”Mr.Beckett

saidovertheradioasecondlater.“It’spullingoutof157thinthenorthboundtunnel.There.It’sallthewayin.Youhavethegreenlight,Mr.Joyce.”Mr.Joycetookthecheap

disposablecellphonefromtheleftbreastpocketofhisbluecoveralls.Itwasa

Barbie-purpleslidephonemadebyacompanycalledPantech,atrainingphoneonewouldbuyasuburbangirlforhermiddle-schoolgraduation.Heturneditonandscrolledtothephone’sonlypreprogrammednumber.Theorybecomesreality,he

thought,andhethumbedthecallbutton,andthetwopressurecookersplantedinthetraintunneltenstoriesbeneathBroadwaytwenty

blocksawaydetonatedsimultaneously.

THEINITIALEXPLOSIONofthepressure-cookerbombs,thoughgreat,wasnotthatimpressiveinitself.Itwasn’tmeanttobe.Itwasjusttheprimer,thematchtothefuelthatthetwotruckshadbeenpumpingintotheairofthetunnelforthelastthreehours.

Thetunnelwassemicircular,seventy-threefeetwideatitsbase,twentyfeethigh,andalittlelessthanfourmileslong.Withinsecondsoftheblast,apowerfulshockwaveracedinbothdirectionsalongitsentirelength.Therewerenopeopleonthesubwayplatformssolate,butinbothstationsthewaverippedapartvendorshacksandMTAtoolcartsandwoodenbenches.

Asthewavehitthesouthendofthe181stStreetstation,athree-tonsectionofthevaultedtunnel’srooftorefreeandcrashedtothetracks,whileuponBroadway,thefantasticforceoftheblastsetoffcountlesscaralarmsasitthrewahalfdozenmanholecoversintotheair.Southofthemainblasts,in

thetunnelbetweenthe157thStreetstationand168thStreet,theshockwave

smashedhead-onintotheapproachingBronx-bound1trainthatMr.Becketthadspotted.Thefrontwindshieldshatteredamillisecondbeforeittoreloosefromitsmoorings,killingthefemaletraindriverinstantly.Asthetrainderailed,its

onlytwopassengers,aManhattancollegestudentcouplecomingbackfromaconcert,wereknockedspinningoutoftheirseats

ontothefloorofthefrontcar.Bleedingbutstillalive,theyhadasplitsecondtolookupfromthefloorofthetrainthroughthefrontwindowatarapidlybrighteningorangeglow.Itwasstrangelybeautiful,almostlikeasunset.Thenthebarrelingtwenty-

foot-highafter-burnfireballthatwasbehindtheshockwaveslammedhome,andtheairwasonfire.

BackattheHarlemRivershore,Mr.Joycehadtowaitsevenminutesbeforeheheardthefirstcallcomeinontheradioscannerhehadtunedtothefiredepartmentband.Heclickedapenasheliftedhisclipboard.“Wedidit,Tony,”hesaid,

givingthedriverararegrin.“Phaseonecomplete.”

MOREBLUEANDredemergencylightsthanIcouldcountwereswingingacrossthesteelshuttersandSpanishbillboardsof181stStreetandSt.NicholasAvenuewhenIpulledupbehindadouble-parkedFDNYSUVthatmorningaround4:30a.m.Icountedsevenfiretrucks,

anequalnumberofpolice

vehiclesandambulances.AsIhungmyshieldaroundmyneck,Isawanothertruckroarup.RescueOne,FDNY’sversionoftheNavySEALs.Holyshit,wasthislookingbad.Ifoundthepitch-black

subwayentranceandwentdownstairsthatreekedofsmoke.AllIcouldhearwereyellsandthemetallicchirpoffirst-responderradiochatter

asIswungmyflashlightoverthetiledsubwaywalls.TheinitialreportIreceived

frommyboss,Miriam,wasthatsomekindofexplosionandasubwaytunnelfirehadoccurred.OnememorykeptpoppingintomyheadasIhoppedaturnstiletowardthesoundofradiosandyelling.Don’ttellmethisis9/11

alloveragain!Iwentpastatokenbooth

andalmostknockedoverthe

white-haired,blue-eyedfirechief,TommyCunniffe,thumbingsomethingoutofhiseye.“Chief,MikeBennett,

MajorCaseNYPD.Whatthehellhappened?”“Massivetunnelexplosion

ofsomekind,Detective,”Cunniffecalledoutinadrill-sergeantbaritone.“Twostations,168thStreetandhereat181stStreet,arecompletelydestroyed.We

havethefirealmostundercontrolhere,butthere’scolossalstructuraldamage,alargecave-inatthesouthendofthisstation.It’slikeamineaccidentdownthere.We’relookingforbodies.”“Isanybodydead?”“Wedon’tknow.Iheard

overthehorntherewasatrainthatgotfriedalittlesouthof168,buteverythingisjustnonsensestillatthispoint.Igottwoengine

companiesdownthereworkingthiswaterlinethatwehadtofeedsevenstoriesdownthroughtheelevatorshaft.It’sanunbelievabledisaster.”“Chief,”cameavoicefrom

hischest-strappedradio.“Wegotmovement.Aheartbeatonthemonitor.”“Comingfromwhere?”

Cunniffeyelledback.“Upnearyouinoneofthe

otherelevatorshafts.”

“Downey,O’Keefe,getmeagoddamnhalogen!”Cunniffescreamedattwofiremenbehindhim.Iranoverwiththefiremen

andhelpedthempryopenthedoortooneofseveralelevatorshafts.Whenwegotthedoorsopen,threehugefirementhesizeofrugbyplayersappearedoutofnowhereandtossedarope.“Hey,Danny,whatthehell

areyoudoing?It’smyturn,”

saidoneofthemasthebiggestclickedhisharnessontotheropeandloweredhimselfintothedarkness.“Screwyou,Brian,”the

bigdudesaid.“Yousnooze,youlose,bro.Igotthis.Watchhowit’sdone.”Ishookmyhead.These

guyswereamazing.Trippingoverthemselvestohelp.Nowondertheycalledthemheroes.

“Senddowntherig,”saidthefiremanintheshaftaminutelater.“Wegottwo,amomandadaughter.They’reOK!They’reOK!”Everyonestartedcheering

andwhistlingasapudgyHispanicwoman,clutchingherbeautifulpreschool-ageddaughter,waspulledupoutoftheshaftintothelight.“OK,goodjob,everyone.

Attaboys!”CunniffebellowedasEMTstookthe

motherandchildupthestairs.“Nowgettheeffbacktowork!”Anhourlater,Iwasdeep

undergroundtenblockssouthinfull-facebreathingapparatusandaTyveksuitasItouredthedevastationthathadbeenthe168thstationwithFBIbombtechDanDunning,fromtheJointTerrorismTaskForce.“Thisisunbelievable,”he

said,swingingthebeamof

hispowerfulflashlightbackandforthoverthevaultedceiling.“Whichpart?”Isaid.“Thiswasoneofthe

grandeststationsofthewholesubwaysystem,Mike.Seethechandeliermedallionsnexttothecave-in,andtheantiquesconcesinthatrubblethere?ThisusedtobethestationfortheNewYorkHighlanders,whowentontobecometheNewYork

Yankees.Apartofhistory.Nowlookatit.Gone.Erased.”“Couldithavebeenagas

leak?”“Notonyourlife,”

Dunningsaid.“Gasandelectricaresurfaceutilities.Thesearethedeepeststationsinthesystem.Tenstoriesdown.Whateverblewthemupwasintentionallyputhere.Ican’tsayforsureyet,butyouaskme,thesegoddamn

bastardssetoffathermobaricexplosion.”“Awhat?”Dunningpulledoffhis

maskandspatsomething.“Thermobaricexplosions

occurwhenvapor-flammabledustordropletsignite.Theyrelyonatmosphericoxygenforfuelandproducelonger,moredevastatingshockwaves.Asyoucansee,whentheyoccurinconfinedspaces,theyarecatastrophic.They

pumpedsomethingdownhereandlititup.Agasolinemistmaybe,ismyguess.Justlikeinadaisycutter.Imean,lookatthis!”Wehoppeddownoffwhat

wasleftofaplatformandwalkedovertheincineratedtrackstowardablackenedtrain.Ascrime-scenetechstookpictures,Icouldseethatoneofthetrain’splasticwindowshadmeltedandsliddownthesideofoneofthe

carslikecandlewax.Inside,thedriverwasburntpulp,thetwootherbodiesinthefrontcarskeletalandblacklikesomethingfromahauntedhouse.“Lookatthat,”Dunning

said,pointinghislightatacharredsneakerinacorner.“Wow,theshockwave

musthaveknockedthemoutoftheirshoes,”Isaid.“Worse,lookatthesoleof

it.It’salmostcompletely

rippedoff.That’showpowerfulthisbombwas.Itseparatedthesoleoffasneaker!Thinkoftheincredibleviolencethatwouldtake.”IshookmyheadasI

thoughtaboutit,breathinginthesweetgasolinesmellofburnthattherespiratorcouldn’tfilterout.Whatisthisandwhereisit

going?

THREEHOURSLATER,ourcommandpostshiftedfourblocksnorthtotheNYPD’snew33rdPrecinctbuildingat170thandEdgecombeAvenue.WhenIwasn’tanswering

myconstantlyhummingphone,Iwasbusyupstairsinahugesparemusterroomhelpingacoupledozen

precinctuniformssetupacentralstagingareaforwhatwasobviouslygoingtobeamassiveinvestigationintotheexplosion.EverywhereIlooked

throughoutthecavernousspacewerestressed-out,soot-coveredMTAengineers,FDNYarsoninvestigators,andFBI,NYPD,andATFbombtechstalkingintophonesastheytriedtogeta

griponthescopeofthedisaster.Thebiggestdevelopment

byfarwasthediscoveryofshrapnelintwoseparatesectionsofthetunnel.Preliminaryfieldreportsseemedtoindicatethatthemetalshardswerefromsomesortofpressure-cookerbombplacedatthetwomainblastsites.Wehadn’treleasedanythingtothepressasofyet,butitwaslookinglike

thiswasinfactabombing,amassiveanddeliberatedeadlyattack.At6:05a.m.,themayor

hadmadethecallandcanceledthecity’ssubwayservicesystem-wide.Itwasahuge,hugedeal.Forthefirsttimesince9/11,eightmillionpeoplenowhadtofindanewwaytogettoandfromworkandschool.Amegameetingattheprecinctcommandposthadbeencalledfornine-

thirty.Themayorandcommissionerwereontheirwayaswellasheadhonchosfromthecity’sfederallaw-enforcementagenciesandtheMTAbosseswhoranthesubway.I’dmanagedtogetaholdof

myfirstcoffeeofthemorningandhadjustdeclinedathirdcallfromsomeannoyinglypersistentNewYorkTimesreporterwhenIlookedupandsawChiefofDetectivesNeil

Fabretticomethroughthecommandpostdoor.Ialmostdidn’trecognizehiminhisstatelywhite-collaruniform.Athisheelswasatall,clean-cutwhiteguyinanicesuitwhomIdidn’trecognize.“Detective,Ican’ttellyou

howmuchIappreciateyoubeingalloverthissincethismorning,”Fabrettisaid,givingmyhandaquickpump.“IalreadyspoketoMiriam.NYPDhastheball

onthis,andIwantyoutoheaduptheinvestigation.TherestofMajorCaseisnowatyourdisposalaswellasanyandalllocalprecinctinvestigatorsasyouseefit.Howdoesthatsound?Youupforit?”“Ofcourse,”Isaid,

nodding.“DoyouknowLieutenant

BryceMiller?He’sthenewcounterterrorismheadoverattheNYPDIntelligence

Division,”Fabrettisaid,introducingthesleek,dark-haired,thirty-somethingcopathiselbow.“Bryceisgoingtobeinvolvedinthisthingfromtheintelligenceangle,soIwantedyouguystomeet.You’regoingtobeworkingtogetherhandinglove,OK?”I’dactuallyheardabout

Miller,whowassupposedtobesomethingofahotshot.He’dbeenanFBIagentandDepartmentofJusticelawyer

linkedcloselytotheDepartmentofHomelandSecuritybeforebeinghiredsplashilytoshowthenewmayor’sseriousnessinfightingtheterroristswhoseemedtoloveNYCforallthewrongreasons.Buthandinglove?IthoughtasIshookMiller’shand.Iwasincharge,butIalsohadapartnerorsomething?Howwasthatsupposedtowork?

Andwhowastoreporttowhom?Millerquicklytookback

hishandasifhedidn’twantmysoot-stainedjeansandwindbreakertomusshisdapper,streamlinedgraysuit.“Herculesteamshavebeen

deployedtoTimesSquareandWallStreet,”Millersaidingreeting.“Thehelicoptersareup,andthereareboatsinthewater.Justgotoffthephonewiththe

Commissioner.We’regoingfullcourtpressinManhattan,rivertoriver.”IassumedMillerwas

talkingabouttheIntelligenceDivision’stacticalunitsusedtofloodanareatoshowanypotentialattackerstheNYPD’slightning-quickresponsecapability.Butweren’tsuchshowsofforcesupposedtobeusedtopreventattacks?

“Nowwhatisthisthermobaric-bombstuffIkeephearing?”Millercontinued.“That’scrazyspeculationatthispoint,isn’tit?Somethinglikethatwouldtakeanincredibleamountoftechnicalknow-howandmeticulousplanning.Wewouldexpectablipofchatteractivityfromsurveillancebeforesuchalarge-scaleattack,andmyteamandmycontactsinWashingtonare

reportingexactlynada.Couldn’tthisjusthavebeenautilityscrewup?”“Idon’tknowaboutanyof

that,Bryce,”Isaideyeinghim.“Iwasactuallyjustwiththebombguysandsawtheshrapnelfromwhatlookedlikepressure-cookerbombsintwoseparatelocations.”Myphonehummedagain

asItookablackpieceofsomethingoutofthecornerofmyeyewithapinkienail.

“Nomatterhowlittleanyonewantstosayorhearit,thiswasdefinitelynoaccident.Wejustgothitagain.”

Thisebookiscopyrightmaterialandmustnotbecopied,reproduced,transferred,distributed,leased,licensedorpubliclyperformedorusedinanywayexceptasspecificallypermittedinwritingbythepublishers,asallowedunderthetermsandconditionsunderwhichitwaspurchasedorasstrictlypermittedbyapplicablecopyrightlaw.Anyunauthorizeddistributionoruseofthistextmaybeadirectinfringementoftheauthor’sandpublisher’srightsandthose

responsiblemaybeliableinlawaccordingly.

Version1.0

EpubISBN9781473505568

www.randomhouse.co.uk

24681097531

Century20VauxhallBridgeRoadLondonSW1V2SA

CenturyispartofthePenguinRandomHousegroupof

http://www.randomhouse.co.uk

companieswhoseaddressescanbefoundat

global.penguinrandomhouse.com.

Copyright©JamesPatterson,2015ExcerptfromAlertcopyright©

JamesPatterson,2015

JamesPattersonhasassertedhisrighttobeidentifiedastheauthorofthisworkinaccordancewiththeCopyright,DesignsandPatents

Act1988.

http://global.penguinrandomhouse.com

FirstpublishedinGreatBritainbyCenturyin2015

www.randomhouse.co.uk

ACIPcataloguerecordforthisbookisavailablefromtheBritish

Library

HardbackISBN9781780892856TradepaperbackISBN

9781780892863

http://www.randomhouse.co.uk

contents also by james patterson and -...

Documents